Bentley Driver, Puppy Thief

Tuesday

When I opened the front door to see the beaming fizzog of my old friend Bentley Driver on the other side — a face I’d not seen in half a year — my immediate instinct was to pat my trouser pockets to ensure my wallet was in situ. Bentley gives off such an aura of shiftiness those in his company are on high alert over their possessions.

Bentley and I go back a long way. We went to school together and were inseparable pals for years. As six-year-olds, we had our first fight in my gran’s garden, and in our teens, we shared cigarettes behind the bike sheds at school. On leaving school, we took different jobs, and our paths diverged, but they would cross again sporadically as the years passed.

While I’m not entirely innocent — my incursions from the straight and narrow have been occasional and minor — Bentley is a habitual crook who involves himself in all manner of dodgy schemes, and who counts among his associates villains that would be at home within the pages of Oliver Twist. You might say we’re a council estate representation of Jamal and Salim, brothers in the film Slumdog Millionaire.

If you were to count the number of pies Bentley habitually has a finger in, you’d need to include half a dozen of his toes in the total. He deals in illicit goods, from hijacked hooch to purloined pet food. Over the years, Bentley has soft-soaped me into involvement in his nefarious activities on more occasions than I’d care to reveal. My participation is partly born of naivety but is mainly due to him being a silver-tongued scoundrel.

Three years ago, following the collapse of my marriage, I moved in as Bentley’s lodger, and I got a closer look at his lifestyle. With undesirable types calling at all hours and the police at the front door more times than the postman, my tenancy lasted barely a month. Now, he’s at my front door, the proverbial bad penny.

“Hello, old mate,” he said, intimating a desire to enter by raising his right leg. I yielded, and he followed me into the kitchen where I’d been preparing coffee.

“Perfect timing,” he said with a nod to the cafeteria, “in case you’ve forgotten, it’s black with one sugar.”

“When did you get out?” I said, grabbing a cup from a hook.

“Two weeks ago. I’ve been staying with our Alice.”

“And how was prison?”

“Oh, you know,” he said casually, “austere but tolerable.” Then, after a moment’s reflection, “Useless brief.”

“Horace Rumpole would have struggled to get you off after they found that stolen champagne in your garage. Eight cases, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed it was, mon ami, sixty-four bottles of fizzy dizzy water.”

“Worth a tidy sum,” I said. “With that and your previous record, I suppose a custodial sentence was a given.” He ignored my comment and continued as I handed him the cup.

“Of course,” he said, staring at me through narrowed eyes, “you knew there were eight cases because you helped me unload them. Had the police swooped half an hour before they did, they would have caught the pair of us in the act.

“Shhht! Shhht, you nutcase,” I said, hurrying to close the kitchen window. Bentley made a calm-down gesture like he was playing an invisible piano.

“Fear not, Robert,” he said. “That part of the story is held on a need-to-know basis. Only you, me, and the cafetiere are in on it.”

I didn’t care for his manner, and the topic of conversation nudged me well outside my comfort zone. Worse, I had the idea he was about to put the squeeze on me for something. He may be a friend, but Bentley has the scruples of a woodlouse. I tried to lighten the mood.

“We need to be careful then,” I said, “that cafetiere has a big mouth.” No response.

“I think, though,” he said, “that as my stint behind bars was a solo performance, when it could very easily have been a double act, you might show a little gratitude.” His selfishness irked me.

“Hold on there, Bald Eagle,” I said, resurrecting a line from a TV ad from my childhood, “let’s not lose sight of who was doing whom the favour vis-a-vis the unloading of the champagne. I innocently accepted your offer of a lift into town, but you took a detour to your garage to unload those cases. My involvement was minimal and entirely engineered by you.”

“I know,” he said, “but my assistant — my partner in crime, if you will — was happy to accept thirty pounds for a mere five minutes of work.”

“But,” I said. No more words would come.

“So, by way of showing your gratitude, I’d like you to look after something for me. Just for a few days. Nothing shady, of course.” I doubted that — Bentley Driver is as shady as the forest floor.

“Look,” I said, “I’d like to help, but that champagne bust was too close a call for me. I can’t store your dodgy goods here.” Bentley’s eyes widened.

“Dodgy?” he said, appearing offended.

Well, your previous form would suggest —,”

“Tainted,” he said, pressing the back of his wrist against his forehead and tipping his head back like a silent movie actor expressing anguish. “A few months behind bars has left me tainted to the extent that anything I say is viewed with suspicion, even from my pals. Oh, what a grim future awaits.” He was very theatrical.

“Well, what is it this time, cigarettes, alloy wheels, or boxes of dog biscuits?” I said, reeling off three items from the past he’d browbeaten me into storing for him. “Come on, out with it.”

“It’s a puppy, actually.”

“A what?”

“Puppy, you know. It’s a young dog.”

“When did you get a puppy?”

“I don’t have one. I’m minding my aunt Gloria’s while she’s away in Corfu, but I’ll be out of town for a few days, so I need someone to look after it.”

“Is this on the level?”

“Of course.”

“And what’s this puppy like?”

“You can see for yourself as he’s in the van,” Bentley said, “I’ll go fetch him. He’s simply the cutest.”

And so, I took delivery of Benji, a delightful boxer pup who was as playful as he was cute. He peed on a rug and shook the bejazus out of one of my slippers, but a trait the little lad had in spades was forgiveableness — if such a word exists. I found him an excitable chap, and he barked quite a bit, but we played for an hour solid, and after midnight, he settled at the foot of my bed, and we slept.

Wednesday

That Bentley hadn’t been truthful about the puppy’s owner became apparent the next day. I left Benji in the flat while I went into town for some dog food and treats, and from the bus window, I spotted Bentley’s aunt Gloria, who was chatting with a friend outside a cafe.

My gasket was on the verge of blowing when I got home, and even Benji’s enthusiastic welcome didn’t assuage my rage, although I still heaped affection on him and gave him a good blowout. Later, as I attempted to flick the last of three turds from the carpet into a dustpan with a brush, I learned the identity of Benji’s rightful owner and the extent of the mess Bentley had got me into.

A newsreader on a local radio station announced that a boxer puppy belonging to the famous footballer Terry Chomato had been stolen. He added that the dog had escaped when Mr Chomato answered the door to a visitor at his home, situated on the exclusive Western Leas estate. As the footballer gave chase down the street, a man had picked up the dog, bundled it into a van, and drove off.

And all roads lead to that man being Mister Opportunist himself, Bentley Driver.

I was pole-axed. Yet again, my so-called friend had initiated my involvement in his shady shenanigans, and his crime was headline news this time. “Bentley, you bastard,” I said aloud.

I was agitated as I paced about the flat, with my canine companion prancing alongside and having occasional goes at my feet. I knew I was in the mire right up to my neck, but I couldn’t fathom my next move. The only way out I could foresee was for me to turn Benji loose and forget all about him. I started to formulate a plan along those lines.

Then, a little voice in my head said wealthy footballer, possible reward. Even though it would mean becoming more involved in Bentley’s crime, I abandoned my idea to set Benji loose and tried instead to formulate a plan that might be more financially beneficial.

The solution came to me that afternoon, and it was a simple one. All I had to do was take Benji to a police station and say I’d found him wandering about alone and apparently lost. As I put meat onto the bones of the plan, I decided that having a few drinks that night at the Plover Inn would give credence to my story, as the walk home from that establishment runs alongside a stretch of grassland known as Hunter’s Meadow.

That’s where I would say I found the puppy whimpering alone in the dark, and as I couldn’t find his owner, I had taken him home. It was perfect.

That night, I walked the half-mile to the Plover, where I was delighted to discover a pub quiz underway. There was an abundance of witnesses who would, if asked, confirm I was alone and pupless that night. I drank four bottles of brown ale and ate a packet of salted peanuts, all the while making small talk with those customers I knew. At ten o’clock, I bade the landlord goodnight and left the bar.

As I passed the meadow on the way home, I gave out several shrill whistles and shouted hello a few times as though calling for the dog’s absent owner. I’m nothing if not thorough.

Back home, I sat on the settee watching TV with a dozing Benji, whose head rested on my thigh. “Well, little scamp,” I said, twiddling his ear, “this’ll be your last night under this roof, and I must say I’ll be sorry to see you go.” Those last words were immediately tested as Benji let out a silent fart of particularly robust pungency.

Thursday

In the morning, I served two breakfasts, one of porridge and the other of Pinkerton’s Pup. I had a final knockabout with Benji, and I cleaned up after him for the last time.

All the while, I wrestled with the dilemma of how much to say I knew about the dog when I got to the police station. Should I say that I’d heard the news report and assumed I had found the missing pup, or plead ignorance and pretend to be unaware of the hue and cry? I thought the latter option would be less prone to pitfalls, so ignorance it was.

I used one of my ties as a makeshift lead, which I thought was a nice touch that would emphasize my unpreparedness for dog-minding duty. Although I had Benji tethered with the tie, I didn’t want to be seen with him, so I placed him inside a towel-lined holdall and zipped it up so only his head protruded. With the strap over my shoulder, I could keep Benji occupied with my hand as I walked.

I boarded a bus and took the only available seat at the front, where I sat with the holdall on my lap. A schoolboy on the other side of the aisle leaned over and began scratching Benji’s head, and the dog responded with more finger-licking than you’d find in a fried chicken shop. The boy’s mother issued a diktat to her progeny on the importance of manual hygiene, and the dutiful son withdrew his hand from Benji’s mouth. Then, the meddling kid caught me off guard.

“Is that the missing puppy?” he said. I had to think fast, as other passengers appeared keen to hear the answer.

“I don’t know,” I said, “I’m taking him to the police station to find out.” That utterance allayed any suspicion that may have been directed toward me. As I rose to alight at a bus stop right outside the local police station, there was no more upright citizen in the land in the eyes of my fellow passengers. If only they knew.

It was a small station where, I hoped, everything would be done at a sedate pace, and the issue would be cleared up without serious scrutiny. If the desk sergeant had just brewed up a pot of tea, I thought, he’d have me in and out before it became stewed. Instead, I got Columbo.

He was a tall, gangly chap in his fifties who introduced himself as Sergeant Potter. His combed-back white hair and matching eyebrows reminded me of a three-piece suit my parents once had. Pale blue eyes peered through thick-framed glasses, possibly borrowed from Harry Palmer. As I approached the desk, the sergeant leaned forward and looked down at Benji in the holdall.

“Aye, aye,” he said, “is this the little chap we’re looking for?” So here it was. My story was going to be tested.

“I found him on Hunter’s Meadow last night,” I said, “I called for his owner, but no one came.”

“Oh, aye,” the sergeant said, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Here’s what happened,” I began.

I told what I thought to be a convincing story while Potter made notes. All the time, though, he cast that distrusting gaze at me. After I’d finished my tale, he put down his pen and leaned forward. “Tell me,” he said, “do you own or have access to a motor vehicle?”

“I don’t drive,” I said.

“No van at all?”

“I don’t drive,” I repeated.

“Where were you at around ten pm on Monday the fifth, the Monday just gone?” I’d pre-empted this question and rehearsed my answer, but I paused as though trying to recall. Fate had dealt me a trump card that would allow me to verify my whereabouts at the precise time Bentley was stealing Benji. I needed to play my hand coolly and carefully, so I pretended to apply some thought to his question before I replied.

“I was at home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone. Watching football on the box.”

“That’s convenient,” the suspicious old goat said. It was time to unleash my alibi, but only after I’d expressed my disgruntlement.

“I don’t like having aspersions cast against me,” I said. “I found this dog whimpering on Hunter’s Meadow, and I’ve fetched the poor beast here at my own time and expense.”

“I don’t mean to cast aspersions,” Potter said, “but I’ve been around the block enough times to know that people sometimes steal pets and hang onto them for a few days before claiming a reward.”

“Well, I’m not one of those people,” I said, even though that’s precisely what I was. It was time to feign my moment of realization. “Wait a minute. Did you say ten o’clock on Monday?”

“That’s right.”

“I can prove where I was. I’d bought some beer to watch the football at home, and as the game went into extra time, I dashed out for another bottle. The shop closes at ten, and the shopkeeper was busy mopping the floor when I went in. I’m sure they’ll verify that, and they have CCTV if you want to check.” All of that was true.

“That puts you in the clear if verified,” Potter said. I then made an unnecessary and stupid comment.

“Of course it does. I couldn’t be at my local shop and at the same time be seven miles away.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I cursed my slackness. I was supposed to be ignorant of the theft, but I blurted out knowledge of the area from where Benji had been stolen.

As I waited in dread for a grilling on how I knew the dog had been snatched seven miles away, a door behind the sergeant opened, and a male and female officer entered. The latter expressed delight at seeing Benji, and at her request, I took him from the holdall and handed him over the counter.

“Aw, is this Gus?” she said to me, and then, “Where’s oo been ‘en?” to the puppy formerly known as Benji.

The atmosphere was considerably more relaxed than it had been under Potter’s suspicious gaze. It became almost convivial when the policewoman asked the sergeant to go to the dog van in the yard and fetch a packet of treats from the glove box.

I relayed edited highlights of my story to the two new arrivals, and when Potter returned with the treats, I announced that if they needed any further information from me, my details were written down.

“Someone will be in touch,” the male officer said, “as there’s a reward for the dog’s return. You might get a decent wedge too, given his owner.”

“How come, does the dog belong to someone famous?” I said like I was in the dark.

“Someone famous?” The man and woman said together. And all was, shall we say, revealed.

Pleased with my performance, save for that one senseless utterance, I switched to mission-accomplished mode and walked toward the exit.

“There’s just one more thing,” Sergeant Potter said. Blow me, I thought, he is Columbo, and he’ll ask how I knew the dog was taken from a spot seven miles away. I faced him.

“Yes?”

“Your tie,” he said, tossing that item at me.

Word soon got around, and later that morning, I was making toast when the phone rang. The caller was a reporter from the local newspaper who asked if I’d participate in an interview and photoshoot with Gus and Terry Chomato. He suggested we take the photos at the spot where I found Gus, and I would pose like I was handing the dog back to its owner. I agreed to go along, and half an hour later, a car arrived to whisk me off to Hunter’s Meadow.

There were two cars parked nose-to-tail, and a man — whose age and weight told me he wasn’t the famous footballer — held onto a lead, at the end of which was my little friend. As I approached, a car door opened and Terry Chomato, resplendent in a silver-grey suit over a black roll-neck sweater, emerged. He removed his sunglasses as he walked towards me, and we shook hands.

“I really appreciate this,” he said, “If the wrong person had found Gus, I might never have seen him again.” Boy, did I feel like a fraud!

“He was wandering about, and he looked lost, I said. “I called for his owner but no one came, so I took him home.” I crouched to give Gus some attention. His tail swished wildly, and I rubbed his cheek as he playfully gnawed my hand.

“Good job,” Terry Chomato said, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Here’s five hundred to show my appreciation for what you did.” I rose to take the envelope, and I have to say I was a tad lightheaded.

“Right,” the photographer said, “can we have you and Mister Chomato facing each other, and you — meaning me — look like you’re handing the dog over.” I did as he suggested, and, following a rapid succession of shutter whirrs, the photographer said it was a wrap.

As the footballer put his sunglasses back on, I took my chance before he departed. “While I’m here, could you do me a small favour?” I said.

“Sure.”

“I have a friend who’s a huge fan. Would you be so good as to scribble your autograph for him? Just on a scrap of paper or something.”

“I’ll do better than that,” he said. He lifted up Gus and opened the passenger side door of his car, where sat — previously obscured by tinted windows — his glamorous wife, the famous model Tesan. He handed Gus over to his wife and opened the back door. From a box on the seat, he took a copy of his recently released biography, Kicking and Dreaming. “Who to?” he said, readying himself with a pen that probably cost him more than my reward.

“Bentley,” I said, “Bentley Driver.” As Chomato scribbled an inscription, I reflected on what a one-way street my friendship with Bentley is, and I wondered why I go to these lengths for him. The footballer handed me the book, we said goodbye, and his car roared off. I gave the reporter my fictitious account of what happened when I found Gus.

The same car that took me brought me back home. I immediately opened the envelope and spread fifty tenners on the dining table. I picked out one of the notes and hid the rest in an empty DVD case, which stood on a shelf alongside many others. The sun was shining, and my spirits were high, so I walked into town to have lunch at a pizza parlor.

In the evening, I went to my alibi shop to buy a copy of the local newspaper. I was astonished to see a full front page photo of me handing the dog over under the headline REUNITED. The woman behind the counter recognized me from the front page and called me a hero.

I’m not much of a one for the limelight, so I thought I’d lay low for a few days until the hoo-ha died down.

Friday

The next day, just after noon, I answered a knock at the door and Bentley slunk past me like a cat coming in from the rain. He immediately called for the dog, which suggested he hadn’t kept abreast of developments.

“Where is the little fellow? Benji, come on, Benji.” He whistled and did a drum roll with his hands on his thighs.

“You mean Gus.”

“Eh?”

“His name is Gus, and he never did belong to your aunt Gloria.” I watched Bentley’s reaction, which was to pursue his lips.

“She told me — ,”

“Don’t give me that polony. I assume you don’t know, but the dog’s owner is Terry Chomato. You know, that guy you cheer on every other Saturday.”

“No!” Bentley said, taken aback.

“Yep.”

“I stole Terry Chomato’s dog! Well, there’s one for the memoirs.”

“Never mind the fucking memoirs,” I said, “you lied to me.” The direct accusation didn’t penetrate his casual demeanor.

“Little white lies, mon ami,” he said before returning to business. “This changes everything. Chomato is loaded, so the reward should be huge. Or, perhaps I could demand a ransom for some real cash.”

“He’s gone.”

“What?”

“Gus is back with his rightful owner. I handed him in, and I got a five hundred pound reward. Here, you can read all about it,” I said, handing him the newspaper. He studied the front page and then read the story on page three. He folded the paper and tossed it onto the dining table.

“We could have made a fortune if you’d let me handle it,” he said, “Chomato would have stumped up thousands in ransom money.”

“And prison has taught you what, exactly?” I said. “You lied to me about the dog’s owner, and you lied about it not being a shady arrangement. You’ve gone right back to your old thieving ways, and you lumbered me with a stolen puppy the entire region was on the lookout for, which, by the way, gave me a very tricky time at the police station. This was a closer call than the champagne.”

“But it turned out all right in the end,” he said, “two hundred and fifty big ones each.” I laughed.

“Not this time, mate,” I said. “Putting my liberty in jeopardy comes at a cost. And then there’s kennel fees.”

“Are you saying I get nothing?” he said.

“You do get something.” I took Kicking and Dreaming from a drawer. “Open the cover,” I said, handing it to him.

“To Bentley Driver. Thanks for your support. Best wishes, Tez C.”

“You see, I do decent things for my friends.”

“Thanks, Robert. I appreciate this.”

Now it was my turn to lie. “I have to go into town this afternoon,” I said, looking at my watch. I held open the front door.

I was going to tell him never to return, but a wave of sentimentality stopped me. I thought of the time Bentley had stood by my side to even things up when the Perry twins were going to set about me at high school. I remembered his inch-perfect pass, which allowed me to head home the winning goal in the inter-school cup final.

“Here,” I said, holding out a hundred in notes, “take it or leave it.” He took it.

“Huh! Second prize,” he said.

“Look, Bentley,” I said, “have a long break from me, and for Pete’s sake, sort out your life.”

“Tainted!” he said.

“Just leave.” He walked past me and through the door.

“Soap will wash away the smell of prison,” he said, “but stigma is an indelible stain. All I ask is a fair crack of the whip and yet — ”

I closed the door.

Later that afternoon, I had settled down for a post-lunch nap when someone knocked at the door. My wish that it wasn’t Bentley was granted, and I stared at the smiling face of Janey from the flat next door.

“Fame at last, eh?” she said, “Elsie at the shop told me you were in the paper last night. Do you have a copy?”

I’ve been sweet on Janey since she and her sister moved in about three months earlier, so I invited her in without hesitation. In the kitchen, I gave her my copy of the paper, and we chatted as I made coffee.

“Sugar?” I said.

“One, please.” I placed a cup in front of her on the table and stayed quiet while she read the story.

“What do you think?” I said as she folded the newspaper.

“Very good. It was indeed a most fortunate find.” She had a weird way of speaking.

“Yeah, it was that,” I said.

“You know, though, it’s a funny thing.”

“What’s a funny thing?”

“According to the newspaper, you found the dog on Wednesday night. But I heard a dog barking in here on Tuesday.”

Jeeze, I thought. I survived Columbo, and now Miss Marple is on my case. “I was trying to trace the owner,” I said, unconvincingly.

“Rob,” she said, in a tone that could be described as dripping with condescension. “we both know you’ve been a naughty boy.” Damn these busybodies.

“And?”

“And, as I’ve sussed you out, you’re going to pay for my silence.”

“Et tu, Brute,” I said, crestfallen to see the woman I held in the highest regard stoop to the level of a common crook like Bentley. Or like me, for that matter.

“And what is your price?”

“Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I said.

“You’re going to take me to Carlito’s restaurant on Friday. After a few drinks in town, of course.” In a heartbeat, I went from crestfallen to euphoric.

“Or?” I said, playing along.

“I’ll go to the fuzz and spill,” she said, “I shall sing like a canary and grass you up good.” We laughed.

Janey finished her coffee and, after a promise that she’d be knocking at my door in her glad rags at seven the following evening, went home.

And that’s about all there is to tell of Bentley Driver and the stolen puppy. You may ask why I tolerate the wretched crook and allow him to involve me in his nefarious activities, but the odd thing is that I always seem to prosper when he’s on the scene. As you have just witnessed, this latest episode got me four hundred in hard cash and a date with a woman I’m particularly fond of.

For all his faults, I admire his devil-may-care attitude, and life is always more interesting and exciting when he’s around. Because Bentley Driver is a walking, talking, thieving manifestation of Mama Gump’s box of chocolates.

So, if the rascal comes knocking again in a few months, will he get a welcome?

With open arms.

Saturday

Who knows?

Footnote

The little chap in the photo is Gus, the landlord’s dog from a bar I worked in. He was a fine companion, an endless source of entertainment, and a proper, much-loved character. Sadly, he took his place in Doggy Heaven in 2023. Thanks to Aiden for the photo.

Story originally published on Medium