The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights Part 26

"I don't know, Conroy," I said again. "You'd better keep him locked up during the day or else there's going to be trouble."

Conroy's mouth turned into one of his evil grins. "Liddy, where does a two-ton elephant sleep?"

"Where?" I said.

"Anywhere he wants," Conroy said. "Get what I'm saying?"

I got what he was saying. But before I closed the door, I reiterated my warning. He'd better keep an eye on the dog.

And of course Conroy, being the cooperative fellow that he was, let the dog go wherever he pleased. The dog tore up Mrs. Nelson's geranium boxes, turned over Mrs. Bermuda's trash cans, and peed on Dr. Haberson's BMW car cover. He chased after the resident dogs and cats-terrified them so badly, they refused to go out for walks even when carried by their owners. Maneater should have been called Bird Eater. He ingested with gusto the avian life that roosted in the banana bushes, chased seagulls, spraying feathers along the walkways. Whenever he ran along the sh.o.r.e, he kicked sand and grit in everyone's face.

Since his purchase of Maneater, Conroy had taken many more day trips. When he went away, the dog posted guard in front of the corner condo, not letting anyone get within ten feet of it. Postal carriers stopped delivering mail to neighboring units, leaving letters in a clump at the guardhouse. The gardeners refused to maintain the nearby lawns and planter boxes. Soon the greenery gave way to invading weeds, and the gra.s.s dried up until it was a patch of straw.

But the biggest problem had to do with the walkway. One of the two main beach access paths curved by Conroy's condo. Technically, you could pa.s.s without getting lunged at if you hugged the extreme right side of the walkway. But pity the poor soul who wasn't aware of this and walked in the middle. Maneater would leap up and scare him to a near faint. Most of us learned to avoid the path whenever Conroy was away. But that wasn't the point at all.

Conroy thought it was hysterically funny. The rest of the tenants were livid. They tried the individual approach, knocking on Conroy's door, only to get frightened away by a low-pitched growl and a flash of white teeth. Every time they were turned away, they heard the old man laugh and hack. One of the tenants finally took the step of calling in Animal Control. Problem was that Maneater hadn't actually succeeded with any of his attempted attacks. Unless they caught him in the act, there wasn't anything they could do.

So the people of the Estates did what they usually do when at wit's end. They called a condo meeting: sans Conroy, of course.

The complaints came fast and furious.

"This used to be a peaceful co-op until Conroy and his dog came along. We didn't pay all this money to have to be scared stiff by a wild beast or have sand thrown on our backs. This is Malibu, for G.o.d's sake. People just don't behave like that here. Something has to be done. And it has to be done immediately. Call the City Council. Call the movie-star mayor and ask him to declare Malibu a pit-bull-free zone. Call the Chamber of Commerce."

After living in Malibu all these years, we knew that the local political bodies didn't wield any real power. It was the moneyed ones with their connections downtown who sat on the throne. And since none of us in this development had enough California gold to buy us the ordinance we needed, we were left to deal with the problem on our own.

That left just one recourse. Someone would have to convince Conroy to keep his dog tied up or on a leash. Someone would have to square off with him face-to-face. Someone would be appointed to speak for the group.

That someone was me.

I knocked on his door, identified myself, and Conroy told me to come in.

He was on the floor wrestling with Maneater, baiting the dog with a raw steak. The match was hot and heavy, Conroy all red-faced and panting, saliva and bits of tobacco leaking out of his mouth. Every time the dog would try to get the meat, Conroy would whip him across the back with a blackjack. I hated the dog, but I winced whenever the leather made contact with the rippling canine muscles. Maneater's pelt was striped with oozing red lines, his legs and paws inflamed. The pit bull was furious, snapping, growling, digging in with his hind legs as if ready to charge. But he never so much as laid a paw on Conroy. I wondered how long that was going to last.

"He's going to maul you one of these days," I said.

"Not a chance."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," I said.

Conroy stopped wrestling, spat into a bowl, and told the pit bull to be nice to me. I went over and petted the poor thing. At last Conroy threw the steak to the ceiling and gave Maneater verbal permission to fetch it. The dog leaped into the air and caught it on the rebound.

"I'm telling you," I said. "He's going to get you."

"You don't know a thing, Liddy, so quit wastin' your breath. This dog was well trained. I spent two years finding the right breeders . . ."

He launched into his Maneater pedigree speech. When it was over, I shook my head. "I don't know, Conroy. Seems to me the dog is angry because he's mistreated."

"They need a strong hand, girl."

"But not a cruel one."

"What are you, Liddy? Some kind of dog headshrinker?"

"I know an angry dog when I see one."

"He's supposed to be angry, girlie," Conroy said. "That's what he was trained to do."

"But it goes beyond that," I said. "He's a menace, Conroy. He doesn't just protect, he destroys."

Conroy spat again. "The condo board must be pretty p.i.s.sed 'bout him guarding the accessway."

And there it was. The famous Conroy smirk!

"That," I said, "but much more. Maneater charges after the local cats and dogs-"

"If the local cats and dogs come too close, he's gonna chase them," Conroy said. "If they'd stay away, Maneater wouldn't do nothin'."

"When he runs on the beach, he kicks sand in everyone's face, Conroy."

"Well, ain't that too bad." Conroy smirked. "How 'bout if I teach him to say ''Scuse me'?" Then he laughed and hacked, laughed and hacked, and finally spat. "They don't like sand, tell them to get off the beach."

"They like the sand, just not in their faces."

"That's their problem, Liddy."

"Conroy, the beach belongs to the whole group."

"They got a complaint with Maneater," Conroy said, "take it up with him. Otherwise, tell them to mind their own d.a.m.n business."

"You're not going to do anything about curbing the dog's behavior?" I said.

"Girlie, I spent hard-earned money on training him to do what he's doing," Conroy said. "Don't particularly feel like undoing it right now."

I was disgusted. I turned to leave, but before I did, I repeated that the dog was going to get him.

And Conroy? He just laughed and coughed.

No doubt about it. We were stuck with the two of them.

I remember the Sunday because it was such a perfect beach day. The sky was cloudless, smogless, a rich iridescent blue, and full of gulls and pelicans. The sun was strong, s.h.i.+ning on the water like a ribbon of gold. The ocean was just right for swimming-seventy degrees with mild waves breaking against the sh.o.r.e in tufts of soft white foam. A saline breeze wafted through the air. Everyone was outdoors building sand castles, reading, or just working on their tans.

We were a funny sight. All of us bunched up on the left side of the beach, tobacco-cheeked Conroy and Maneater owning the right. It didn't seem the least bit fair, but what could we do about it? The inequity had become a fact of life.

Conroy was in perfect form, laughing and coughing, goading us with kissy noises and rude names. We tried to ignore him, but it was getting more intolerable by the minute.

"You guys are lily-livered p.u.s.s.ies. Afraid of Maneater. Lookie here."

He took a towel and whacked Maneater on the back. A gasp rose from our group.

"Here he goes again," I said.

"Why does he do that?" Mrs. Bermuda said.

"Because he's a sociopath," said Dr. Haberson. "And that's a professional diagnosis."

"Lookie here," Conroy teased. "You p.u.s.s.ies couldn't be afraid of a dog like this."

Conroy kicked the pit bull in the stomach. The dog let out a high-pitched squeal, followed by an angry bark.

"Can't we call the ASPCA?" Mrs. Nelson said.

"He'd just deny it," Mrs. Bermuda said.

"Not if we could show marks on the animal," Dr. Haberson said.

"And who could prove Bittune made the marks?" Mrs. Bermuda said.

"Do something, Liddy," Mrs. Nelson said.

"I tried," I said. "He won't listen." I yelled to Conroy, "He's going to get you one day!"

"In a pig's eye, Liddy."

"Yes, he will."

"'Yes, he will,'" Conroy imitated me. "Just lookie at this, girl."

He punched the dog in the snout. Did it again. The dog started circling him like a hawk around its prey.

I eyed Dr. Haberson. Dr. Haberson eyed Mrs. Bermuda. Conroy was making nervous wrecks out of all of us. The dog was getting more and more agitated-barking louder, baring his teeth.

"You're a bleeping s.a.d.i.s.t, Bittune!" Mrs. Nelson shouted. "Any second now, that dog's going to chew you up!"

With that, Conroy doubled over with big, deep guffaws, followed by his spasmodic cough. His face was flushed, beaded with sweat. "You p.u.s.s.ies!" he screamed. "Lookie here!"

He grabbed the dog by the neck and yanked him down onto the sand. Then he picked him up by the front paws and swung him around, huffing and puffing from the effort. The dog was all snarls and barks during the ride.

"Watch it, Conroy," I shouted. "Maneater's starting to foam at the mouth."

"Wimps!" Conroy shouted back, spraying bits of saliva and tobacco out of his mouth. "You weak, itty-bitty p.u.s.s.ies!"

He put the dog down and doubled over. We expected to hear more derisive laughter, but none came.

We waited a couple of seconds, a half minute, a minute. The dog was still snarling. Suddenly, everyone became aware that no one was talking.

Finally, Mrs. Bermuda said, "What's with Bittune?"

Good question. Even the dog looked puzzled. Conroy's face had turned deep red, and he was jumping up and down.

"A rare Indian rain dance?" Mrs. Bermuda said.

"Figures," Mrs. Nelson said. "Conroy would rain on our parade."

"I don't think that's what he's doing," I said.

Conroy was still jumping, his face getting redder and redder. One hand went to his chest, the other to his neck. He seemed to be gasping for air.

I leaped up and shouted, "He's having a heart attack!"

Applause broke out.

"We've got to help him," I yelled.

No one said a word.

"Dr. Haberson," I scolded, "we both know CPR. We've got to-"

"All right, all right," Dr. Haberson said. He got up slowly, brushed the sand from his legs. Meanwhile, Conroy's lips had turned blue.

I ran toward the old man but was immediately halted by Maneater's growl.

"Nice dog," I tried. "Make nice, nice dog."

I took a step forward and so did he. I took a step backward and so did he.

"For G.o.d's sake, Conroy," I shouted in desperation. "Call Maneater off!"

Conroy pointed to his throat.

"You're choking?" I said.

Conroy gave a vigorous nod.

His right cheek was empty.

"The tobacco! He's choking on his tobacco," I yelled out. "Give Maneater a hand signal."

Conroy flailed his hands in the air. Maneater sat, acting as though the signals meant something. Yet when I tried to approach Conroy, the dog lunged at me.

We were hamstrung. The dog wouldn't let us near Conroy, and Conroy couldn't call Maneater off.

"Hit your chest, old man," Dr. Haberson said. "Try to do a Heimlich maneuver on yourself. Hit your sternum hard! Right here!" The doctor demonstrated the procedure.

Conroy tried and tried again. Meanwhile, he was turning bluer and bluer.

"Give it another try, Conroy!" I said. "Or just hold the dog off physically."

By then Conroy was the color of the sky. He fell onto the sand and blacked out, his body shaking as if he were having a seizure. It was awful. Maneater circled his master, licking his quivering arms and legs, nudging his face. But he snarled at anyone who attempted to come within helping range.