SHARKNESS
By
Patrick Whitehurst

Traffic came to a screeching halt on Lighthouse Avenue when, quite suddenly, a dog leapt into the on-coming traffic lane. Unfortunately for the dog the vehicles did not stop. Amidst the screech of brakes and the loud blaring of a horn, it thudded to the ground, hit by the steel bumper of a Volkswagen Bug. People began to exit their vehicles to survey the situation and a small assembly approached the wounded animal. The dog whined as he lay crumpled on the asphalt. It searched through the gathering crowd for a face it could recognize. Bones had been shattered upon impact with the VW's bumper and the dog was doomed to die, as it had been even before it was hit.

"I didn't see it coming!" Cried the woman who had been driving the VW. "I feel awful, just awful!" Wearing a stained, food encrusted waitress uniform, the woman sobbed and reached into her apron for a napkin in which to wipe her tears. At that moment the crowd which had assembled around the dying creature moved suddenly, as if a swarm of bees had invaded their midst.

Gasps rose up from the drivers and passengers of the cars as a pack of dogs slowly galloped into the traffic lane. Everyone made room for the creatures as they went to their fallen companion. A man, dressed in a blue snow parka, led the pack of dogs to their destination. He mingled with the creatures as though he were one himself. A few of the on-lookers even swore to the fact later that, while the man appeared to be human, there was something undistinguishable about him, something that made him seem more like a beast than a man. He weaved through the halted traffic and whispering crowds like a magician, until the accident victim was at his feet. The dogs circled around their friend, cocking their ears to his whimpers and moans, while the injured and dying dog stared at the man wearing the parka. He knelt down by the hurt animal, paying no mind to the murmuring throng of on-lookers. The sheer number of canines that appeared made many of the witnesses nervous and, until traffic resumed, they took refuge within their vehicles. The driver of the VW approached the man, with tears wetting her cheeks.

"I didn't see it." She apologized. "I just didn't see it, it was so quick. Man, I am so sorry."

"It is a he." Responded the man in the heavy jacket. "His name is Davis." Barker reached up and pulled the hood of his parka down. He could hear the far-off wails of sirens in the distance. They were undoubtedly on their way to Lighthouse Avenue. Caressing Davis behind his ears, Barker looked up at the frantic woman. "It is not your fault." He said to her. "Davis would have died whether or not you had run him down. There is more to this accident than a collision."

"What?"

Pointing to a red blotch on the animal's chest, Barker said, "This is no collision wound, it's a bullet wound. He's been shot." He gathered the wounded dog up into his arms then, yet heard no cries of pain, and realized Davis had gone. The other dogs lined up near the man's feet and prepared to go wherever Barker went. Silent and mournful, they followed him to the sidewalk and up the street two blocks to an area covered in green grass. It was there where Barker laid Davis.

"You knew better than to run into the street, Davis." He said to the animal. "But you were shot, weren't you? You were scared." Seeing something in the dog's mouth, Barker knelt down beside the lifeless creature. Dangler, Griz, and the rest of the dogs stayed well back as Barker examined what was left of their travelling companion. Even the newest and youngest member of the group, the Mastiff puppy named Destiny, knew to keep quiet.

Barker pried open the dog's inanimate mouth and found, tucked into a corner behind his tongue, the remains of a roast beef sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes. It was obvious that the dog had only recently snatched the sandwich from somewhere, for it was still unchewed, when he was shot. Barker ran his hands over the dog's face and told him he was a good boy. When he stood up again, he found a man standing behind him.

The man was an old hippy of sorts. He wore a red and purple tie dyed sweatshirt with a pair of cut-off jean shorts. His hair, tied into a long pony tail, and beard were grey with streaks of white peppered throughout it. Barker noticed the man's apron and assumed he worked down at the bakery near the intersection where Davis had been hit. The police were only just now arriving at the scene.

As a homeless man who ran with a pack of strays, he had no desire to be questioned by them. The old hippy seemed to sense this.

"I know you probably want to split, man." He said, "but I thought you might be interested in what I have to say. That was your dog, right?"

"He was my friend." Barker told him.

"At any rate." Shrugged the man. "He was shot, am I right?"

"I found a bullet wound in his chest." Barker figured it would be pointless to withhold the fact from the man since he seemed to already know.

"I was on break, sitting out by the dumpster smoking a cancer stick, when I heard the shots."

"Shots? You mean there was more than one?"

"Yeah, it was like BAM! And then BAM! Just like that. So I walked out to the street and saw this dog, that one there, come hauling ass down to Lighthouse like he was being chased by a lion or something. Right after that I saw this yellow truck haul ass from there, heading up toward Pebble Beach."

"Where did this happen?" As he asked, Barker patted his leg. A seemingly innocent gesture, yet the dogs reacted to it as if he had ordered them to present arms. They came to attention, formed an almost double line, and stared at Barker as if awaiting instructions. The old man watched for a moment, amazed by the creature's response to such a simple signal. Finally he looked back at the man with the hard-edged face and bright green eyes as if shaking himself from a dream.

"It happened up at the park, man. Just, like, three blocks up that way." He told Barker. "The truck is, like, long gone though. Better just to bury your dead and move on." But, as the man realized when he finished talking, Barker had already moved on. He had gone to the park.

An hour earlier, Barker had been wandering the streets a block or two above Lighthouse Avenue. It had been an easygoing morning. The dogs had followed him most of the day, but slowly drifted off in search of their own adventures, leaving Barker alone to make his way up toward the Presidio and the Defense Language Institute. D.L.I., having survived the military cut-backs which put the axe to nearby Fort Ord many years ago, lay on a large chunk of grassy land overlooking the bay. There were quite a few spots where a person could sneak in, unseen, and find a great view of the Peninsula awaiting them. Barker, holding a thermos filled with Earl Grey tea, had just such an afternoon in mind. That is, until he heard the screech of brakes and saw one of his companions, the tiny Shiatsu named Zero, cock his ears and set off for Lighthouse Avenue as if he'd suddenly remembered an important business meeting. Barker decided to follow the small dog, only to see Dangler (who'd been raiding a nearby trash can) also making his way to the thoroughfare which bridged Monterey to Pacific Grove. Something had alerted the dogs and this worried Barker. He discovered the fate of Davis minutes later.

The old hippy had been a little off, for the park was six blocks up the street and not three. Barker considered the speed in which Davis must have utilized in order to flee the area. The olfactory senses in a canine, being so much stronger than humans, undoubtedly brought him to the park. For dogs, like most animals, can smell food from a great distance. But something had gone terribly awry and Davis fled, with a mortal wound, to his inevitable death.

A roadway surrounded the park on all sides, though to Barker it seemed more like a grassy field than anything else. Modern suburban homes encompassed the property opposite the road.

Tucked between these residences were one or two Victorian houses that added a touch of class to the neighborhood. Barker strolled casually onto the grass, the dogs breaking ranks to sniff around, and headed for a nearby park bench. There were five benches scattered in various locations throughout the one-block area, with a trashcan chained to the leg of each table. Barker came to the first bench and stopped. The dogs were nearby, sniffing bushes and marking various landmarks. The vicinity surrounding the park was quiet, with only the agitated yipping of a small dog sounding somewhere in the distance. This was one of the Peninsula's 9 to 5 communities. There would be no one home during these hours of the day, even during the lunch hour it seemed.

Dangler marked an old and battered pine tree a few feet away from Barker. During the years, it had seen more than its fair share of youthful tree climbers and boyfriends wishing to carve their initials, along with those of their girlfriends, into it's bark. Barker waited for the Rottweiller to finish his business before approaching the old Pine. There was a chip mark on the bark. A section had been ripped off, and there, on the light brown surface, was a small hole about the size of a dime. The old hippy had heard two shots. It appeared the first one had missed and found itself in the tree. Barker looked away from the hole behind him. There was a park bench with an anchored down trashcan a mere fifteen feet away.

"This is the spot." He said to no one in particular. "The person who shot Davis was eating, there, on the park bench." Barker went to the trashcan and looked under the lid. The can was full, but there on the top of the discarded newspapers, food wrappers, and soda bottles, was what Barker hoped to discover. Two .45 caliber shells sat on a crumpled piece of plastic wrap. Barker brushed the two spent shells into his hand and dropped them in his jacket pocket. Luckily the gunman had not bothered to keep them after they were expelled from the pistol's chamber. Especially lucky, at least, for Barker.

He continued to dig in the trash, finding a paper lunch bag tucked into a corner of the can. After a quick peek at the contents inside, he took the sack and walked over to the bench and sat down. The bag was full of trash, but for Barker, it held important trash. He tipped the paper sack, pouring the contents out onto the table. Zero, the smallest of the dogs, leapt up to investigate the items that now littered the tabletop. Barker held him back as he picked through the rubbish. He found the remains of a roast-beef sandwich squashed in a Ziploc bag. The sandwich was the same as what he saw in Davis's mouth, complete with tomatoes and lettuce. He also found an empty bag of chips, a can of orange soda, and a discarded piece of mail. The latter went into his pocket while he set to work collecting the remaining trash and putting it back in the can. When his clean up was complete he looked at the letter. Meanwhile the dogs laid down, settling themselves in the cool grass for a quick nap under the sun.

He found the address on the letter to be located in Sand City, yet the name above it simply read, "Sharkness". Barker opened the letter and read the small note nestled inside. The logo above the letter said it was from "ThrashNeck" productions. Over these words was a drawing of a stick figure playing an electric guitar.

The note read:

The enclosed Demo Tape does not currently fit the needs of ThrashNeck at this time. We wish you luck placing your music elsewhere. Rock on.

- ThrashNeck Productions

Barker stuffed the letter back into his pocket and stood up. Zero lay beside him sleeping, having decided that Barker wouldn't let him snoop around the trash. The little Shiatsu woke immediately as the man in the blue parka got to his feet. Destiny galloped up to Barker, but was quickly chased off by Zero, who launched himself at the Mastiff puppy when he saw him approach. The tiny dog growled at the puppy, warning him away from the man. Barker knelt down, rubbed Zero behind the ears and patted his leg for the dejected puppy. Destiny ran to him, tail wagging, and nuzzled against Barker's leg.

"What do you think, Destiny?" Barker asked the puppy. "Are you up for a long walk before we go home?" The small Mastiff licked his face in response. "Good." Barker smiled. "Now let's all try to be friends."

As the smallest hamlet in the Peninsula, Sand City has seen its fair share of new construction in the last few years. In particular the new strip mall, which holds the gratitude of a great many residents of the area who felt the Peninsula needed such things, is the feather in the city's cap. With Marina on one side, Seaside on the other, and Monterey Bay filling up the rest, some wonder if this little city has seen all the growth it can get. Still others fear the town builders and engineers may decide to push the envelope still further and begin construction on the next big strip mall right on the beach itself. These were matters of politics and of no great importance to Barker, who by nightfall, was strolling along the beach on the opposite side of Highway 1 from Sand City.

It had taken almost an hour and a half to walk from Lighthouse Avenue down to the Bike Trail, then around the wharf (full of tourists this time of day) to the beach at the far end of wharf number one. There was a crowd of people on the beach, tossing Frisbees for their dogs, slipping into the surf with kayaks rented from a nearby shop, or simply reading a paperback under the hot sun, for that was indeed how the weather had been over the course of the last week. Barker ignored the gawking stares of the tourists and locals, who were either awed, or disgusted, by the man and his entourage of dogs. He didn't bother to tell them these dogs took care of themselves, that his relationship with them far exceeded what he could have with a fellow human. Whenever he could however, Barker did try to avert receiving too much attention. If he found an area with fewer people, he'd make for it, and once even hiked the dunes to avoid the staring eyes of the beach goers. On most days, Barker would keep to one area, usually under the wharf in the small living quarters he called, "Bernie's Camelot", but he would also stay in the woods, often seeing only the happy faces of the dogs for company, which suited him fine.

By the time he reached Sand City, the number of people on the beach had all but dwindled to nothing. This was generally an area haunted by undertows, therefore sparsely populated, and virtually empty by sunset. Barker found himself alone on the shoreline, listening to the thunderous crashing of the surf nearby, and decided to relax on a sand dune for a while before continuing. He wanted the sun to set entirely before seeking out the address for the mysterious "Sharkness".

As it happened, he ended up napping and awoke to find the moon, crescent-shaped, hovering directly above him. Feeling quite rested, Barker set off into the darkness. He could hear the dogs nearby, paws shuffling in the sand, a sniff here and there, but could not see them. The darkness would make for good cover when he walked on the streets.

After nearly half an hour of fruitless searching, Barker discovered the road on which the address was located, and saw the truck at almost the same time. It had been parked on the road near a street light. Though, luckily for Barker's purposes, the light's orange glow fell just short of the vehicle, leaving it in relative darkness. Barker walked, with the dogs near his heels, to the truck.

There were few lights on in the neighboring homes, as it appeared that most of the houses along this particular road had been converted into businesses. The windows were dark with closed signs hanging on the front doors. Barker noted that they were mostly associated with car repairs or remodeling. A great many of the businesses were for upholstery, stereo repair and installation, plus custom shops catering to clients who wished to have their cars detailed. The two-story structure Barker was interested in was made of concrete blocks, with a steel garage door on the bottom floor and large sliding glass doors on the top. A small plank-lined path ran from the house to the street near the parked truck. Large curtains hung over the glass and, between them, only a small sliver of yellow light could be seen. They were, to Barker's disappointment, impossible to see through. To prevent the few homeowners who dwelled in this neighborhood from coming out, Barker crept stealthily, and approached the truck in utter silence. A bumper sticker on the back, shaped like the fin of a Great White, caught Barker's attention. It had the words, "Sharkness", written on it.

Just as Barker craned his face down to see the sticker, a pounding drumbeat bleated from the house upstairs, followed by a squealing guitar which matched the rhythm of the drummer and began a steady durge of thrash metal. Barker froze, momentarily stunned by the suddenness of the music. He searched the dark road, his eyes penetrating the darkness for any sign of a neighbor coming out to complain, and saw nothing. It appeared that "Sharkness" had picked a good area in which to practice their music. Keeping low to the ground anyway, on the off chance that a casual glance out of the window might alert someone to his presence, Barker crept up the side of the truck and tested the door on the passenger side. It was unlocked.

The first thing he saw inside was the demo tape. It sat precariously on the edge of the dashboard where it had undoubtedly been tossed in anger. Barker flicked open the glove compartment while keeping his ears tuned to the world outside for any out of the ordinary noises. He found an electric razor in the glove compartment and examined it. The tip had small hairs, black and short, still clinging to the blade. There was also a bucket of paint on the floorboards, along with a dirtied painter's smock thrown beside it, leading Barker to believe that, besides music, this man supplemented his income by painting. He wondered if that is what he had been doing in the neighborhood near Lighthouse Avenue before deciding to take his lunch to the park. Leaning over the seat, Barker felt around under the driver's side seat. His fingers touched something cold and metallic. He pulled the object out, finding himself holding a 45 magnum. Lifting the gun, which smelled strongly of cordite, by the barrel, Barker then stuffed it into his pocket next to the two shells and the note he had taken from the trash bin. He closed the door.

The dogs were laying in the yard, though a few were still investigating their new surroundings. Dangler lifted his leg to the rear tire of the yellow truck as Barker investigated its bed. He found more paint cans, brushes and rags in a bucket, as well as an assortment of other painting supplies. A singer had joined the durge upstairs. He shouted at the top of his lungs while Barker went into the driveway. A red mini-van sat parked in front of the garage door. Old and ratty, the van had a very lived-in look to it. Barker flung himself onto the roof of the vehicle, climbed to his feet, then took two steps along the van's roof before jumping again, this time to the deck of the building where the sliding glass doors were located. Dangler and Griz, two of the more agile members of the pack, followed Barker up in a similar fashion.

The three members of the band, "Sharkness", finished their set feeling refreshed and in somewhat better spirits. The letter they had received earlier rejecting their demo tape had put them all in a funk, but that was behind them. They still had their first tape, entitled, "Something Sucks", at three other record producers and the chances were good they'd be signed. The hope that it would be picked up by one of them kept them going. So they practiced that night, beginning with the title song to their album, thinking good thoughts. The lead singer of the band, who everyone called Veggie, went over to the coffee table to get his beer after putting the microphone down on one the large speakers. The dining room accommodated the woofers, four in all, along with the rest of their gear. Whenever they got a gig in the Peninsula the band loaded the equipment, speakers included, into the van downstairs. In fact, to attest to their growing recognition, Sharkness was even invited to play in the San Francisco Bay Area at locations usually only reserved for big name groups. Their's was a mixture of Grunge, Punk, and Reggae, which never failed to find an audience.

Veggie took a long pull from his beer. Behind him, London plucked a few quick riffs from his electric guitar, while the drummer, nicknamed Squid, lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. All three men had a fine sheen of sweat collecting on their brows. The band practiced every night in this manner and the fact that they all lived together in their little apartment made it convenient. Fridays were the only nights they took off from practice. One day was needed, after all, for having fun. In the back of their minds, of course, they hoped to have even more fun once they signed a contract and found themselves rocketed to stardom. In the meantime they'd have to work.

"I think that's the best version of that song we've done yet. Man, that felt good!" Exclaimed London.

"Yeah, it did, helps get rid of that old stress thang, man!" Agreed Squid. "I hope we do this good in 'Frisco'!"

"After all the crap that went down today, it feels good to get back into normality." Veggie sighed, then remarked, "Don't worry about San Fran either, we'll do fine."

"Which one of you shot a dog today?" A voice asked from the far side of the small apartment.

The three members of Sharkness turned in unison to stare at the man in the blue parka, who stood just inside the curtains of the sliding glass doors. For a moment the voice startled them, but they recovered quickly. After all, this was one man while they were three. Barker stood at the threshold to the sliding glass entrance appraising the men and their surroundings. A slight wind blew through the opening, making the curtains dance around his feet. The three men all joined each other in front of the drumset, but made no further attempt to get closer to the strange man.

The apartment had not been cleaned for quite a while. Dust and grime seemed to cover evey inch of the small home, not to mention various stains from prior drinking binges. The coffee table, placed on the floor in front of a ratty, ripped orange couch, strained under the weight of old beer cans, fast food wrappers, and music CDs. An overall smell of dried vomit seemed to permeate the air. On the walls of the apartment, Barker noticed posters of various horror movies and concert advertisements.

"You're the guy, aren't you?" Asked Veggie finally. "You went up to the park after the dog was shot and run over? That's you, am I right?"

"Yes I am."

Barker took in the three men after his quick glance around the room while the man in the middle of the trio, the singer, continued to talk.

"We had a feeling you might show up here." Spoke the man. Barker noted his dress first. Wearing a pair of ripped up blue jeans with sneakers, the man had on a green T-shirt that read, "Save a cow, eat grass. Vegetarians Are Us". His frame was strong, like the other two, which hinted that besides music, they all worked out together too. "We've heard of you, you see. You're that bum who lives with all those dogs, right? There was a story in the paper, what was it a week or two ago? I don't know, but you saved a dogcatcher of all people from drowning out in P.G., right? So anyway, this article said that you've had a hand in at least one other small incident recently. You're a pretty nosy guy when you get a mind to be, aren't you?" The speaker's mouth twisted into a cruel grin and his whole head, topped with auburn hair that looked like a mop, shook from side to side. "Nah." He continued. "We don't like that. I, for one, (my name's Veggie in case you were wondering) was hoping you wouldn't show up."

"How did you know I was involved?" Barker asked.

"We went back later, after you'd gone up to the park, and spoke with this old hippy guy down at the bakery on the corner. He told us all about you, said you were pretty mad, and so we put two and two together. We realized you might show up here."

"Why do you keep saying 'we'?"

"How impolite!" Veggie replied, his voice dripping sarcasm. "I haven't formally introduced us, have I? This here, our drummer on my right, is Squid. Over here on lead guitar is London. How's that? Now, what's your name? You see, that I do not know. Your reputation has preceded you, but your name has not."

"I didn't come here for your names."

"Oh, but you did!" Veggie laughed. "Albeit indirectly. You see, we know you don't know who shot the dog. It's one of us, I can tell you that much." With an amused smile on his face, the man called Veggie slid his arms around the other two men beside him. "You see we're kind of like a family. So when we found out about you, we decided to stick together. It's all three of us, or none at all. But only one is guilty."

"Hey, buddy." The drummer named Squid spoke now. "Just let it go, huh? It was a stupid thing that happened, done out of pure rage and your dog just happened to get in the way of that."

"Your demo tape was returned to you." Barker said. "That made one of you violently angry. So angry, that you pulled out a gun and shot a dog."

The band looked stunned for a moment. Squid, the tallest of the bunch, scratched a bushy black beard which hung from his chin in braids. He wore only a pair of red shorts with a worn out pair of boots on his feet. Finally he smiled and nodded his head.

"That's it exactly." He remarked.

"You're pretty sharp for a street urchin." The goateed one named London chimed in. "But, you know, now I think you should split." London, with the guitar still dangling at his waist, was the most clean-cut of the group. His short brown hair and clothes looked as if they'd been washed recently, unlike the others. He wore a Hawaiian style shirt with a pair of blue jeans. His jeans, however, had no holes in them. Unwavered by the veiled threats of these three men, Barker returned his gaze to Veggie.

"I have a family too." Barker informed them. "And one of them was killed today."

"These things happen." Shrugged Veggie. "Too bad you don't know which one of us did it. Unless of course it doesn't matter to you." The singer's voice changed from that of a fun-loving lyricist to something more sinister. "Unless of course you think you can take us all on."

Barker crossed the room in the blink of an eye. His movements were so fast that, momentarily, he caught the trio unaware. Before they could act, he'd grabbed London, and thrown him roughly to the floor. Squid and Veggie, after recovering from the shock of the man's speed, went to their friend's aid. They found their way blocked, however, by two large dogs. Dangler and Griz, having heard an almost inaudible slap from Barker, had entered the apartment. The two dogs growled at the men, who decided not to tempt their fate by rushing to London's aid.

When he landed, London felt the air brutally leave his body. A pair of hands reached down to his shirt collar and hauled him back to his feet. A great many buttons popped off as Barker lifted him up. This man, the street urchin as he had called him a moment ago, moved faster than anyone he'd ever seen. London threw a roundhouse punch, which connected to nothing, and found himself flung once more to the ground. This time he collided with the drum set, which toppled over him like so many bricks. Cymbols and poles clattered around him, the bass drum fell and rolled off his head, making a thumping noise as it bounced across the floor. Barker was on him in an instant. Behind them, Veggie and Squid shouted at Barker to leave their friend alone.

"How did you know it was me?" London asked Barker as he pulled him up, this time by grabbing his hands with the force of an anvil. "How did you know?"

Barker stared into the man's eyes. London had red marks on his face and, from where he collided with the drumset, blood dripped out of a freshly broken nose. The fight seemed to have gone from the man. His eyes carried with them that defeated look, something Barker had seen before.

"There are only three of you." Barker told him. "One who's a vegetarian. The sandwich at the park had roast beef in it. The second has a beard, but outside I found a razor that had recently been used. That leaves you."

Barker tightened his grip on the man's wrist. Within a second there came a sound like snapping twigs and London screamed in pain. When Barker let go, London fell to his knees crying. Tears fell from his face as he cradled the hand in his arms. The two dogs moved to Barker and all three walked back to the window, as Squid and Veggie ran to their friend's assistance.

"His hand's broken!" Shouted Squid, then to Barker. "He's a musician! Do you know how this will affect him?"

"There is a dog out there who will never see another day. Your friend will, at least, have that."

"Man, he was just mad, we got this letter and he went a little crazy! That's all!"

"He's lucky I didn't kill him." Barker reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun. The members of Sharkness froze as they watched him lay the gun onto the coffee table with the two shells. "You'll go to the police in the morning, London, with these here and tell them what you did." Barker took one long stride, then disappeared behind the sliding glass doors. The two dogs leapt with him, leaving only the billowing curtains in their wake. Without saying so, the three men knew they should do as they were asked.

They even accompanied London to the police department.

# # #

Patrick Whitehurst writes from the mountains of northern Arizona, where he lives with his two big dogs, one fat cat, daughter Libby, and the woman of his dreams. He's been a weekly humor columist, radio talk show host, illustrator, and model. His most recent publication was the poem, "As age eats", in the 1999 clone poems contest chapbook, Divided Again.