A Dog's Ransom in Taco Town?

 

A gang of "dognappers" in Taco Town, Atlanta? Unbelievable, but it had to get checked out, and the only shamus-at-scene was yours truly, the Male Trailing Spouse. 

The day started normal enough when I bumped into a comely blonde in a bikini. But lemme paint you a picture: looks like Anne Heche, drinks like Zelda Fitzgerald, gardens like Percy Thrower. A southern belle. From Louisiana, no less. A Bayou Queen? Perhaps. But I hadn't the time to glean her social extraction as the doxy was in a flood of tears. The Male Trailing Spouse paused on his knight's quest (buying fags at the local petrol station) to attend to her tale of woe. Help! Help! She cried. Was it me? No. Her dog was missing. But there was more: did the nurses at the local old folks home nick it?  

High on a mind-bending combination of drink, drugs and antidepressants, the wench suspected a ring of "dognappers" run out of the old folks home on Edward Woodward Street. "There's big money," she insisted. "My neighbor paid $8000 for the safe return of their dog." Sadistic dognappers lurking behind the white picket fences and magnolias of Taco Town? Maybe the blonde had taken too much cocaine? I couldn't figure it out; so I just listened. Maybe we were turning into characters from an old Patricia Highsmith novel? What obscurity am I referring to? Her nasty novel from 1972, A Dog's Ransom. 

But what about them dognappers? The mind boggled. Ruminated. The blonde who resembled Anne Heche kept going WAWK WAWK WAWK. Was it a nasty neighbor? An angry ex with a psycho grudge? A group of nurses in the local old folks home doing it to make an easy $? An opportunist passing by in a motor vehicle? This was a three-bong problem for Sherlock Holmes...

In ye olden days, much like the fictional 'tec, Ellery Queen, I'd call on the services of the Old Man to assist on the case. The Old Man, however, is indisposed but advising Number Two Son in bits-and-bobs from the hereafter (that's how schizophrenia sounds to me.) Motive. Means. Opportunity. It was all up-in-the-air and the only source of information was the soused-up neighbor who resembled Anne Heche. In lieu of any leads on the case, it was time to revisit Highsmith's psychological thriller.   

Plot minus spoilers: a social outcast in New York sends poison pen letters to random people whom he dislikes, culminating in a dognapping scheme and a $1000 ransom. The dog's owners, Ed and Greta Reynolds (no relation), can't fathom a motive, nor identify an individual responsible for this sinister act. The plods seem ambivalent about pursuing the matter, until rookie patrolman Clarence Duhammel gets word. This is an unusual crime. University educated Clarence see's a chance to flex his intellect, find the dognapper and get in with the wealthy poshos. It's better than walking the beat. 

After 2-days on the case, he manages to find the perp who nabbed Lisa the French poodle: Kenneth Rowajinski. Alas, Rowajinski is a cunning rat. He manages to turn the tables on Clarence and implicate him in the dognapping. Unpopular in the force, the rookie must now contend with another psycho, albeit one from his own department, Manzoni, a beat cop who wants to prove that Clarence is dirty.  

But, folks, don't feel too sorry for Clarence the social climbing cop. In Highsmith's tale everyone is a flawed construct. Nobody is particularly likeable. And Clarence? Just another bad actor. He's aloof. Supercilious. And not just with his brother cops. He has more of a "bond' with Ed and Greta Reynolds, the uncomfortable surrogates, than he does with own flesh and blood parents. 

The plot twists when Clarence commits a crime. After harassing Clarence's family and girlfriend, nasty cop Manzoni has the green-light to go after him. Poor Clarence. He turns to his nearest and dearest. But his girlfriend, Marilyn, and the Reynolds', don't believe him and won't help.  And, what had started out as an off-beat crime novel, soon turns into a satire about class conflict and the big city food chain. And the catalyst? The kidnapping of a poodle, a "snob dog". You turn the pages of this caustic tale, hoping for some glimmer, but there is none. There are no heroes or villains. Just misanthropes and other folks just like us. Once described as "the poet of apprehension" by Graham Greene, Highsmith holds a mirror up to the reader, and that's what makes this old gem all the more polished. 

Literary parallels aside, let's get back to the alleged dognapping of the blonde's dog. What makes someone, or some group of persons, dognap?  In Atlanta, just like the dame said, it-is-a-big-business. Hot dogs go for big bucks. Take the French bulldog. This pooch is the dognappers breed of choice and there is a healthy black market for such. And, after the pandemic, demand has never been higher on Craigslist (where stolen dogs usually turn up in the USA.)

But what about the perp or perps? Unlike the dastardly dognapper of Highsmith's tale, they need not be a social misfit out to sow confusion. Their motivation is monetary and they seem to work in organized teams. But why snatch this pooch?  It was a scruffy looking chick's dog. A rat on a chain. The kind of breed only a complete and utter ditz would go bonkers for. Who would pay $8000 smackeroos for that? Not me.         

And dognapping is not a new phenomenon in western society. Lady Gaga aside, one example from Victorian England involving the poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning (wife of Robert) comes to mind. She was the victim of a dognapping ring on three separate occasions. The third ransom for Flush, her beloved cocker spaniel, was too costly, and so Browning ventured into "the obscure streets" of Shoreditch in London's East End to locate the gang. She was successful and got her dog back at the poet's rate. It never got tea leafed again.   

   

In the real world and in the realms of fiction, the crime can have a devastating effect on its victim. As to here, the blonde in the bikini found her dog dead in a neighbor's yard, savaged by said neighbor's dog ("a pound mix breed mutt".) The blonde was devastated. So was I. This was the end of the case, and I was only just getting started. No dognappers from the old folks home. No ransom note. No angry ex to KO. No passer-by to ID and take down. Nope. Mauled to death by a friendly neighbor's pound mutt. "This scenario never occurred to me," said the blonde, heading off in the direction of the local bar. Case closed.