Barb Stanley sees us, waves, and comes over. “Andy, glad you could make it.”
I introduce her to Laurie, and she offers to show us around. The tour really involves little more than what we have already seen, just more of it. We won’t be going out into the main area where the competition takes place until later.
All the dogs are very large, and I recognize a Saint Bernard, a bullmastiff, a Great Dane, and a Bernese mountain dog like Waggy. It’s a little disconcerting to see big, powerful dogs like this being fussed over; it would be like watching someone apply eye shadow and lipstick to a middle linebacker.
“These are called working dogs,” says Barb, but the truth is, I don’t think any of them have worked a day in their collective lives. I’m feeling a little envious.
Barb brings us to her own cubicle, where her assistant from the doggy day care business is fussing over Barb’s dog, an Australian shepherd. Barb introduces us to her assistant, Carrie, and then says, “This is Crosby. Isn’t he beautiful?”
“Crosby?”
She nods. “Yes. My grandfather was a huge Bing Crosby fan. He used to play his records when I came over in the hope that I would stop listening to ‘hippie music.’ I’ve been naming dogs Crosby in his honor for as long as I can remember.”
“Can we pet him?” Laurie asks.
“Sure.”
Laurie and I do that for a few minutes, and then back off so that Carrie and Barb can finish prepping Crosby. Barb says that the dogs really enjoy this, but you’d never know it. They pretty much just sit there impassively. If Waggy ever had to remain this calm, he’d commit doggy suicide.
When the time comes we go out with Barb into the main ring for the competition. It is as bewildering as anything I’ve ever seen. There is constant motion, owners moving their dogs around the ring when competing and into position when not competing. And all spare time is spent making sure their hair hasn’t gotten mussed in any way.
Everything is done strictly to time, and people are expected to have their dogs exactly where they should be at exactly the time they should be there. It’s all run by someone called a ring steward, which is dog show language for Kommandant. No one messes with the ring steward.
It only takes about three or four minutes for me to get bored with this, and I’m about to suggest to Laurie that we take off when I hear a voice. “Andy Carpenter, right? I heard you were here.”
Standing in front of me holding out his hand is a very, very large man, who must be carrying 320 pounds on a six-foot frame. Everything about him is oversize. His nose is fat; his ears are fat. If he turned around I would expect to see taillights.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I shake his hand. “Have we met?”
“We have now. I’m Charles Robinson. Actually, I’m about to fight you in court.” He says this in a matter-of-fact, fairly cheery manner.
“So you are.”
“I love showing dogs; it’s almost as much fun as golf. My entry for today is over there.” He points in the general direction of about a thousand dogs. “Name’s Tevye.”
When I don’t say anything, he says, “You know, from Fiddler on the Roof. I always liked that song, ‘If I Were a Rich Man.’ ” He laughs at his own joke a little too loudly. Robinson seems relentlessly upbeat and garrulous, and sounds a lot like Santa Claus, without the ho, ho, ho. “But between you and me, I don’t think he’s going to win.”
“Don’t you have to be with him?”
“Nah, I’ve got people who do that.” He leans in to confide that he wouldn’t know what to do anyway, and then goes on to ask, “What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?”
“Probably eating Taco Bell at my desk.”
He fake-laughs. “Well, I’ll do you one better. Meet me at my club. You play golf?”
“No.”
“Smart man. If I had all the time I spent on golf back, I could have saved the world. Come on, maybe we can talk this through and avoid going to court.”
I have no desire to have lunch with this guy, especially with the trial date almost upon us. But I have even less desire to spend my time in court on the custody issue, and I can’t afford to have Waggy unprotected. So I agree to have lunch with Robinson at his club, which is located in Alpine, about twenty minutes from my house, and he goes back to watching Tevye.
Laurie and I say our good-byes to Barb and wish her luck. On the way home, Laurie says, “So if not for you, Waggy would be doing that?”
I laugh. “Waggy in that ring. Now, that would be worth the price of admission.”
I DON’T PLAY GOLF, I don’t watch golf, and I don’t get golf.
I just can’t get interested in anything that requires a “tee time.” Even if I wanted to play, if I went for a four-hour walk on the grass without taking Tara, she would turn me into a giant steak bone.
Everything about golf is grossly oversize. First of all, it takes forever. People drive to a club, get dressed, play eighteen holes, and then spend more time talking about it than it took to play. It’s a full day’s operation; I can watch six college basketball games in that time, and drink beer while I’m doing it.
And the space these golf courses occupy is unbelievable. The one I am driving along now, the one at Charles Robinson’s club, is endless. If this amount of land were in a normal city, it would have four congressmen.
The idea of taking turns swinging a stick every ten minutes has no appeal for me. One of the reasons, I think, is that I prefer games where defense can be played. Football, basketball, baseball, even pool, all include attempts to prevent the opposition from scoring. Golf doesn’t, and that for me is crucial. It’s probably why I became a defense attorney. I don’t like golf, or swimming, or figure skating, or anything else in which defense isn’t a major factor.
As I’m handing my car off to the valet guy, I see Robert Jacoby standing in front of the club, waiting for his car. I’m not surprised he’s here; Walter Timmerman was also a member, and Jacoby’s e-mail had mentioned that they golfed together.
He waves to me and I just wave back. If I go over to him I’ll start talking about the DNA e-mail again, and neither of us would be in the mood for that. When the valet guy gives him his keys he calls him Mr. Jacoby, and he responds, “Thanks, Tim,” so I assume he’s a member here.
If Charles Robinson has been playing a lot of golf, he’s been using a cart. When I enter the dining room he is sitting at a corner table, and he certainly looks to be in his natural habitat.
He sees me from across the room and waves me to the table. He doesn’t get up to greet me, understandable since to do so a crane would have to be brought over.
He tells me how delighted he is that I could join him, in the same garrulous way he talked at the dog show. He does this with his mouth full and chewing, and I notice that there are already enough bread crumbs on his plate for Tara to bury a bone in.
A waiter instantly appears and takes our orders. I get a chicken Caesar salad, while Robinson orders veal parmigiana with a side of pasta. The food comes quickly, and we mostly make small talk while we eat. I’ve got a feeling that in Robinson’s case, everything takes a backseat to eating.
Once the plates have been cleared, he gets down to the reason he summoned me. “So you’ve got your hands full, huh?” he asks.
“You mean with the dog?”
“Hell, no, I mean with the case. The way I hear it your client is in deep trouble.”
“Then I hope you haven’t gotten any jury duty notices lately.”
He laughs far too loudly. Nobody at nearby tables looks over, so I suspect this is not an unusual event.
“Truth is, I know Steven. He used to call me Uncle Charlie. Back in the day. Tough situation, especially if he did it.”
There doesn’t seem to be a question in there, so I don’t bother answering.
“You think you’re going to get him off?” he asks.
“I think justice will prevail.”
Robinson laughs again. “Uh-oh. Sounds like you really got a problem. So let’s talk about the dog, what’s his name again?”