Page 15 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

The guy whips around to face me. I’ve actually never seen his face, because he’s either blocked by poodle heads or hidden by the Kia’s tinted windows.

My dude is blond and chiseled-looking and he’s wearing workout clothes—the fancy kind that match. He’s breathing hard. He wipes his eyes and blinks at me a bunch like he’s so mad he doesn’t even know where to start. For a second, he grasps at the air around his head, and I realize he’s trying to reach the straw sticking up behind him. Why is there a straw? He spins around like a dogchasing its tail, and I see that he’s wearing one of those backpacks that hold water so you can be hydrating all the time, and the fact that he can’t locate the straw seems to be panicking him.

Should I... help?

He finally finds the straw, takes a big gulp, and coughs violently, doubling over and moaning.

Yikes.

“You,” he says as he recovers. He steps toward me, stumbling a bit. His whole body looks like it’s vibrating. “You almost killed my sweet baby garçon.”

Dudereallyneeds to learn how to enunciate. I squint at his mouth like that’ll help me hear better.

“I’m sorry, your what? I can’t quite—”

“Dogmurderer!” he clarifies.

“But your dog is alive,” I point out. Aliveandthriving. The dog is now sitting up in the front seat, licking his own butthole. “Also, I was nowhere near you.”

“Exactly,” he says, venom in his voice, spittle in the air. “I was trying to avoid that kid, and youmademe drive straight into that sinkhole.”

He slings his arm toward the pothole across from the parking garage-in-progress.

That was probably thecrunch-crunchI heard—two sets of wheels hitting the hole in quick succession, cracking against the street like an egg.

“Sir, it’s just a pothole,” I say.

“Sinkhole.”

“Pothole.”

“Sinkhole.”

“Pot—” I can’t even finish the word before he interrupts me.

“Whatever!Youmade me swerve,youmade my sweet boy flyaround in the car. I bet he’s concussed. Concussed!” He wipes his mouth clumsily. Is hedrooling? Maybe he’s the one who got concussed. Or maybe he’s drunk? That would explain a lot.

I move a little closer to see if I can smell his breath.

“I was doing my job,” I say, surreptitiously trying to get a whiff. “You were about to hit that kid...”

“She’s right,” the dad pipes up from over on the sidewalk. “I saw the whole thing.”

“Oh,didyou?” taunts Poodle Dude. “You saw thewholething?”

The dad looks at me, confused. “...Yes?”

“Was it on your phone?”

The dad grimaces, gives me an apologetic shrug, and then ushers his kid past us toward the school.

Poodle Dude, meanwhile, turns his rage to me and me alone. He huffs, sending a blast of hot breath my way, and though I would not call itgoodbreath, it doesn’t smell alcoholic. So much for that theory.

Just drunk on rage, I guess.

“The alderman is going to hear about this,” he says, mumbling even worse now. His voice sounds weird, like he’s a ventriloquist for himself.

“Thealderman?” I ask, not sure I heard him right. If he was trying to randomly scare me, why not pick the mayor? The governor? Why go for the alderman, who basically makes sure the neighborhood trash gets picked up? I try not to laugh. “Why are you going to tellhim?”