Irises
by softydog88
Chapter Eleven
John Gotti AND Joey Buttafuoco?
"The world would be a nicer place if everyone had the ability to love as unconditionally as a dog." —M.K. Clinton
October 24, 1998
"A puppy?" Marilyn exclaimed. Her eyes grew wide and she clapped her hands.
"I didn't say a puppy," Sandra replied, "I said a dog."
Marilyn was crestfallen. "Why not a puppy?" she pleaded. "It turns into a dog, and you get the whole puppy experience first. It's a win-win situation, mom. You just have to wait a little longer to get a check mark in your win column."
Sandra exhaled deeply. "I have to tell you something."
Marilyn panicked. She knew her mother had something on her mind for the past few days. The signs were all there―the half sentences, long hugs, deep sighs. Marilyn didn't want to push the issue, though, knowing that Sandra would come around eventually. Now that it was here, she took a seat at the table across from her mother and said "what?"
"Your dad is getting out of jail soon. They're letting him go early because the jail is overcrowded. Makes no sense to me, but I don't make the laws. Now," she sighed, "I want you to have a dog for protection, Marilyn. A trained dog, not a puppy, to be here with you when I'm not home and also when you're out and about. It's as simple as that."
"He's getting out?" Marilyn seemed to have missed the importance of everything else her mother said and her voice sounded weak and frightened.
"Yes. I wish he wasn't, but there's nothing we can do about it. There's something else, too. I'm telling you this because you deserve to know, and I think you can handle it. In other words, I trust you."
She looked as serious as Marilyn had ever seen her. "What is it, mom? You're right, you can trust me."
"I...bought a gun last week and I'm getting trained in how to use it," Sandra said. "If your father tries to get into this apartment, I'll protect us both. I'm not going to let him put me in the hospital again, and I'm sure as hell not going to let him touch you. But understand this―it's for me only. You will not ever lay your hands on it. And I don't want you to mention it to anyone, even Jason. Do you understand?"
Marilyn nodded. The color had left her face and she immediately thought of all those newspaper stories of household gun accidents—toddlers finding an unlocked gun and accidentally shooting a parent, a sibling or themselves. Then she thought of her father coming after her mother and she went to her room and spent the rest of the night in darkness.
"A bird?" Martha exclaimed. "Whatever for, Richard?"
"For companionship, mother. You're of a certain age now, and―"
She cut him off with a look of pure malevolence. "A certain age? What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, no. You're not going to get me to feel guilty about this. It simply means that you're a senior citizen, and on those nights that you don't have a date, it would be nice for you to have a bird. You can teach it to talk, mother, it's a myna. And besides, look at it. Isn't it cute? " He wagged his finger at the bird.
"No cuter than the inside of my pillow."
Castle sighed. "Well, at least you're going into it with an open mind."
"You know, Richard, a long time ago I did my very first Broadway show with Rich Little, the impressionist. He was billed as 'the human parrot,' if you can believe anything so absurd. I worked my tail off for that show. I was convinced it was a 'make-it or break-it' shot. Well, it closed after a single performance. He was awful―all over the map. His John Wayne sounded like Ethel Merman and his Jimmy Stewart sounded like Mickey Mouse. I hated him. I went home that night with boos echoing in my ears, convinced I had no future on Broadway. I've never forgiven him for that."
"To be fair, mother, Rich Little is one of the best there is. Maybe he was like you, just starting out. Scared. Nervous. Did you think of that?"
"Of course I did, but it didn't matter to an irrational 22 year-old." She stood near the birdcage and waved. "Hello, Rich Little," she said.
"Hello, Rich Little," said the newly christened Rich Little.
"I'll be damned. That's what his JFK sounded like."
Marilyn and Sandra would have thought The Daisy Hill Puppy Farm and Training Center was deserted were it not for the deafening sound of baying dogs. The salesperson, dollar signs in his eyes, hurried toward the only two people looking around.
"Not a beagle in sight," Marilyn observed.
"I can't believe a trained dog is so expensive," Sandra said as she read the handout she picked up at the door. "There's no way we can afford one." The salesperson heard this and did an abrupt about-face.
"Then a puppy it is!" Marilyn declared triumphantly. "I'll raise it and train it to love me and you and Jason and it'll dance and make friends with birds and speak French and have hilarious fights with beach chairs."
Sandra laughed. She still thought getting a grown dog was better, but the joy in Marilyn's face was too much to deny. "OK, we'll make it a puppy. But we'd better hope it has an abnormal growth spurt, and pronto. Let's head to a shelter in the city."
"No puppies," Marilyn shouted over the sound of dozens more barking dogs and the yowling of a single, terribly annoyed Siamese cat. "What kind of a world do we live in?"
"It's the kind of world that loves puppies a lot more than it loves dogs," Sandra said. "Puppies get older, a little harder to handle, they eat more. Pretty soon the appeal wears off for some people."
"Well that isn't going to happen to me. I refuse to let it. My dog is going to be mine for life."
They continued to poke around, rejecting anything that Sandra thought wouldn't project sufficient ferocity, including a hyper Boston terrier and a slobbery cocker spaniel. Finally, Sandra stopped at a cage and took a long gander at a Great Dane.
"Look at this tough guy," she said. "He'll protect you from anything."
"Not without Fred, Daphne, Velma and Shaggy, he won't. Mom, that dog needs a spooky castle to roam around in, not a New York apartment."
"Yeah, you're right. Let's keep looking."
It took a half hour before they both agreed on a dog. It was a German Shepherd mix, a bit smaller than a purebred, but still menacing enough to instill fear in most mortals. "Besides, he probably won't have to go on the attack anyway," Marilyn said. "Jason said most people will flee as soon as they hear barking. A dog is really more for intimidation than enforcement."
Sandra considered that and decided it had merit. A helper came around and leashed the dog. As they were filling out the adoption forms Marilyn said "his name is General Sherman? No, no, that won't do." She wrapped her hands around the dog and got a face full of kisses. "From now on your name is Socrates Van Gogh."
Sandra laughed, Marilyn smiled and Socrates Van Gogh wagged his tail for all he was worth as he got ready to head to his permanent home.
"Martha. Come on, Rich Little, you can do it. Martha. Maaaaartha."
"I don't think I've ever seen your mother so persistent," Beckett said. "She dotes on that bird."
"Yeah," Castle agreed. "She won't admit it, but she is enjoying having a pet."
He sighed and stared at Martha for a while, replaying precious memories in his head. Martha taking him to his first day of school. Helping him as he sounded out words when learning to read. Playing nurse when he was sick. Then doing it all over again with Alexis. They were all so fleeting yet perfectly vivid and he watched her with a mixture of sadness and elation.
Beckett held out her hand. "Here you go, Castle. A nice cup of peppermint tea. Just what you need when cooped up inside on such a blustery day."
He took a sip and said "I'd better get to work. I have to finish the outline in two weeks or I can kiss my advance goodbye."
He sat down at his computer and the words began to flow. He realized that the metronome-like quality of Martha's voice soothed him. At least as long as Rich Little didn't speak up.
But he did, and Castle was furious at being awakened.
"Martha! Martha!" intoned the bird, along with an assortment of whistles accompanied by the sounds of New York―honking horns, jack hammers, sirens, snatches of random conversations. Rich Little, it turned out, was an accomplished mimic and the irony was much to Castle's disdain. He found his phone and checked the time.
"Four!" he shouted. "I have to be up in three hours."
"Maybe Martha forgot to cover his cage," Beckett offered. They got up and made their way to the living room. The cage was covered.
"Its mother must have been a hamster," Castle said, "and it's gone nocturnal."
There was a sound outside the front door. "Beckett, get your gun!" Castle said. Before she could even turn around, the door opened and Martha stepped inside.
"Martha!" chirped Rich Little.
"Shh," Martha whispered, "you'll wake them up."
Castle flipped on the lights and Martha froze. "Too late for that, mother. Where were you?"
"Not that it's any of your business, Richard, but I had a date." She took off her coat and slammed her purse on top of it, a statement she hoped would be more meaningful than it turned out. Castle wasn't deterred.
"A date? At this hour? With whom?"
"If you're going to give me the third degree, can you at least put on a robe? It's disconcerting to talk to my grown son when he's standing there in his skivvies."
"No, I won't. If I grab my robe, you'll sneak off to bed and we need to talk about this now."
"What's to talk about? I met a man named McGee, Doug McGee. He's a bartender at the Suds and Spuds. We hit it off, so I met him as he closed the joint. We went to an all-night diner for a coffee and a Danish. And some good talk, too. He's a fascinating fellow, actually. He used to serve both John Gotti AND Joey Buttafuoco. He's got his picture with them on the wall. Regis Philbin, too."
"Martha, I hate to say this," Beckett said, "but he sounds like a pretty shady character. That's not exactly a roll call of upstanding citizens."
"Oh, relax, Kate, Regis is harmless. And Doug's record is clean."
"And I suppose he told you that?" Castle said.
"No, as a matter of fact. Alexis told me. She's become quite the accomplished investigator, Rick. You should seriously think about hiring her full-time."
"Hire her? She checked out your boyfriend and didn't even tell me. I'm not going to hire her, I'm going to disown her."
"Boyfriend? Who said anything about a boyfriend? We had coffee and an artery-clogging dessert. He's more likely to take me in for an angioplasty than take me as his fifth wife."
"His fifth wife?"
Martha didn't respond. Beckett turned to Castle and said "maybe I should check him out, Rick."
"Good idea. We're going to need fingerprints and DNA, if possible. And make sure to check his credit score, too. I don't want some gold digging gigolo scamming my mother. Hey, mom, did he...?"
Martha was gone.
"Come on, Castle, let's go to bed," Beckett said. "We'll talk about it in the morning."
"Doug McGee, Doug McGee!" screeched Rich Little.
Castle covered his ears with his hands. "Well, I guess there's no chance we'll forget the guy's name."
October 31, 1998
They were in Central Park on Halloween, and even thought it was late morning, the park was rapidly filling with an assortment of characters even more bizarre than the usual cross-dressers, stoners and softball players. Marilyn held Socrates Van Gogh on a leash.
"Attack!" she shouted, pointing at the figure running toward her in catcher's gear and brandishing a stick over his head.
The dog tilted his head at her in the universal symbol of doggie confusion. Marilyn turned him around. By now, Jason was hovering right in front of them and swinging the stick menacingly. SVG wagged his tail and sounded two happy, staccato barks.
"He knows it's me," Jason said as he removed the Donald Trump Halloween mask. "He probably picked up my scent."
"Must be" Marilyn said. "If that mask doesn't scare him, nothing will. Or maybe you're just so lovable that a sweet dog like Socrates Van Gogh won't even think of attacking you."
SVG barked again. "He knows what you're saying," Jason laughed. "But we still have to figure out some way to get him to recognize danger."
Marilyn dove into her purse and extracted a few dollars. "There's a kid over there in a Frankenstein costume. Maybe we can bribe him to pretend to attack me."
"And what if Socrates Van Gogh really does defend you? The kid would get hurt, you'd be in big trouble and your mom would be sued."
"Yeah. This sucks. And the worst part is, I don't want him to attack anyone, so I hate trying to dream up a plan to get him to do it."
"What about your dad? You'd want him to attack your dad, right?"
"No, not even my dad. Besides, I can't believe dad would ever hurt me. But he did hurt my mom and she didn't want to take any chances so that's why we moved. Now that he's getting out of jail, mom had to give him our new address. She has a restraining order on him and he has to know which address to stay away from. None of it makes any sense."
She picked up a tennis ball and tossed it in frustration. SVG dashed after it and brought it back without being prompted. By this time, a few children had gathered around Socrates Van Gogh and were petting him.
"He makes friends so easily," Jason said.
"See what I mean? He's the sweetest dog in the world. He wouldn't hurt a soul."
