Of Mutts and Men

by Spencer Quinn

  Bernie took another sip, made a bit of a face, put the cup down. “Know anyone in town named Mig?” he said.

  The woman turned her phone over, laid it on the counter. She had rings on every finger, and the thumbs. Not the kind of thing you see every day, although I had seen it before. We’ve cleared a lot of cases, me and Bernie. “Mig who?” she said.

  “Just Mig is all I know,” Bernie said.

  “You from around here?” she said.

  “The Valley.”

  “Thought so.”

  Then there was a silence, except for the buzzing flies. Was it Bernie’s turn to speak? That would have been my opinion, but he kept quiet. It hit me: he was letting the flies do the talking! A new technique. But that was Bernie. Who else would even think of putting flies to work?

  “Folks in this town like their privacy,” the woman said at last.

  “I’m the exact same way,” Bernie said. “I don’t want to invade Mig’s privacy the slightest bit. I just want to talk to him.”

  The woman cracked her gum again. “About what?”

  “If I told you,” Bernie said, “I’d be invading his privacy.”

  The woman’s head went back a little. I could feel her thoughts, thoughts very unlike Bernie’s, heavy and slow. “There’s more than one Mig in town,” she said. “I’d have to think.”

  “Maybe this will help.” Bernie laid some money on the counter; I hoped not a lot. But this was something we had to do from time to time. Some folks think better when money changes hands, just one of the many human quirks out there. Human grooming, for example, is … how would you put it? A gold mine of quirks? Something like that. But no time to go into it now.

  “The Mig you probably want,” the woman said, sweeping the money off the counter and into an apron pocket so fast and smooth I almost missed it, “lives over on Pershing Street. There’s no signs—take the last turn on the east side, last house, and you didn’t hear it from me. Enjoy your day.”

  * * *

  We drove down an unpaved and rutted back street that seemed familiar, but at the same time strangely hazy. This whole town seemed strangely hazy, even the smells. What was up with that? No answer came before we pulled into a driveway at the last house on the street, a small house with no neighbors and a shiny new pickup in the dirt driveway. The haze started to clear a little, like a breeze was stirring in my mind.

  The side door of the house opened and a man came out, a short wide man. He was wearing nothing but shorts, the kind that came down almost to the ankles, and had shaving cream on his face.

  “Yeah?” he said, looking at Bernie and then at me and only me.

  The haze in my mind cleared completely. We got out of the car.

  “We’re looking for Mig,” Bernie said.

  “Yeah? Who’s we?”

  “I’m Bernie and this is—” He turned to me. “Chet?”

  Uh-oh. Was I growling? Pawing at the driveway a bit? That kind of thing can happen when the mind clears and you start to get a grip on what’s what. Not that I actually had a grip on what’s what. It was more of a feeling. But I dialed everything down. I’m a pro, in case you’ve forgotten.

  “Are you a cat person by any chance?” Bernie said.

  What a strange question! I’d never heard Bernie even speak those words. Cat person? Had he come up with a new technique that would end up working wonders in ways I couldn’t yet see? That had to be it.

  “Cat person, dog person, people person,” said Mig.

  “Everybody likes you,” Bernie said.

  “Damn straight.”

  “Except Chet, here.”

  “So what?” said Mig. “He’s a dog.”

  Bernie’s eyes, which had held no expression at all, now flashed Mig a look I wouldn’t want flashed at me, but it was there and gone before you would have known. “But the point is you’ve got lots of friends,” he said.

  Mig raised his hands in the gesture that means what can I do. Then he said, “What can I do?” just in case we were slow on the uptake. Get ready for your own uptake, buddy boy. That was my thought, but I kept it totally inside, meaning the quick look Bernie shot me was about something else.

  “We’re interested in one of your friends in particular,” Bernie said.

  Then came a silence. Was Mig waiting for Bernie to speak first? If so, he was going to lose. And at last he said, “Like who?”

  “Dewey Vaughan,” Bernie said.

  Mig’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. Was it waiting for his brain to catch up? You see that in humans from time to time, although never Bernie, of course.

  “Dewey, huh?” said Mig. “Wouldn’t call him a friend, exactly.”

  “What would you call him?” Bernie said.

  “More like … an acquaintance.”

  “A business acquaintance?”

  “Sure. A business acquaintance.”

  “And what sort of business are the two of you in?” Bernie said.

  “You first,” said Mig.

  Bernie handed him our card.

  “A real private eye, huh?” said Mig. “Let’s hope and pray Dewey’s done nothing wrong.”

  “I’ll only know after we find him,” Bernie said.

  “Can’t help you there,” said Mig.

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t know where he is. Why else?”

  “I could think of many reasons,” Bernie said. “But instead let’s play pretend.”

  “Huh?”

  “Pretend you were me, looking for Dewey. Where would you start?”

  What was this? Mig being Bernie? This case was not going well.

  “That’s a tough one,” Mig said. “How do you even start?”

  “How about with the last time you saw him? Where and when?”

  Mig thought about that. A tiny gleam shone in his eyes, then vanished.

  “Come with me,” he said. “I got something to show you.”

  We followed Mig around his house to a sort of wooden barn at the back, old and a bit lopsided. A padlock hung on the door. Mig took a key ring loaded with keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. We followed him inside. There were windows in the barn, all of them tarpapered over, but in the gloom I could see a couple of pickups, shiny and new like the one in the driveway.

  “Stay right there for a sec,” Mig said. “I’ll switch on the light.”

  He went over to the workbench, reached up, and pressed a button on the wall.

  All at once, Bernie shouted: “Chet!”

  But too late. The floor fell away right out from under us.

  Twenty-one

  Falling, falling, falling, and then: Boom. A soft boom. That was me landing. I’m a soft lander, as long I can get my paws under me, as I did now, no problem. There was also another boom, this one more of a BOOM. That was Bernie, perhaps not a soft lander, the BOOM being followed by an “Ooof!” Then came some gasps, like he was fighting for breath. Poor Bernie. He’d gotten the wind knocked out of him. The same thing happens in the nation within, so I knew the wind always comes back, which it did with Bernie, pretty quick.

  “Chet? You okay?”

  Totally okay, except for being down at the bottom of this hole or whatever it was. We both looked up. Yes, a hole under the floor of Mig’s barn, but the floor hadn’t fallen out from under us. Instead a sort of square door had opened, a door that now hung to one side of the hole. Oh, no! A trapdoor? Once I’d heard Bernie and Rick Torres talking about what to do if you fall through a trapdoor. I’d heard but—possibly due to a Rover and Company cookie—I hadn’t listened, and so was no further ahead. Not my fault but that was no help now.

  It was dark and shadowy up in the barn, but darker and more shadowy down in the hole. Bernie grunted, tried to get up, grunted again, and this time rose to his feet. If he’d been taller, say as tall as one Bernie stacked on top of another Bernie—wow, one of my best ideas—then he could have reached the edge of the hole and pulled himself up. Then it hit me: Hadn’t we bee
n working on wall climbing, me and Bernie? Weren’t the hard earth sides of this hole like walls? Had I ever climbed a wall this high? Maybe not, but Bernie thought I’d been doing great. “Amazing, big guy, amazing!” was what he said the last time we practiced. Who wouldn’t want to hear that?

  Here’s how to climb a wall. First, wait for Bernie to say “Up, Chet!” Then run your very fastest straight at the wall and keep running till you reach the top. Then scarf up a bowl of steak tips from Dry Gulch Steakhouse and Saloon, ordered special. That’s all there is to it! I’m sure you could do it if you tried.

  Was now the time? Bernie’s mouth opened. Up, Chet! was coming next, I just knew it. But before it could, I heard footsteps from above. Mig appeared at the edge of the hole. He still wore only his shorts, but he’d wiped the shaving cream off his face. That was the first thing I noticed, before the gun in his hand. Funny how the mind works.

  Mig gazed down at us. Some humans have this ugly look that’s close to a smile but is not about friendliness, not one little bit. Smirk, maybe? Mig was smirking, big time.

  “Smart guy, huh?” he said. “How smart are you feelin’ now?”

  Bernie didn’t answer.

  Mig gestured at me with the gun. “That’s my goddamn dog,” he said. “Think you can just steal from me, no consequences?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Bernie said.

  “Think about it, smart guy.” Mig stepped away. Then came a little squeak and the trapdoor slowly closed, thunking down in place and putting us in total darkness. I see pretty well in normal darkness, at night, for example, but I don’t have much experience with total darkness.

  Bernie touched my back. “No worries, Chet. We’re okay.”

  How nice to hear that! I’d come close to being a little concerned.

  * * *

  I sat in the dark, thinking about nothing much. Was I hungry? No. Thirsty? No. I was okay. We were okay. Perhaps being down in this hole wasn’t a perfect situation, and that smirk was very bothersome, but things could be worse. I was trying to think how things could be worse and coming up with nothing, when I heard Bernie moving around at the other side of the hole, making sounds that reminded me of digging. Digging? I listened carefully. Yes, digging for sure. Humans are good at digging with shovels, and they are really amazing diggers when they use earth-moving equipment—I have no problem admitting that—but watching them dig with their hands can be a little frustrating. Of course, I wasn’t watching Bernie dig on account of not being able to see a thing. Instead I was listening to him dig, which turned out to be even more frustrating. How interesting! There’s so much to learn in life. My impression is I’m making very good progress. I was thinking to myself, Good boy, Chet, when it hit me that we were down in a deep hole and yet Bernie was digging even deeper. What was up with that? I waited for the answer, and … and it came! He was trying to find the aquifer. Wow! Perhaps a little unusual at a time like this, but we think outside the box at the Little Detective Agency. And weren’t we in a sort of box at the moment? So thinking outside of it was the way to freedom! My goodness! Do not mess with us, my friends.

  The digging sounds stopped. I heard Bernie crawling my way, felt him giving me a pat. “No worries,” he said in a low voice. Very nice of him to say that but totally unnecessary. We were thinking our way to freedom.

  Another squeak. The trapdoor fell open with a bang, letting in some light. Mig stood at the edge of the hole again, his gun in one hand and a coil of rope in the other.

  “How’s life treating you?” he said.

  Bernie didn’t answer. Was he about to say, Up, Chet? And then I’d leap way way up there, grab Mig by the pant leg, and drag him back down in the … well, perhaps not that. I got a little confused.

  “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Mig said. “I’m lowering one end of the rope. Got a clamp on it. You’re clampin’ it onto the dog’s collar. Then I’m pulling him up. Any funny moves and I shoot the both of you. Got it?”

  Bernie didn’t answer.

  Mig pointed the gun right at Bernie, a big gun, bigger than our .38 Special, locked in the safe at home. “You lookin’ to die?” he said.

  Right then I knew bad things were in store for Mig. Otherwise what kind of world were we in?

  “No,” Bernie said.

  “Then say you got it,” said Mig.

  “I’m not going to clamp him by the collar.” Bernie’s voice was quiet and calm, but there was anger in it, too, way underneath. You had to know him to hear it, and no one knows Bernie like me. “That’ll choke him.”

  “Like in a damaging way?” said Mig. “Investment-wise?”

  Bernie’s eyes got so hot at that moment, like a fire had started up inside him. “Lower the rope,” he said, his voice maybe shaking the slightest bit.

  Mig knelt down and lowered one end of the rope. The little light there was gleamed on the metal clamp as it came down. Bernie reached out and grabbed it. Then he took off his belt and wrapped it around my chest, tying the ends together over my back. He looked at me. Was this possible? Bernie was about to clamp the rope onto the belt and let Mig haul me up to the top? Alone? Without him? But what would happen to Bernie, down in the hole and all on his lonesome? I backed away.

  Bernie bent over me. Our faces were very close, almost touching.

  “Who’s a good boy?” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

  I’m a good boy, of course. I’m the good boy, but—

  “No worries,” he said, even quieter.

  But—but … but if Bernie says no worries, then that was that. I stood still. He clamped the rope to the belt. Then he stroked the top of my head, maybe the nicest pat he’d ever given me. He looked up.

  “All set,” he said, raising his voice. “Real easy now.”

  “You’re not giving the orders,” said Mig.

  He started pulling on the rope. There was a lot of grunting and sweating but not much action. Slowly and jerkily, I rose into the air, first my front paws and then all of me. That felt very bad although it didn’t hurt at all. But my paws belonged on the ground. How else could I take care of myself?

  “We’re good,” Bernie said, so low this time it might have been in my head. I’m used to that. Bernie’s voice is often in my head, just one of the many fine things about my life. We’re good, we’re good, we’re good. And almost before I knew it, there I was almost up top, just about level with the barn floor. Mig bent his knees for one final pull on the rope. He had a real nasty look on his face. I almost remembered something Bernie had said about a certain kind of man who only cares about winning, but before it came to me, things speeded up.

  First, I heard Bernie moving around in the hole. I glanced down and saw him reaching into his pocket and taking out a rock, baseball-size but not perfectly round, in fact somewhat jagged. Then, with a real big grunt, Mig yanked the rope one more time. I came up to the top of the hole and started to swing toward him. “Ha!” he said, his eyes gleaming and a big smile starting to spread across his face, when CRACK! The rock hit him smack in the middle of the forehead. Crack! Smack! We have some lovely sounds in our business. Mig’s eyes rolled up. He went down, and as he fell he let go of the rope. I landed softly on the barn floor. The other end of the rope dropped down into the hole.

  My first inclination was to take Mig by the throat and see what came next. But where was the sport in that? Mig lay on his back, out cold. I moved to the edge of the hole and looked down. Bernie had the free end of the rope in his hands. How much things had changed out here in Mig’s garage, and how quickly!

  “Hey, Chet, how’re we doing?” Bernie said.

  My tail got going, big time.

  “Going to need you to brace yourself for a few seconds.”

  Brace myself? What was that? Bernie pulled on the rope. Wow! Was he strong or what? I slid right to the edge of the hole. But of course I dug in and stopped right there. I’m pretty strong myself, amigo, and games of strength are what I live for, and if
that’s not quite true, at least I enjoy them. Now Bernie had his feet against the side of the hole and was—rappelling? Was that the word? I kind of remembered it from the day we took Charlie to the rock-climbing wall, where unluckily I’d become a little too excited and had to spend most of the time outside in the car. But did Bernie really think he could out-strength me, rappelling or no rappelling? I have this way of making myself immovable, so that’s what I did. Bernie gave up right away, scrambling out of the hole and dropping the rope.

  He gave me a huge hug. “Thanks, buddy.” What a good loser he was!

  * * *

  Bernie hoisted Mig onto his shoulders and carried him into the house, a very messy house, the kitchen, as so often in messy houses, being the messiest part. Just for one example, there was an open pizza box on the counter with a single slice remaining. And then it wasn’t. Sausage and pepperoni, if you’re interested.

  Soon we’d splashed lots of nice cold water in Mig’s face and got him sitting at the kitchen table, eyes open, if a little glassy.

  “Wha,” he said. “Wha the hell happened?”

  “You know what they say about curiosity,” Bernie said.

  Oh, no, not the killing-the-cat thing again? What was curiosity? How do you get some? I needed to know, and had wondered about this so many times, always coming up, like now, with zilch.

  “How come,” Bernie said, taking a seat at the table and brushing away an ant headed for the sugar bowl, “you think Chet here is your dog?”

  “Huh? You serious?” Mig winced, rubbed his forehead, checked his hand. “I’m bleedin’.”

  “Just superficially.” Bernie went to the counter, found a balled-up sheet of paper towel, not too dirty, and dabbed Mig’s forehead.

  “Ouch,” said Mig.

  “Mig—step it up, for god’s sake. Answer the question.”

  “How come it’s my dog?”

  “He.”