Total Immunity by Robert Ward

on ‘Hold On’? Was it Sam or Dave?”
    â€œSam,” Jack said.
    â€œRight, of course. Did you know they hated each other? Very sad. The Soul Men hated each other. That makes me sick to my stomach. Doesn’t it make you sick, Mr. Toodles?”
    The dog gave a sharp little bark and licked Fred J. Feeney, Crimefighter, on the chin.
    â€œAnyway, I looked out, and this big black man was driving by in one of those big cars . . . what do they call them?”
    â€œPimpmobiles?” Oscar suggested.
    â€œYes, that’s it. A great big pimpmobile. Not very ‘canyon’ at all. I mean, we have weirdos, but pimps are sooo South Central. At least that kind of pimp. If we had a pimp, it would be more like a canyon pimp, a guy who wears Levi’s and T-shirts and eats veggies, and does all his pimping on a cell phone, and his car would be a hybrid. Hybrid pimps, I love that. Do you love that, Mr. Toodles?”
    â€œYeah,” Jack said. “He loves it. Did you get a look at the guy’s face?”
    â€œYes, I did. Very scary. Big and pimp-ugly. Though I am not saying that because he is black. People up here in the canyon are not racist. But just the same, he was ugly as homemade sin. But not because he was black . . . you know what I mean?”
    â€œYeah,” Jack said. “I got it. Hey, listen, Freddy, you think you could recognize this guy again if we showed you a picture of him?”
    Suddenly Fred J. Feeney went from his speed-rapping self back into the scared little guy who’d answered the door.
    â€œBut that would mean getting involved,” he said. “That might put Mr. Toodles and myself at risk. I don’t know about that.”
    â€œYou want to help solve the case, though, don’t you?” Oscar said.
    â€œYes, of course,” Feeney said, squeezing Mr. Toodles like a child squeezing her doll. “But what if that guy found out I identified him. I remember an episode of
The Shield
where a guy sees a murder and gang members stick his head on an electric stove! Oh, awwwwful!”
    â€œDon’t worry,” Jack lied. “The guy will have no idea who identified him.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œSure I’m sure,” Jack said.
    â€œWell, when would we go over the . . . what are they called . . . mug shots?”
    â€œHow about right now?” Jack said.
    â€œNow? Right now? This second? Well, how do we feel about that, Mr. Toodles?”
    He put his ear down next to the terrier’s mouth. Mr. Toodles licked his lobe. Feeney looked up, smiling.
    â€œMr. Toodles says he’s up for it. So, I guess so. But before we go, he reminded me that I have to feed him.”
    He patted the dog and smiled. Toodles licked him again.
    â€œNo problem,” Jack said. “You go right ahead and feed Mr. Toodles, then we’ll all go down to headquarters together. Hey, one question though: What’s with Mr. T’s bikini?”
    Feeney smiled as if he was awaiting that very question.
    â€œWell, the thing is, Toodles loves to swim, but naked doesn’t work for him. He’s a very modest animal. Hence the suit.”
    â€œMakes sense to me,” Oscar said.
    â€œYeah, got it,” Jack said.
    â€œI’ll be right back,” Feeney said. “I just gotta grind up his filet mignon.”
    As Jack and Oscar drove up to the crowded parking lot of the FBI Building, Fred J. Feeney kept up a consistent chatter with his dog, Toodles.
    â€œLook at the building, Toodles,” he said. “Look at all the people. Some are agents and some are criminals. Isn’t that right, Mr. Toodles?”
    And some are raving fucking maniacs who talk to their fucking dog as if he was a hand puppet, Jack thought.
    He quickly parked the car in a space about five hundred yards away from the back entrance, and then had to wait while Feeney commented on every single person who came by.
    â€œLook at that funny man,”