The Black Marble Read Online Free Page B

Skinner.”
    Then Philo Skinner turned his critical eye back to the Dandie Dinmont and startled the girl by flashing the straight razor so quickly in the face of the terrier. She was glad she hadn’t gasped. He was mercurial, but with good cause. Philo Skinner was a top terrier man on the West Coast. In the past six years he had big wins at Madison Square Garden, Chicago International and Beverly Hills. With a Lakeland, a Kerry blue and a Dandie. The girl knew that if she could survive his temperamental eruptions, like the one earlier in the evening when she left a tasselinches from the bottom of the ear leather in a Bedlington terrier (he measured it), and if she could get used to never being paid on time and having a few “clerical errors” in her paycheck (always errors which made her check short ), and if she could repel his sporadic sexual advances, well, Philo Skinner was a champion dog handler. A champion. And she could learn.
    â€œDon’t ever let me see you trying this,” Philo Skinner said, holding the Dandie firmly under the chin with the long fingers of his left hand while the straight razor in his right stripped the nose from the top to the tip. The Dandie’s white topknot was electric from back-combing.
    â€œI’d be scared to death to do that,” the girl said. “Those barber razors are scary.”
    â€œWell, careless people can misuse a stripping knife as well. You ever hurt an animal here and you’ll find your little fanny out in the street.”
    He deliberately let his gaze drop to her little fanny, which was pointed up nicely through the gap in her white smock as she leaned across the grooming table.
    â€œI’ll be real careful always, Mr. Skinner,” she said.
    â€œNever use the knife when working under the eyes,” he said, looking back to the patient little terrier. “Roll the finger and thumb together the way the hair grows. See? How old are you, Pattie Mae?”
    â€œI’m nineteen, Mr. Skinner,” the girl said, marveling at those darting, tobacco-stained fingers.
    He plucked the eyes clean, even to the lashes. He was so expert and quick the dog almost dozed through it.
    â€œCan you guess how old I am, Pattie Mae?” he asked, releasing the dog’s chin and stroking the little animal behind the ears.
    Oh, shit! She hated it when these old guys started that crap. It was impossible for her to guess the age of anybody over thirty let alone an old turkey like Mr. Skinner. His dyed black hair was all thin and scraggly. And he was all wrinkly around his droopy eyes and mouth. And those crappy gold chains around his neck and those Dacron leisure suits didn’t fool nobody. Shit! Those nylon shirts open clear to his belly button, she could see the gray hairs all over his bony old chest! He could play all the Elton John tapes he wanted to, he was still just an old fart.
    â€œI’d say you’re about forty, Mr. Skinner,” she lied.
    â€œNot too good a guess, Pattie Mae,” he grinned, teeth yellowed from three packs of Camels a day. “I’m fifty-two years old.”
    â€œReally!” the girl said. “I’d never …”
    â€œYou know, Pattie Mae, handlers are like jockeys. An owner can’t show a dog in real competition any more than a horse owner can ride his horse. I’m a jockey and I can ride , baby. I can ride. ”
    â€œUh-huh,” the girl said, mesmerized by his fleet plucking gentle fingers.
    â€œI’m glad you came to me to learn. I can teach you lots a things. You’re talented. It takes much more talent to show little dogs. You like the terriers, don’t you?”
    â€œYes, I love them, Mr. Skinner.”
    Philo Skinner was still stripping. Fingers rolling, kneading, plucking, stripping. The dog sighed luxuriously. “Be glad you don’t handle poodles. All those fag handlers. No action for a young thing like you. It’s tough enough to