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ruckus this time. Instead, I said to Efram, “You’ve seen the animals. Now, get out of here, Efram.”
    Auspiciously, Pete Engersol came out of our center building just then with a leash in his hands. An energetic senior citizen, he was one of the all-around assistants who cleaned enclosures, fed animals, and did whatever not-too-physical labor was required. “Hi, Lauren and Efram,” he called over the remaining barks. I waved, glad to see someone else around but wishing it was some big, burly, younger guy acting as my Superman. Or anyone with handcuffs and authority to arrest Efram for trespassing.
    Too bad Matt Kingston wasn’t around. I’d have to invite him for a visit here one day soon.
    As Pete headed for the rear of the shelter area, Efram stood there without answering me, his arms crossed, clearly intending to hang out here longer no matter what I said.
    “Can I walk a few of the dogs today?” he asked. “Like I said, I want things to go back to normal.”
    “That’s impossible.” Keeping my voice calm was becoming more of an effort. “You’re not welcome even to be here, let alone to get any closer to the animals. Get out, Efram.” This was getting damned repetitious, for all the good it did. I felt ineffectual, like a Chihuahua yapping at a hungry coyote, and I hated the feeling. Even worse, my fear, rational or not, was elevating as if I was one of those small dogs facing a skulking predator.
    “I told you I didn’t do anything wrong.” Efram’s voice was suddenly raised as if to combat the now nearly nonexistent ruckus from the nearby dogs. His anger seemed barely in check, and I glanced around, glad to see a couple of pit bull mixes nearby that, if necessary, I could let loose. These two were sweethearts, but with the breed’s reputation of violence, they might scare Efram into backing off.
    Or not, since he seemed to be gearing up to start his own reputation of violence.
    “That may be,” I said, forcing my voice to sound more angry than afraid—even though the two emotions vied for priority. “But I couldn’t help watching the news over the past few days. The neighbor who claims to have called in the complaint to Animal Services about the puppy mill in the first place has said in interviews that she knows the owners, the Shaheens, and that she saw someone else throwing the puppies into the storm drain. Someone in shadows, whose description could be yours. The Shaheens have been interviewed, too. They’re not saying much, but they seem pretty upset that someone—not them, though they haven’t identified the culprit to the media—dared to throw pups into the drain, like they were trash, not beloved animals.”
    Strange, that the Shaheens seemed to give a damn about the mistreated offspring they’d bred into the world—even if it might only be because they saw dollar signs floating in the storm drain instead of puppies.
    “Not me. I want the money you and Dante promised me, Lauren, and I’m willing to work for it.”
    Ah. This had to be the crux of his demands, his real reason for coming here. “I’ll talk to Dante about it again,” I responded civilly, although I already knew the answer—the same one I’d gladly hurl into Efram’s face now if he weren’t so menacing. Including a demand that he pay back all the money he hadn’t really earned. But that could come later, when I wasn’t alone with this vile man. “I really think you’d better leave now, though, till all this is resolved.”
    I turned and started walking back toward the entrance gate, my hand outstretched in invitation to Efram to go through it—permanently.
    He grabbed my arm and twisted it. “No way, bitch. I want my money.”
    Ignoring the pain that speared through my arm, I wrested it away. “That’s enough, Efram. Get the hell out of here, immediately.” I still couldn’t force him to do anything, but I’d shouted so loudly that the dogs all started barking again—and my voice was even more