Cliff Walk: A Liam Mulligan Novel by Bruce DeSilva

Administrative Assistant.” I made her as one of the seven types of blondes Raymond Chandler described in The Long Goodbye: the perky little doll who’s everybody’s pal and has learned enough martial arts to throw a truck driver over her shoulder.
    At five in the afternoon, I was loitering on Waterman when she popped out of the building and elbowed her way through the picketers. They howled at her—something about a she-devil, but I didn’t catch all of it. She ignored them, dashed across the street, and turned north on Thayer. Accosting her on the sidewalk didn’t seem like the best idea, so I trailed behind her on the College Hill business strip as she strode past fast-food joints, copy centers, the Brown University Bookstore, and several bars. I was hoping she’d pop into one of the student watering holes so I could follow her in and strike up a conversation. Instead, she walked six blocks, turned left on Keene Street, and disappeared into a three-story Victorian that had been broken up into student apartments.
    I was standing on the sidewalk, contemplating the wisdom of knocking on her door, when she popped back out with a Bernese mountain dog on a leash. He was just a pup, maybe nine months old, but he was already closing in on a hundred pounds. He took one look at me, broke into a doggie grin, and bounded straight for me. “Brady, no!” she shouted, but Brady wasn’t listening. He kept coming, ears and big pink tongue flopping. She outweighed him, but not by much, and he was a lot stronger. He dragged her right to me. Good doggie. I squatted on my heels to meet him at his level. He draped his front paws over my shoulders and worked that tongue into my ear.
    “Brady!” she said again, and tugged on the leash with no discernible effect.
    “He can’t help himself,” I said. “Dogs and women love me.”
    I peeled Brady’s paws from my shoulders and stood. He nuzzled my leg, so I reached down and rubbed him behind the ears.
    “I’m so sorry,” she said.
    “No need to apologize. He’s a magnificent dog.”
    “Thank you. I just wish he had better manners.”
    “He’s about nine months old, right?”
    “Nearly ten.”
    “How were your manners when you were ten months old?”
    “I see what you mean,” she said, and stuck out a hand for me to shake. “I’m Peggi Simmons. You’ve already met my Brady.”
    “Named after Tom Brady?”
    “How’d ya guess?”
    “Half the dogs in Rhode Island are named after Patriots, Red Sox, or Celtics players,” I said. “A lot of the children, too. By the way, my name is Mulligan. I’m a reporter for the Dispatch . And you’re Charles Wayne’s secretary.”
    “How do you know that ?”
    “Because I’m a reporter for the Dispatch . We reporters know all kinds of stuff.”
    “Including how to get Brady to stop pulling me down the street on his walks?”
    “Sure,” I said. “Hand me the leash.”
    She did, and we strolled together on the sidewalk.
    Brady walked nicely for ten yards or so. Then he spotted a kid on a bicycle and bolted, nearly jerking the leash from my grip. I pulled hard on it, freezing him in place. Brady tugged harder. When that didn’t work, he reared on his hind legs like a spooked horse. I held on tight, cut in front of him, and pointed at my nose.
    “Brady, look at me,” I said. Brady looked. “Brady, sit.” He sat. I held my hand, palm out, in front of his face and said, “Brady, stay.” He stayed. I kept him sitting there for twenty seconds. Then I gave him a little more leash, said, “Okay,” and started walking.
    “Brady wants to be in motion,” I said. “We have to teach him that walking is his reward for not pulling.”
    The dog trotted along by my side for a few yards. Then he spotted a woman pushing a baby carriage and bolted again. I reined him in and made him sit. After we repeated the routine a dozen times, Brady got the idea and stopped pulling.
    “Smart dog,” I said. “Now let’s see how he does when