All Cash

By Gary Davison

I knocked. A man opened the door.

“Sorry to bother,” I said. “I have a missing…”

“Shhhhhh,” he said, pulling me inside. “You’ve come to the right place.”

Pouring two shots of whiskey, he added, “I’ll find your missing person for a grand.”

“Uhhh…it’s my son’s dog that’s missing, and I just wanted to leave a flyer.”

His smile evaporated.

“Canis lupus familiaris? That’s a problem. That’ll cost two grand,” he said, handing me the whiskey. “They’re treacherous.”

“It’s a beagle puppy,” I said.

“That’s even worse. Underneath the cuteness and puppy breath is El Diablo—three thousand—all cash.”