The Pet-Sitting Peril Read Free Page B

first started walking Rudy, that the house was filled with elderly people.
    The door swung open. “Yeah? What you selling, kid?”
    â€œNothing,” Nick said. “Mr. Griesner said to tell you the music is too loud. Sir.”
    He didn’t know if the young man was a hippie or not. He did have rather long hair, and he wore blue jeans that Nick’s mother would have thrown in the rag bag and tennis shoes with his sockless toes showing through, but he was clean and he smelled of nothing worse than turpentine. There were paint smudges on his T-shirt.
    â€œOh. Hey, Roy, turn down the stereo,” he yelled over his shoulder. Then he grinned at Nick. “You live here, kid? I didn’t know there was anybody your age around.”
    Nick explained about his pet care activities, and the young man nodded. “I noticed all the dogs and cats. We’re thinking about getting a pet of some kind, but so far there’s only Roy and me. I’m Clyde. He’s Roy.”
    The apartment appeared to be one gigantic room, with a kitchenette at one end of it. Intrigued, Nick stood in the open doorway. There was no real furniture, only a couple of beanbag chairs and some pillows and two mattresses with sleeping bags on them. But there were paintings.
    The music had softened, though it still reverberated so that Nick could feel the beat of the bass through the soles of his feet. “You’re artists,” he said, craning his neck to see the big canvas at the end of the room.
    â€œI’m an artist,” Clyde admitted. “Roy’s a musician.”
    Roy had long hair, too—dark instead of blond—that was tied back in a ponytail with a red rag. His jeans were even worse than Clyde’s and he wasn’t wearing any shoes at all. He nodded at Nick, more engrossed in his guitar than interested in meeting anyone. Nick wondered how he could play his guitar and hear it over the stereo.
    â€œYou like painting?” Clyde asked.
    â€œUh, yes, sometimes,” Nick admitted. The big canvas was a glorious splash of color, though Nick couldn’t quite make out what it represented.
    Apparently Clyde was used to that sort of reception to his work. “It’s a sunrise,” he offered. “Or a sunset. I haven’t decided yet.”
    Without looking up, Roy said, “Looks like Jacobsmeyer’s Drug Store to me.” And then, asNick hesitated, wondering if his leg were being pulled, Roy added, “The night it burned down. Fire, man. Fire. We were living above it at the time, which is one reason we don’t have much furniture.”
    It was rather interesting, but Nick remembered he was supposed to be taking on a new job. “Uh, thanks for turning down the stereo,” he said. “I have to go. I’ll see you.”
    â€œSee you,” Clyde echoed. Roy didn’t look up from his guitar.
    When the door closed, Nick went on across the hall to talk to Mrs. Monihan, hoping that Mr. Griesner would be satisfied with the reduction in volume, though the music was still pretty loud.
    Mrs. Monihan was the opposite of Mrs. Sylvan in almost every way, except that they both liked animals. She was short and plump, with a round face and a pale blue rinse on her white curls. Every time Nick had seen her, she’d been smiling, as she was now.
    â€œCome in, come in. I have my tickets, I’ll be leaving tomorrow.” She had been baking, and the apartment was fragrant with the scent ofspices. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your taking care of Maynard and Fred. I couldn’t have gone to visit my sister otherwise. I haven’t been back to Chicago in twenty-five years, can you imagine? Viola visited me here once, about ten years back, but I haven’t been anywhere. I’m so excited!”
    Her apartment was bigger than Mrs. Sylvan’s or Mr. Haggard’s, and in some ways it was nicer than either of the others. It was neat, though