Payroll by William James Johnson Chapter 1

A brilliant sun seared the blacktop outside the compound in the lazy Florida town of Holmesville. Two days and two nights of hard driving had brought Stan Zylkowski here from his small army station, Camp Riel, in southern Saskatchewan. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he looked up at the sign mounted on the eight foot chain link fence, "Drug Enforcement Agency, Dog Training School." He had been corresponding with Tyrell Boomer, Director of DTS, for several weeks before deciding to come south. To keep his negotiations secret, he used the alias Stanley Howard in his letters, and had sent them from a former address in Winnipeg, where a middle aged landlady unknowingly acted as a go-between.
On leave from his unit, he made sure no one knew where he was going. Stan was the ultimate schemer, who believed attention to detail ensured his chances of success. He prided himself on always being one step ahead of everyone else. This didn't make him very popular with his army buddies. It was unfortunate the Army failed to recognize his organizing talents before he went bad.
Checking in with the receptionist, he sat in the comfortable air conditioned waiting room, studying the collection of framed photographs and letters of commendation on the many distinguished canine graduates of this famous school. An overweight couple in Hawaiian shirts smiled when their eyes met. Stan returned the smile, wondering what they would have said if they had known his real reason for being there. Like Stan, many people were eager to acquire a DTS graduate for special duty. Tyrell Boomer's last letter was filled with excitement when he told Stan
he felt he had just the right dog for him.
"Mr. Howard?" asked a uniformed employee.
"Yes. How do you do? said Stan extending his hand.
"Ernie Witt. The chief asked me to look after you sir."
"Thanks Ernie. Please call me Stan."
"Right. Come along Stan. Let me introduce you to Sandy. He's the one we wrote you about."
The two men left the comfort of the lounge to go into the stifling heat of the yard.
"How do you guys stand this humidity?"
"You gotta be born in it I guess. Biggest problem with Florida in the summer, humidity, and thunderstorms."
"You called the dog Sandy?"
"That's right. Helluva smart animal. Been working with DEA for eight years."
"Then why are they getting rid of him?"
"Not getting rid of him exactly. We're tryin' to find a good home for him, if you know what I mean."
"Can't he do the job anymore?"
"Oh sure. But Sandy was wounded in a drug raid in the Everglades, and the poor guy can't get around as fast as we like."
In a cage, near the end of the compound, Stan saw a handsome Doberman, black and reddish
brown. The dog's ears stiffened as they approached and his tongue and tail moved vigorously. Stan was surprised he was not barking.
"Doesn't make much noise."
"Doesn't have to. Give him a reason, and Sandy would be all over you. Some dogs are like that. Barking's not his main suit."
"Beautiful looking animal."
"Yeah. He's one of my favourites. Gonna miss old Sandy. What did you say you needed him for?"
"Guard dog. Got a small electronics lab up north. Been busted into twice already. Time I got myself a partner."
"They don't come any better."
Ernie opened the gate and the two went in. The dog sat smartly, examining this newcomer,
his front feet planted firmly, his nostrils flaring.
"Good boy Sandy," said Ernie, stroking his shiny coat. "This is Mr. Howard. He's gonna take you home."
"Hi Sandy. How are you old fellow?"
Stan extended his open hand for the dog to sniff. Sandy licked his hand and without being asked, put out his right paw. Stan eagerly grabbed it, and the stubby tail began to move like a scanning radar.
"Jeez! I think he likes me."
"Sure does. That's why we like our clients to come here and meet our dogs. We never let our dogs go to a home where he's gonna be abused. I'd say it looks to me like you got that partner you've been wanting."
"I'm surprised he's a Doberman. I thought DEA used only Shepherds or Labs".
"We try 'em all. Some make it. Some don't. The training takes three months. Then the animal has to adapt to the specific agency where he's needed."
"How good are they on the job?"
"Fantastic. Sandy can spot a coke or pothead at fifty feet. He's had a helluva good record. Didn't you see his letter of commendation in the lounge?"
"Must've missed it."
"Yeah. The mayor of Key Biscayne sent it. Sandy helped us bust a dope ring run by a group of Hells Angels. Believe me, you're gettin' one of the best animals I've ever seen come through here. If he hadn't been wounded, Sandy would still be on the front line."
"Where was he shot?"
"Back here,on the left flank. You'll notice how he limps when he walks."
The dog winced when he touched him on the old wound. Then he bared his teeth and gave a menacing growl deep in his powerful chest.
"Jeez! Is it safe to be alone with him?"
"No problem. Just don't touch his old sore. You know how you'd feel if someone did that to you. I promise you. Sandy is safe. You'll get along real good. I just feel it."
"I sure like the looks of him. Is there anything else I should know about him?"
"Like what?"
"Shots and stuff like that. You know medical stuff."
"He's had all his shots. All our dogs get the best medical treatment. He has to have his shots if you expect to take him back to Canada. The vet will give you all his records."
"And that's it?"
"One other thing maybe."
"Oh! And what might that be?"
"See all those mounds in that open yard area."
"Yeah. What about them?"
"That's some of Sandy's work. The mutt has a nasty habit we have never been able to change. Sandy likes to bury things. He's always diggin' holes and puttin' things in them. I don't know why, but if that's gonna be a problem for you, I thought you should know."
"Naw. As you say, no problem. And that's all I've got to worry about."
"Far as I know. Treat him with kindness, and you'll have the best guard dog money can buy."
"I've been wondering when we would get around to that."
"A dog like Sandy, in perfect condition, would bring in two grand easily."
"Wow! That's too rich for me."
"I said in perfect condition. We don't try to put anything over on our customers. The only dogs we have for sale are those who are beyond their working peak, or have been injured. Me and Boomer discussed what we thought would be a fair price for him, and we feel we've got to get two hundred dollars."
"That's more like it. Two hundred dollars is a good deal for such a beautiful partner. Let's go back to the office and sign the papers."
By the time they headed north in Stan's sport convertible, an early afternoon thunderstorm was in the making. The dog enjoyed wind in his face, and occasionally glanced over at his new owner, who was more than pleased with his handsome companion. The sky ahead of them became heavily overcast. A bolt of lightening, followed by an horrendous rumbling startled Stan momentarily. Pulling over to the side of the road. He put the top up, fastening it just in time. There was a sudden deluge as a tropical storm, typical of summer in Florida, pelted the fabric. The sky split and a wide streak of silver opened the dark space on the horizon. The dog looked over at him and let out a low, friendly growl, then extended his paw to Stan.
"I don't like storms either old fellow. We'll wait until things let up a bit."
Sandy dropped his head on Stan's lap and closed his eyes. Looking down at the peaceful animal he thought about all those things which had led up to his Florida trip, the small farm house about eight miles from his army base, his buddy Wayne Tilly, and most of all what happened on a country road west of Winnipeg, when they were staying at Uncle Henry's farm after going to cousin Mary's wedding.
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