The man studies the dogs. He scratches their heads with his thick fingers, like a man who has been around animals, not like the urban detective he normally plays. He does not seem a bit afraid of them. He returns to Buster and sets his cheek against her ear and scratches firmly under her neck.

This is a nice one.

Tomas nods.

A lovely animal, the man says.

She’s got good genes. Johan has them too.

The man purses his lips and nods to himself thoughtfully. He’s a good dog, he agrees. He returns to Buster and she comes up and sets her side against him. But this one’s better.

Tomas leans a hip against the pool table.

Johan is younger.

The mother’s friendly.

Johan is too, my brother adds. He’s just nervous now.

The man sets his cue stick on the carpet, gripping it upright like a staff, and his thumb rubs the tip. His thumb comes off, covered by green chalk. He looks firmly at my brother. Look. I grew up on a farm in Georgia. We had dogs like this one—American bulldogs. They’re great guard dogs, but they aren’t German. So don’t try conning me about animals.

The man’s thumb stops moving, very still on the tip, and his face is pushed close to my brother’s, and though I can tell this bothers Tomas, he tries not to show it, and he does not lean back.

I’m not trying to con you, mister.

Just because I live in Brentwood doesn’t mean I haven’t been around the block. We used to hunt with hounds. Big yellow-eyed beasts. They could chew up a bear, clobber it down with a jaw. But I know these American bulldogs well, and they’re good dogs. Once upon a time they used to kill bulls for British audiences until the nineteenth century when the government there got soft and made it illegal. He shakes his head, the pool cue in his hand now like a rifle. Then they got to figure out what to do with the dogs. They bred some of them into what’s now your cute little condo brat English bulldog, and others they shipped over to the Unites States south where some rednecks taught them a few tricks. Did a pretty good job, I’d say. But they haven’t been to Germany as far as I know.

I never told you they came from Germany, Tomas lies. I didn’t mean to give you that impression. I only meant that I train them with German techniques.

Oh yeah, I know.

The man uprights his cue stick and chalks it and walks up and leans over the table, aiming, and slams the cue ball into another. They fly about the table. Then he returns and stares at Tomas again.