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  Dmitri’s burning eyes never left his pupil. “Millions of years of survival in the wild have taught my four-legged brothers and sisters to wolf down food, eating as quickly and as much as possible. If Luthor can control this impulse, he can control anything.”

  Griffin was impressed. “Normally when he eats you have to hold on to the wall to keep from getting sucked in!”

  The Russian sighed tragically. “Just this last time,” he vowed, “I will create one more canine robot for their perfect world, their Dog-topia.” He turned moist eyes on the Doberman. “Forgive me, my brother.”

  Luthor burped, and then looked abashed.

  “I don’t think the wasabi agrees with him,” Griffin offered.

  Dmitri nodded. “We train the stomach as well.” He lifted his pinkie finger. Instantly, Luthor was at his side. The handler placed the wooden sushi tray on the flat part of Luthor’s large, wedge-shaped head. Taking graceful measured steps, the dog made his way to the kitchen with the tray perfectly balanced. He walked up to the trash can and depressed the pedal with his paw. The lid lifted. Slowly, and under tight control, Luthor inclined his head just enough so that the scraps on the tray slid into the garbage.

  “Awesome!” Griffin breathed. “I can’t believe you taught him all that in only three days!”

  “I teach him nothing!” Dmitri said sharply. “All this is within him. I merely bring it out. Come with us, and you will see.”

  It was a small spit of land sticking out into Flushing Bay, the ground moist and soft. Citi Field, home of the Mets, was visible behind them. But otherwise, it seemed strangely removed from the rest of New York City.

  Ben was mystified. “What kind of place is this to train a dog?”

  The roar that followed sent both boys diving for cover. An American Airlines Airbus A320 screamed in directly over their heads, setting its landing wheels down on the runway of LaGuardia Airport, perhaps forty feet beyond them.

  Ben held on to Ferret Face for dear life.

  Griffin dug two hands into the turf as if he thought he could burrow under the grass and save himself. “What was that?”

  “Unless I am mistaken,” Dmitri told him mildly, “it was the 11:17 from Dallas, nine minutes late.”

  “Yeah, but why was it landing on top of us?” Ben whined.

  In answer, the handler indicated Luthor, who had neither moved nor uttered a sound, but was totally focused on the upraised pinkie. “In a dog show, a champion must maintain absolute focus. If he can learn to ignore a landing airliner at close range, then he will not be distracted by a yappy dog on a nearby pedestal.”

  The Empire State Building was the tallest structure in New York, and the most famous skyscraper anywhere in the world. Griffin stood at the base of the stairwell, peering up at flights of steps that seemed to extend all the way to infinity.

  Dmitri addressed his star pupil, pinkie raised. “Brother, you may be tempted to turn around before you reach the top. If you cheat, Dmitri will know.”

  Ben was horrified. “The top top? He’s not going to win the dog show if he has a heart attack on the stairs!”

  “A champion,” Dmitri said imperiously, “knows no fatigue. And his heart is forged from iron.”

  They watched as Luthor jumped to his task, muscles rippling as he powered his way up. A moment later he was out of sight. A few minutes after that, they could no longer hear the clicking of his nails on the concrete steps.

  The silence unnerved Griffin. “It’s a long way up. What if he gets lost?”

  Dmitri held out his pinkie. “He would return to this from beyond the grave.”

  They waited, five minutes, then ten.

  “Maybe we should go up and get him,” suggested Ben worriedly.

  Dmitri glared at him. “I do not seek the sun at midnight, because I know it will return at dawn. Go if you wish. Your leg cramps do not concern Dmitri.”

  Around the fifteen-minute mark, the toenail clicking returned. Luthor burst out of the stairwell, and came to sit quietly in front of the pinkie.

  “Excellent,” approved Dmitri. “Tomorrow — the Chrysler Building.”

  Next stop was Wall Street and the New York Stock Exchange. An old dog show contact of Dmitri’s got them visitors’ badges, and they were admitted to the floor. Luthor, of course, had no badge, but no one was willing to question the big dog’s right to go wherever he wanted.

  If there was any order to this place, Griffin and Ben were unable to detect it. It was pure chaos. People ran in all directions through a blizzard of airborne paper, everyone outshouting everyone else. The voices melded into one constant din that reminded them of the LaGuardia runway.

  Griffin and Ben hung back, sweating in their borrowed, oversized blazers. No matter how strong the air conditioning was, it simply couldn’t keep up with the action and body heat of the place. But Luthor and Dmitri were just a blur. They circled the exchange floor at high speed, Luthor at the end of a short leash. Dmitri’s long strides were taxed to the limit to keep pace. All around them — in front of them, behind them, and on either side — frantic people dashed to and fro, shouting instructions, waving transaction slips, buying and selling billions of dollars in stocks.

  It should have been a demolition derby, with traders, agents, and pages tripping over dog and leash, and bouncing off of the big Russian. There should have been bumps, bruises, and many dog bites. Instead, Luthor and Dmitri passed through the roiling mob like ghosts, touching no one, yet never slowing down or altering course.

  “You know” — Ben had to shout just to be heard — “that guy is a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but I’m starting to believe he knows his stuff.”

  Griffin had a completely different take on the matter. Operation Doggie Rehab, which had been dead in the water a few short days ago, was beginning to look as if it might actually work.

  The plan was back.

  Dmitri Trebezhov in a bathing suit was an astounding sight. His skin was milk-white, like he had never been in the sun in his life. Tattooed on this pristine canvas was the portrait of every dog he had ever handled. Skinny legs, also startlingly white, supported an enormous, muscular frame, and his long, dark hair and beard stood out straight from his face, held aloft by a stiff sea breeze.

  Hot, sunny weather had brought a large, happy crowd to Rockaway Beach that afternoon. A multitude of towels and blankets made the sand resemble a patchwork quilt. Frisbees and footballs flew in all directions, and a spirited volleyball game, twenty players a side, filled the air with shouts and good-natured arguments. Ice cream and drink vendors circulated among the bathers, hawking their wares. Everything was active, in motion. Except Luthor.

  The Doberman stood at the water’s edge, absolutely motionless, and perfectly stacked. Swimmers and boogie boarders frolicked all around him. A dropped Popsicle lay on the sand three inches in front of his nose. His focus remained absolute.

  The wave seemed to come out of nowhere, a wall of water that rose suddenly from the ocean. It exploded over Luthor, swamping him completely. For a moment, he was gone, lost in the foam. When the breaker receded, there was the big Doberman, soaked, half-buried in seaweed — still perfectly stacked as if nothing had ever happened.

  Griffin stared, unable to believe his own eyes. “But he hates water! When we put him through the truck wash, he got totally bent out of shape about it!”

  Dmitri glared at him “Perhaps that is because he is not a truck. He is a dog. And he will be a virtuoso, in spite of your efforts to traumatize him.”

  “A virtuoso?” Ben repeated. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?

  Dmitri nodded. “He is ready.”

  17

  “I think we should write a letter to the Parks Department,” announced Mrs. Slovak as the car merged onto the Long Island Expressway. “They’re not cleaning the pool properly. The last time I did the boys’ laundry, I could have sworn there was sand in their bathing suits.”

  In the backseat, Griffin and Ben exchan
ged agonized glances.

  “Maybe it’s the chlorine crystallizing,” Ben suggested hopefully.

  “I don’t think it works that way,” mused his father at the wheel.

  It was the Slovaks’ wedding anniversary, and the family and their semipermanent houseguest were headed into New York City to the Italian restaurant where Ben’s parents had gone for their first date.

  “It’s really nice of you to let me crash your celebration,” said Griffin, anxious to change the subject.

  “We weren’t going to leave you at home to eat bread and water.” Ben’s father laughed.

  His wife laughed, too, but not as heartily.

  Trattoria Cinque Fratelli was exactly as the Slovaks remembered it. And — what luck! — they were able to get the same table they’d occupied as a courting couple. They sat down and began to peruse the menu in a leisurely manner.

  “What do you hear from your parents, Griffin?” Mr. Slovak asked.

  “I just Skyped them last night,” Griffin replied. “Their trip’s okay, but you know Dad. He’s only happy when he’s in his workshop, tinkering.” He had a giddy vision of the state of that workshop right now. In the heat of Operation Doggie Rehab, there had been no time to tidy up after Luthor’s rampage. The only tinkering going on was in Melissa’s room, where the Spritz-o-matic was dismantled to its wires and components.

  “Unbelievable!” Mrs. Slovak’s expression radiated shock and anger. She pointed. “That man — his dinner companion is a dog!”

  They followed her pointing finger. Ben kicked Griffin under the table, but Griffin had already made the identification. There in a corner booth sat none other than Dmitri Trebezhov. And his companion was indeed a dog.

  Luthor.

  The Doberman sat upright on the banquette, his proud head poised over an enormous plate of pasta. He was delicately eating linguine, a single strand at a time, sucking it up with total discipline and concentration.

  Mr. Slovak was amazed. “It certainly has excellent table manners.”

  “Table manners? It’s a dog! It’s not even allowed to enter a restaurant, much less to be a customer! “

  Ben tried to calm her down. “Come on, Mom. Live and let live.”

  She would not be soothed. “I get out on the town once in a blue moon! I don’t ask to rub elbows with millionaires and celebrities. But I don’t think it’s too much to expect that my fellow diners should be human!”

  She made such a fuss that the maître d’ tiptoed over. “Is there a problem, signora?”

  “I’d call it a problem! Why is there a dog over there slurping noodles?”

  “He’s not slurping,” Ben pointed out. “He’s actually pretty quiet.”

  “Do you not recognize the gentleman?” asked the maître d’. “That is Dmitri Trebezhov, the greatest dog handler in the world.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that it’s unsanitary to allow an animal into a restaurant!” Mrs. Slovak insisted.

  The maître d’s eyes traveled to Ben’s shirt and Ferret Face, who was leaning out, nibbling sesame seeds off a breadstick.

  Mr. Slovak spoke up swiftly. “He’s a medical ferret. We have a doctor’s letter. Would you like to see it?”

  “That will not be necessary,” the maître d’ said graciously. “Enjoy your dinner.” And he walked away.

  “If I didn’t know better,” Mr. Slovak commented, “I’d swear that dog was Savannah Drysdale’s Doberman. But this animal’s far too well behaved.”

  Mrs. Slovak addressed the boys, who were both bright red and stiff-lipped. “Now look — I’ve spoiled your evening. I promise I’ll drop the subject.”

  In reality, the source of their discomfort was the fear that Dmitri would see them and wish them a hearty hello. Then they would be required to explain the unexplainable.

  Griffin didn’t taste a bite of his dinner. It all went straight down, and lay like lead in his stomach. His one hope was that eating linguini one strand at a time was a slow process, and that the Slovak party might be finished and gone before Dmitri and Luthor would walk right past their table on the way out.

  No such luck. A strangled sound escaped Ben as Dmitri and his pupil rose to leave. Man and dog grew closer as Griffin’s personal doomsday clock counted down to zero. Dmitri cleared his throat to speak.

  Oh, don’t! Oh, please! Oh, no!

  “Excuse us,” the big Russian said politely, sidling around their table, Luthor in tow. Seconds later, they were on the street. The door of the restaurant closed behind them.

  “I — I have to go to the bathroom!” Griffin sprinted for the restroom sign, but doubled back around the bar and slipped out through a service exit, finding himself in a narrow alley. He raced to the street just as Dmitri was loading Luthor into a taxi.

  “Hey — wait!” He caught up to them, panting.

  “Thanks for not giving us away in front of Ben’s parents!”

  “Dmitri is not stupid. If Luthor was the family dog, I would be dealing with the family, not with two children.”

  “Ben’s mom almost had a fit!” Griffin exclaimed. “Do you always take dogs to restaurants?”

  “Pasta before a show. That is the rule.”

  “But the Global Kennel Society show isn’t for two more weeks,” Griffin pointed out.

  Dmitri shook his head. “No, he cannot enter that one.”

  “What?” All the color drained from Griffin’s face. “Then what are we doing this for? The whole point of the plan was to win at Global!”

  “Calm yourself,” Dmitri advised. “No dog may enter Global without a Best of Breed victory at another competition.”

  Griffin was distraught. “So what can we do?”

  “The Mid-Atlantic Kennel Society is holding its summer show tomorrow in Metuchen, New Jersey. My brother’s performance there will qualify him for Global.”

  Griffin’s head was spinning. He didn’t want to fight with Dmitri, but this was bizarre. Luthor was going into competition. And they would have had no way of knowing about it if they hadn’t, by sheer random chance, run into the pair carbo-loading at one out of tens of thousands of restaurants in New York City!

  “When were you planning to tell us about this?” Griffin demanded. “He’s our dog — until it’s okay for him to go back to our friend Savannah!”

  Dmitri shrugged. “In that case, would you care to join us?”

  “Ben and I would be delighted!”

  18

  Emma Hightower fluffed the white pouf around Jasmine’s crown. “There, beautiful girl,” she cooed. “Some poodles shed in the summer, but not you.”

  Her mother joined her in the benching area, hefting a carton filled with sprays, brushes, picks, and canine hair products. “The parking lot’s already a mess,” she commented, shedding her silver raincoat and running a hand through her bright red hair.

  “Mid-Atlantic’s always the last show before Global,” Emma reminded her. “Everyone uses it as a rehearsal for the big time.”

  Mrs. Hightower plugged a blow-dryer into a large power strip that had been set up for use by the contestants. “Let’s give her a final once-over.”

  “She doesn’t need it,” said Emma. “She’s perfect.”

  “You might want to rethink that.” Mrs. Hightower turned a jaundiced eye toward the center aisle, where Mrs. Devlin was making an entrance with her little Xerxes in her arms. The Yorkshire terrier’s win on Long Island had cemented his position as the clear favorite at Global.

  Emma made a face. “I looked into that judge’s eyes, and I’m positive he liked Jazzy as much as Xerxes. He just picked the Yorkie because it was his turn after playing second fiddle to Electra for so long.” Her eyes fell on a figure coming in the gate, and she uttered a snort of disgust. “Well, I never thought he’d have the nerve to show his face at another dog show!”

  Griffin Bing smiled and waved, working his way through the crowd toward her. His skinny sidekick — Ben? — was right behind him.

  She l
owered her head and busied herself fluffing the poodle’s tail.

  “I’m going to go and say hello to Mercedes Devlin,” her mother announced.

  “Don’t leave me here alone with —” Emma hissed. But it was too late. Mrs. Hightower was already gone, and the boys were upon her.

  “Hi, Emma,” Griffin said. “Hi, Jasmine. How’s it going?”

  “Great. You probably heard that Jazzy won her group on Long Island. Oh, wait — you weren’t there for the end. You were chasing your dog all over town.”

  Griffin flushed.

  Ben bristled. “He’s way better than that now. We hired a new handler.” He looked over his shoulder. “Here he comes.”

  Emma had been noticing a buzz of excitement at the entrance to the benching area. At that moment she spotted the bearded trainer at the other end of the leash around Luthor’s collar. “Who’s that, the world’s tallest hippie?”

  A short, slight reporter was at the head of the throng, jogging backward to keep pace with Dmitri’s long-legged strides. “I’m with the Canine Chronicle, Mr. Trebezhov,” she puffed. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “Trebezhov?” Emma’s jaw dropped. “Your new handler is Dmitri Trebezhov? But — that looks nothing like him!”

  “He grew a lot of hair in his time away from the dog show circuit,” Ben supplied.

  Emma was bug-eyed. “How did you get him? No one’s seen him in years! He left and swore he’d never come back!”

  “He hadn’t met Luthor yet,” Griffin said smugly.

  She was unconvinced. “Are you rich? Your dad paid him a ton of money to come out of retirement, right?”

  “No!”

  “What kind of car do you have?” she pushed.

  By that time, the crowd around Dmitri reached them, and there was too much chaos for conversation.

  When Mrs. Devlin recognized the legendary handler, she was so shocked that she dropped Xerxes. The Yorkie hit the ground like a furry ball, bounced, and began scrambling up her leg.

  “I’m speaking with Dmitri Trebezhov, who has returned from self-imposed exile to bring an unknown dog to the Mid-Atlantic show.” The reporter struggled to keep her voice steady as she stutter-stepped along. “Mr. Trebezhov, what’s the best part of being back?”