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In for Pound
Lawrence Watt-Evans
The moment she was absolutely sure they were out of earshot of anyone else, she hissed at him, "Are
you
nuts?
"
He smiled at her as he held open the car door. "I don't think so," he replied.
"But
running for mayor?
" She stood beside the car, not willing to interrupt the discussion even long
enough to take her seat.
"Why not?" he asked, still smiling that toothy smile of his. "Seriously, Jen, do you see anyone better suited
to the job? I'm an upstanding member of the community, I've had a good education, I have a career in
public service . . ."
"Dave, you
know
why not!" She pointed at the sky. "You're going to have a
demonstration
of 'why not'
in another hour or so!"
His politician's smile vanished, and he looked at her with an expression that just reeked of sincere
concern—an expression she was quite sure he had practiced for hours in front of the mirror.
"And why should that disqualify me from serving as mayor? Surely you realize it's just an occasional
inconvenience. So I'll be unavailable a couple of nights each month . . ."
"
Inconvenience?
" She stared at him, astonished. "Dave, you're a
werewolf
, remember? You inherited a
genuine gypsy curse. That's a bit more than an inconvenience!"
"Why?" he asked mildly.
Her jaw dropped.
"Really, Jen—it's not as if I'm running for president. It's just mayor of Eltonburg. So I'll want to spend a
 couple of nights a month in private; so what?" He patted her on the arm, urging her into the car.
Stunned, she sat. She watched through the windshield as he walked around and climbed in the driver's
side.
"Dave," she said, "suppose there's a City Council meeting on a full moon? Suppose there's a disaster—a
blizzard, say—on the night of a full moon?"
He shrugged. "I'll be ill, or unavoidably detained. These things happen; people will understand. It hasn't
been a problem for me before."
"Before you were just a police lieutenant, not the mayor!"
"Detective lieutenant," he corrected her—he was touchy about the distinction between the two sides of
Eltonburg's police department, enforcement and investigation. He started the car and looked over his
shoulder to be sure the street was clear.
"Whatever. Don't you think that, even in Eltonburg, some reporter might stumble across the truth? Old
Bill Beasley isn't going to give up his job without a fight, despite the indictments--he's going to have his
people checking up on you all through the campaign, just looking for some little flaw. What if he notices
you're never around at the full moon? How are you going to explain that? Suppose he says you spend a
couple of nights a month at the strip clubs down on Route 8—how are you going to prove you
don't?
"
Dave frowned as he swung the car around the corner onto Main Street. "He couldn't prove I
do
."
"He wouldn't
have
to prove it—what are you going to say instead? That you grow fur and go running
through the streets on those nights?"
"Well, why not?" Dave asked. "I've never hurt anyone. Sure, I'm not quite myself when I'm a wolf, but
I'm no ravening monster. Even real wolves aren't, and I never
completely
forget who I am. I've chased a
few cats, sure, but I never bit or clawed anyone—not even the cats. Not even that damned spitting
Persian down on Third Street."
"So you'd just admit the truth? And you think people will vote for a werewolf? You know how
old-fashioned some of the people in this town are—and they're Mayor Beasley's biggest supporters. You
 don't see Beasley standing up in front of the congregation at Calvary Baptist and getting them worked up
about the spawn of Satan?"
"I'm not the spawn of Satan . . ."
"Tell Reverend Henry that!"
He settled into an angry quiet for the remainder of the drive home.
When they were out of the car but still in the garage he burst out, "Damn it, Jenny, I
am
running for
mayor, because
somebody
has to to get that crook Beasley and his weasely flunkies out of office! Yes,
I'm a werewolf, and it
is
a drawback, and an inconvenience, and we don't want anyone to find out, but I
don't think it's going to come out-—maybe Beasley will find out I'm never around at the full moon and
will try to make something out of it, but who'll believe him? I'll just say it's private business, all in the
family, and you'll back me up, and my mother will, and the voters'll believe us. Why shouldn't they?"
"Because they're human, and they want to believe the worst of any politician they hear about." She
sighed. "But if you want to risk it, I won't stop you. You're right, you'd be the best mayor Eltonburg's
ever had, and
someone
has to run against Beasley. But I don't
like
it, Dave!"
"No one's asking you to like it," he muttered. He twitched and stumbled as he reached for the door to the
house.
Jenny knew the signs. "Get those clothes off," she ordered. "We don't want them torn. That suit cost six
hundred dollars."
He sighed. "Right," he said, pulling off his tie. "I guess I cut it closer than I meant to." He slipped off his
jacket and handed it to her.
His fingers were already shrinking by the time he started on his shirt buttons, the nails thickening into
claws. Jenny hurried to help.
Undressing him was a lot more fun the other twentyodd nights of the month, she thought—he'd be
returning the favor, and when the clothes were off he wouldn't drop down on all fours and run off
howling.
 He might howl a little, or drop to all fours, but he wouldn't run off. And he wouldn't be furry and wagging
a tail.
By the time his pants were entirely off he was more wolf than man, and a moment later he was
all
wolf.
He trotted to the overhead door and glanced back at Jenny expectantly.
"Oh, all right," she said. She pushed the button, and the door lifted. She stopped it once it was high
enough for him to slip out.
"Don't be all night, okay?" she called. "I'd like to get to sleep at a reasonable hour."
He didn't answer; instead he ran off, tongue lolling, down the street.
She sighed, pushed the button to close the door, then stooped and scooped up his clothes. It would
serve him right if she
didn't
wait up, and he turned back on the front porch.
Of course, then the neighbors might see him out there naked, which would be hard to live down--and his
mayoral hopes would be completely dashed. She trudged into the house and up the stairs, the bundle of
clothes in her hand.
An hour later she was in the kitchen, treating herself to a glass of wine, when she heard the growl of a
truck's engine and glanced out the front window.
She froze, and set the wineglass down carefully. Then she rounded the corner to the foyer and stepped
out the front door onto the porch.
The Animal Control van was cruising slowly down the street; as she watched it stopped under a
streetlight, and a man in a gray uniform jumped out, holding a pole with a loop on the end.
A second man came around the front of the van. "There he is!" he called, pointing at the Rosenthals'
bushes.
 Her heart sank. Dave had been careless, and had been spotted.
She tried to think what she could do. If she claimed he was her dog . . . well, they had discussed this. He
had no collar, no registration, no vaccination tag, and the Animal Control people would insist, quite
reasonably, that she take her dog in and get him a license and get his shots taken care of.
Except he couldn't come in for a rabies shot unless the full moon was in the sky, and the vets weren't
generally open then.
The two men were rushing for the bushes, one to either side, trapping their prey between them. She saw
a flash of gray fur, and the two men dove, pole sweeping around, and then the three were all in a heap on
the Rosenthals' lawn, and a moment later the two men were dragging a snarling, struggling wolf toward
the van.
"Hey!" she called, stepping down from the porch—she'd find a way around the problem with the shots;
maybe she could claim religious grounds for not having it done. "Hey, that's my dog!"
The two men ignored her as they heaved Dave into the cage in the back of the van and slammed it shut.
She hurried toward them.
Once the cage was locked, one of them turned to face her.
"That's my dog," she said, pointing.
"He hasn't got a tag," the uniformed man said.
"We hadn't got around to it yet."
"Well, you can't let him run loose with no tag, lady. Eltonburg's got a twenty-four-hour leash law."
"I know, I know, I'm sorry—we've just been so busy . . ."
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