Page 21 of How To Plot a Payback

On the platform.

Before the crowd.

I check my watch. I am ten minutes late now.

My jacket is missing a button.

I’m pretty sure I’ll need to see a doctor for my rotator cuff.

I hold my dogs as steady as I can while Maggie holds her dogs as steady as she can. She clears her throat before addressing the crowd.

The line is enormous, like it’s Black Friday at the Walmart and the tellies are 75 percent off level. All unsurprising. I pass this line every Monday. People, women mostly, clamoring, wringing their hands, even camping in their little sleeping bags on the sidewalk, all to get into the live shooting of Neighbors. To be a part of the real-life experience of the show they attend to with more loyalty than their own jobs.

Several food trucks campaign for their attention on one side while security officers stand guard on the other. Fights break out on occasion. The network briefly considered creating an entire reality show around it. Watch your favorite group of misfit neighbors fall into their funny adventures at 8:00 p.m. central, then catch a slew of middle-aged women in pink Neighbors shirts throwing camp chairs at one another at 9:00.

“Would anybody like a dog?” Maggie’s shrill voice calls to the crowd.

I cut her a look.

Really? This is her plan?

This is why we came all the way out here?

Nobody, of course, budges.

Nobody even hears.

The short dog with floppy ears at her feet growls at its reflection in a glass door and pounces, bounces, and falls back on itself.

“These are some good dogs here,” Maggie calls out again.

The only reason anyone has stopped and paid attention to us is because we exited through the very door where they are awaiting entrance. Now that it’s abundantly clear we aren’t in charge of opening the doors, they are slowly losing interest.

I get a strong scent of syrup and spy one of the breakfast trucks in the distance. I double up my grip on the leashes. Someone is holding a round platter of pancakes and meandering up the line. Really, we’re going to get rid of the whole lot of dogs one way or another here in about two minutes.

“Free to anyone who’ll provide a good home,” Maggie tries again.

The nose of one of the intimidating Saint Bernards twitches. His eyes zero in on the platter.

Incredible.

I believe he just nudged his twin, who also now zeroes in on the platter.

Quicky I lean down to Maggie’s ear. “I don’t mean to rush you,” I say quietly, “but we’re about to have a situation on our hands. D’you have another plan?”

“Um . . . ,” she begins unsteadily, then bites her bottom lip. “I don’t know.”

“A shelter?” I suggest.

She shakes her head. “He said just homes. No shelters.”

I pause. “Who is ‘he’?”

“Kye Walker. I’m his new PA.”

Ah yes. Maggie Goodwin. Goodwin’s beloved niece. I knew I’d seen that name on the cast schedule.

I frown. One can almost hear a crack of lightning in the distance as I take a closer look at these animals.