It was an old-fashioned junkyard. A few cars, some refrigerators and stoves. There were boxes, areas, and entire aisles that specialized. One little canvas-covered walkway had only pants. Old jeans, corduroy, khakis, discarded slacks done in wool, nylon, cotton, and even silk. There was a kitchenware corridor with cast-iron pots, chipped but otherwise fine china, plastic ware, cutlery, and cooking utensils from measuring cups to garlic presses. There was even a little lane that hoarded discarded electronics. There you could find electric lamps, toasters, flashlights, and a whole bin filled with tiny defunct transistor and crystal radios. These organized places and containers were Cafkin’s little store. Farther on, beyond the sorted materials, tarp-covered junk was piled high with no particular order imposed.

Mouse led me down a curved pathway dimly lit by a string of low-watt bulbs hanging from whatever the electrician could find to tack on to. It was a dark night and the thought of canine fangs had me on edge.

We turned a sharp corner defined by the sleek side of a once-orange tractor that teetered by itself near the back fence.

That’s when the dogs started to bark and howl, bay and snarl.

To my shame I jumped back and went for the .38 in my pocket.

“Easy, what’s wrong with you, man? If they didn’t jump us at the gate you know they not doin’ they job. So they prob’ly locked up.”

Probably was the word I chose to highlight, finger on the trigger.

Then I saw the kennel with its high fence. Two of the three mongrels were bouncing off the wire barrier in between canine exhortations. The third dog just stood there growling, showing its most prominent teeth.

Next to the dog enclosure was a tin shack that abutted the wall of a larger structure. It could have been an office, bedroom, or outhouse.

“Hey, boy. Hey, boy.” Mouse was talking to the enraged dogs. “Here, look what I got for ya.”

From the greasy paper bag he pulled three steaks. With these he enticed the junkyard guardians until there was almost no complaint whatsoever.

“You just pulled some steak out your ass?” I asked.

“Naw, man. I got these from Arnold, the cook over at the Eye. Had him take three rib eyes cooked rare out to my car.”

“We go in here?” I asked him.

Ray walked up to the hatch that had been cut into the side of the tin shack.

He slammed on it mightily and then called out, “Alonzo! Hey, Griggs!”

One of the dogs barked a little but soon gave up.

Mouse tested the door handle.

“Do’s unlocked.”

I reached forward and pulled the portal open.

“Anybody in here?” I called. “Alonzo?”