Showoff Page 13

  Her owner soothed her with a calm he himself did not feel.

  If it hadn’t been for Lex Luthor Savannah Spritz-o-matic, his Electra would be in the ring at this very moment, instead of in the stands.

  27

  The silver raincoat wheeled around, and Mrs. Hightower turned furious eyes on Logan. “Will you stop following me?”

  Logan held out a clipboard. “Will you sign this petition to add Manchurian weasel terriers to the breed list for next year’s show?”

  She slapped it away. “Don’t think I don’t recognize you from yesterday! You tell your friend Griffin to stop hassling me, my daughter, and our dog, or he will hear from my lawyer! “

  As she stormed away, Logan spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Griffin, the role isn’t working for me. It’s one thing when the audience doesn’t applaud, but she’s threatening to sue.”

  “Stick to her anyway,” Griffin ordered. “The working group is on next. We can’t let her get a shot at Luthor when we’re so close.”

  Cleopatra’s home at the lake house was the wood box on the screen porch. It was Savannah’s job to line it with fresh newspapers every day. This morning, though, the capuchin was frantic — gibbering, chattering, and slapping at Savannah’s hand as she tried to smooth the paper out. When Savannah attempted to put down a second layer, the monkey grabbed it and tossed it over the rail.

  Savannah was attuned to her animals’ moods. “What is it, Cleo? What are you trying to tell me?”

  Cleopatra picked up another sheet and pushed it at her owner and friend.

  “I don’t see what you’re —” Her eyes fell on a murky photograph of a dog barely visible behind a large prize ribbon. The headline read:

  * * *

  OVERSIZED DOBERMAN BEATS

  ODDS TO QUALIFY FOR GLOBAL

  METUCHUN, NJ — The Mid-Atlantic Kennel Society is still reeling from the unexpected Best in Show victory by a previously unknown and very unlikely winner, a Dobie that tips the scales forty pounds heavier than the breed standard. Handled by the great Dmitri Trebezhov, returned from retirement …

  * * *

  After that, the page was torn. She searched for the rest of the article, but came up empty. She stared at her monkey. Did Cleo think that was a picture of Luthor? Luthor was missing — or worse. He certainly wasn’t winning prizes at dog shows, handled by Dmitri Trebezhov himself!

  The last thing Savannah wanted to do was to follow this year’s Global event. The mere thought of dogs made her weak in the knees these days. You had to be a hermit not to know that the big show was going on at the Manhattan Coliseum. But she had vowed not to watch one second of it, certain it would be too painful.

  Now, though, her curiosity got the better of her, and she ran to the television. A large Doberman was still a painful memory, but how could she pass up the chance to see Dmitri Trebezhov in action?

  She switched on the set. A moment later, she was leaning back into the sofa cushions, more shocked than she could have imagined. There, larger than life on the screen, was Luthor — her Luthor! And he wasn’t abandoned or anything horrible like that. He was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen in her life — proud and perfect at the very epicenter of the dog world.

  How was this possible? How? Was she dreaming?

  Then the camera pulled back to reveal the handler. It was not the legendary Dmitri Trebezhov.

  It was Griffin Bing.

  “Da-a-a-ad!!!”

  Mr. Drysdale ran into the room. “What is it, honey? What’s wrong?” His eyes fell on the screen. “Whoa — isn’t that —?”

  “It’s Luthor! Somehow Griffin saved him!”

  Her father was thunderstruck. “I can’t believe it. When I spoke to him, he didn’t say anything about entering a dog show.”

  “What?” Savannah was beside herself. “You spoke to Griffin? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “He wasn’t making sense,” Mr. Drysdale tried to explain. “He told me a cockamamie story about how Luthor was innocent, and he only went berserk at the mall because somebody shot him with a dart. You were already so upset. I didn’t want to get your hopes up on the say-so of a flake like Griffin Bing.”

  Savannah drew herself up to her full height. “Griffin is not a flake! He is The Man With The Plan, and his plan rescued Luthor from the pound! He is the greatest friend anybody ever had, and as soon as we get to the Coliseum, I’m going to tell him so! “

  “The Coliseum?” her father repeated. “Honey, be reasonable. New York is four hours away.”

  On the TV, the working group judge had reached his decision. “The Doberman,” he announced to thunderous applause.

  “Start the car!”

  To the Bings, the smog of New York was a beautiful sight because it meant they were almost home. Even the traffic jam on the Long Island Expressway was bearable because it was bringing them — bumper to bumper — back to Cedarville. At last, their van was navigating the familiar streets of their neighborhood. They drove not to their own block, but to the Slovaks’. After weeks in Europe, what they missed most was Griffin.

  A large panel truck was parked in the driveway: BRICKHAUS NUISANCE WILDLIFE REMOVAL.

  “Uh-oh,” said Mr. Bing. “Looks like Griffin spent his big sleepover up to his ears in squirrels.”

  His wife shuddered. “I hope not.”

  They walked around the side of the house in time to hear Mr. Slovak exclaim, “What do you mean, there’s nothing up there? I’m not crazy! I heard an animal moving around!”

  “I said there’s nothing up here now,” Mr. Brickhaus called down from the attic. “I didn’t say there never was. It climbed right up the wall and in this window. Look at the paw prints on the siding.”

  “That’s impossible,” protested Mr. Slovak. “How can an animal walk up a wall?”

  “With this.” The nuisance wildlife specialist dangled a climbing harness over the sill.

  Mr. Bing spoke up. “Sorry to interrupt, Pete. I know you’ve got trouble. Do you know where the boys are?”

  “Oh, welcome back,” Mr. Slovak greeted him. “Sorry, I’m kind of distracted. Try the Bensons’. Pitch is home from camp.”

  But at the Benson house, they were told that Pitch was out, too — at Melissa’s. There, Mrs. Dukakis directed them to the Kellermans’. And Mrs. Kellerman assured them that Logan was at Ben’s.

  Back in the car, Mrs. Bing was uneasy. “You know, my spider sense is tingling. Weird trouble at Pete’s, and the kids using one another as excuses. If this isn’t a plan, I’ll eat my luggage.”

  “Let’s go home,” Mr. Bing suggested. “Maybe they’re all hiding out at our place.”

  They parked in the driveway and Mrs. Bing unlocked the front door. “Griffin? Anybody here?”

  The house was deserted.

  Mr. Bing punched in the code to open the garage door. He let out a gasp as if he’d been punched in the stomach when he took in the wreckage of his workshop. But his horror at the mess disappeared in an instant when he looked for the prototype of his latest invention.

  “The Spritz-o-matic!” he wheezed. “It’s gone!”

  “We’ve been robbed!” his wife shrilled. “And the thieves ransacked the place!”

  A determined expression replaced the anguish on Mr. Bing’s face. “They won’t get away with it!” he all but snarled. “I built a GPS into the Spritz-o-matic so you can track it in the orchard.” He threw open the door of the van and pulled his laptop out of his suitcase. “I can pinpoint its location!”

  Mrs. Bing peered over her husband’s shoulder as he pounded the keyboard. “New York City? What’s it doing in New York City?”

  “The corner of Pitt Street and Third Avenue!” he declared, leaping behind the wheel. “Get in the car!”

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?” his wife asked anxiously.

  “We can do that on the way!”

  And he left the driveway, burning rubber.

  28

  As the afternoon p
rogressed in the Manhattan Coliseum, the champions of 167 breeds marched into the ring to be judged. One by one, the group champions were selected — the dogs that would compete for the ultimate prize.

  Luthor came from the working group, Xerxes from the toys. Nigel Diamond’s greyhound won the hounds again. The Welsh springer spaniel from the sporting group had crossed the ocean from England after winning every major competition in Europe. The terrier was a Lakeland, considered the number-one dog in the American heartland. The dog who had traveled the farthest to come to Global was the herding choice, an Australian shepherd, who had flown first class all the way from Brisbane.

  Non-sporting was last. Griffin and Ben rooted wholeheartedly for Jasmine to lose. Yet the sheer training and quality of Emma’s poodle carried the day.

  When the seven finalists were set, a tense quiet fell over the arena. It had been good sport and good fun up until this point. But the coming hours would select Best in Show at Global, the pinnacle of canine achievement. The winner would be top dog in the world — with endorsement deals and breeding fees in the millions of dollars. Smiles were replaced by game faces. Warmth cooled. Friendships were put on the back burner. This was big, big business.

  In the benching area, Dmitri was feeding Luthor ziti noodles through the grille of the kennel. “If there are to be dirty tricks,” he warned the team, “they will come now. Be watchful.”

  Griffin nodded gravely. “We all know Luthor can take Best in Show. But if something goes wrong and he doesn’t, please don’t let that stupid poodle win. I couldn’t stand to see Emma and her rotten mother happy after what they did to us.”

  Pitch spoke via walkie-talkie. “If I don’t get something to eat, I’m going to fall off the scoreboard and flatten a couple of the contestants. Anybody want to meet at the snack bar?”

  “I’m pretty hungry, too,” put in Melissa timidly.

  “We should all get some food,” Griffin advised. “We want to be sharp when Luthor goes for the gusto.”

  Leaving Ben and Logan in the benching area with Luthor, the others headed for the concession stands. Dmitri had parting words for his star pupil. “You will win, of course. I’m sorry. It is unavoidable.”

  Ben watched them walk away. “You know,” he said, turning to the dog, “in September when my teacher makes us do essays on ‘How I Spent My Summer Vacation,’ I’m going to write about this, and probably get sent to a psychiatrist.”

  A droplet of drool fell off the end of Luthor’s long tongue.

  Ben shook his head. “You may be a champion, but you have no idea what it’s like to be best friends with The Man With The Plan.”

  The yawn came so suddenly that it shocked him. Oh, no! Not here!

  He stood up. “Logan!”

  Through the crowd, he could see the actor still trying to convince people about his “rare breed.”

  “Logan, I need Ferret Face right now!”

  Had he actually managed to say that out loud? It felt more like a dream.

  And anyway, it was already too late.

  He slumped back onto the folding chair, sound asleep.

  A shadowy figure dressed entirely in black moved soundlessly around the edge of the benching area. Could it be true? There was Lex Luthor Savannah Spritz-o-matic, almost entirely unattended. The youth who was supposed to be watching him had dozed off. The other boy — the dingbat — was at the center of a crowd, still trying to pass off his ferret as a dog. There would never be a better chance than right now.

  Today the job could not be left to anything as unreliable as hair remover. It would be done the way it had happened at the Cedarville Mall. One quick dart. A berserk dog could not even be presented for judging. And this time, Dmitri Trebezhov was not here to get his big clumsy body in the way. This shot would be fired from point-blank range.

  As the figure approached, a long-fingered white hand drew the small dart gun out of the trench coat pocket. The guard dog in Luthor sensed danger. He scrambled to his feet but found himself locked in, helpless. The pistol aimed at his long flank.

  “No-o-o-o!!”

  Logan came sprinting through the dense crowd, bowling people over. “Get away from —” His foot caught in the power cable of a hand dryer, and his run became a flight parallel to the floor. As he fell, the baby blanket was tossed from his arms, sending Ferret Face hurtling through the air. The terrified little animal struck the dart gun just as the trigger was pulled. His weight threw off the aim, and the shot missed Luthor, the dart bouncing harmlessly against the terrazzo.

  Logan came down hard on the kennel, popping the door open. This sprung Melissa’s trip wire, and the Orchard Spritz-o-matic whirred to life. The first blast of bright green dye covered the shadowy figure from head to toe.

  The dart gun clattered to the floor, taking Ferret Face with it. The frightened creature scrambled for safety. He ran straight up Ben’s pant leg, under his belt, and into his shirt.

  As the attacker turned to flee, a high-stepping shoe bumped into the Spritz-o-matic, knocking off the motion catch. With nothing holding it back, the device began to move, its nozzle heads rotating, spraying dye in all directions. Logan, dazed on the floor, was splattered. Ben, still asleep, took a face-full. A fine spray marked Luthor’s hindquarters as he pushed his way out of the kennel.

  To the Spritz-o-matic, this was not the benching area of the finest dog show on the planet. It was an orchard, and the obstacles it was encountering were fruit trees. It did what it was programmed to do — bounce off, find open ground, and spray. Panic broke out among the owners and handlers. The dogs weren’t thrilled about it, either. The sudden cold spray plus the panic from the humans was enough to erase tens of thousands of hours of painstaking training. The stampede to get away from the wandering robot had people and animals tripping over one another and their kennels and equipment. Stacks of gear tumbled. Bottles of cosmetics shattered. Doggie treats littered the floor.

  Nuzzled in Ben’s shirt, Ferret Face performed his sole function. He delivered a wake-up nip to his sleeping master.

  Ben returned to consciousness to find himself surrounded by total chaos. He gawked. He goggled. There was a full-blown riot in the benching area. Everything was stained with green. Even he was green!

  What did I sleep through — World War Three?

  He looked around desperately. Luthor was gone; the Spritz-o-matic prototype was gone; Logan was laid out on the floor. Screams and crashes echoed all around him.

  There was only one thing to do: Find The Man With The Plan.

  Griffin and Melissa, their arms laden with hot dogs and drinks for the team, reentered the arena from the concession stands, heading to the tunnel that led to the benching area.

  When the crazed green person came pounding toward them, they stopped and stared. The significance of the color struck Melissa first.

  “He’s green!” she exclaimed.

  “He’s Ben!” Griffin added.

  “Don’t you get it?” Melissa insisted. “The Spritz-o-matic’s gone off! Somebody must have attacked Luthor!”

  They dropped the food and ran. Griffin grabbed his friend by the shirt, staining his own fingers. “What happened? Who set off the robot?”

  Ben’s eyes were haunted. “I didn’t see! I was asleep!”

  “Where’s Luthor?” Melissa probed. “Is he all right?”

  Ben could only shrug helplessly.

  Griffin reached for his walkie-talkie. “Pitch — we’ve lost Luthor. Any sign of him from up there?”

  “Hold on. I’m just getting back.” There was a long pause as the climber scanned the crowded Coliseum from her perch atop the scoreboard. “I don’t see him,” she reported finally. “But listen — when the cage opened, did the Spritz-o-matic shoot anybody?”

  Griffin took in Ben’s fluorescent features. “Bigtime. Why?”

  “Because there’s a totally green person running through the seats.”

  Griffin stared. Pitch was right. Across the arena, a smallish, bla
ck-clad figure — liberally spattered with green — was ascending the grandstand toward an upper side exit.

  He took off in pursuit. “Find Luthor!” he tossed over his shoulder. “And somebody shut down the Spritz-o-matic!”

  “But it’s gone, too!”

  Griffin stopped on a dime. “Don’t tell me that! Please don’t tell me that!” He was torn in two. They had the culprit, caught red-handed — or at least green. But how could he abandon his father’s latest invention? It wasn’t even patented yet! Somebody could steal the idea and Dad wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it!

  At that moment, a sea of hysterical green people and dogs began pouring out of the benching area into the arena. Their footfalls were frenzied, their screams terrified as if they were being chased by a horrible supernatural creature. And there it was, following in their wake — not a zombie army, but the Orchard Spritz-o-matic, looking like a cross between a moving garbage can and a space-age lawn sprinkler.

  Family loyalty overcame Griffin. He broke through the fleeing crowd and tackled his father’s invention. Green dye soaked his face and clothing as he held on for dear life, screaming, “Where’s the off switch?”

  Mindless of the green drenching, Melissa hurried over and cut power to the device.

  When Griffin wiped the dye out of his eyes, the first thing he saw gladdened his heart. There stood Luthor, nicely stacked and only slightly stained. Dmitri was with him, leaning on crutches, his pinkie fully extended. Griffin sighed his relief. Luthor was safe. Nothing could distract the Doberman when he was under the influence of the Russian’s magical digit.

  And then a young girl’s voice — distant, yet clear as a bell — rang out over the chaos.

  “Luthor!”