Of Mutts and Men

by Spencer Quinn

  “Huh?”

  “How come he’s my dog. Chet’s not an it.”

  “Christ. How come he’s my dog? On account of I paid for him, cold hard cash.”

  “How much?”

  “It’s not the amount,” Mig said. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

  Bernie sat back. “How so?”

  Mig spread his hands. “You pay for something and you don’t end up owning it? What’s so hard to understand?”

  “Who did you pay?”

  “What the hell kind of game are you playing? You already know.”

  Bernie was still for a moment. Then he nodded. “Dewey Vaughan?”

  “Hell, yeah. I paid the bastard six hundred and fifty bucks.”

  “When was this?”

  “I dunno. The other night.”

  “Tuesday night?”

  “Yeah, must have been.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  Mig gestured with his chin. “Out in the driveway.”

  “Dewey brought Chet here?”

  Mig nodded. “We … negotiated. Settled on six fifty, which I handed over in good faith. Then things went haywire.”

  “How?”

  “Goddamn dog,” Mig began, and then caught the expression on Bernie’s face and tried again. “Chet took off. That was on Dewey, a hundred percent. A pretty boy, nobody home upstairs, if you know the type. Then after all hell … in the confusion, Dewey took off, too.”

  “With the money?”

  “You got it.”

  “You must have gone after him.”

  “Bastard’s disappeared.”

  Bernie leaned forward. “Chet and I are a team, Mig. Understand that?”

  Mig nodded.

  “Chet doesn’t belong to Dewey and never did. Therefore Dewey was trafficking in stolen goods—except Chet’s not a good, he’s a living, conscious being.”

  I wasn’t good? Was that what Bernie had just said? I couldn’t believe it, so I didn’t, instead moseying over to the empty pizza box and giving its insides a lick or two.

  Meanwhile Bernie was saying “… Dewey was trafficking in living, conscious beings. You see how serious that is?”

  “Um,” said Mig. He gave his forehead a gentle rub.

  “Did you do much thinking on how and why Dewey had Chet in the first place?”

  “I try to stay in my lane,” said Mig.

  “You’re way way out of it now,” Bernie said. He didn’t raise his voice or make any threat, but Mig’s eyes darted around a bit. That’s a sign of fear that no one could miss.

  “I got no actual info,” Mig said.

  “But?”

  “But Dewey does some contract work from time to time.”

  “Who for?”

  “Dunno.”

  Bernie gave him a look.

  “Come on, man,” Mig said. “I’d tell you if I knew. Why’d I want to protect Dewey?”

  “How do you know about the contract work?” Bernie said.

  Mig shrugged.

  “Think,” Bernie said, not raising his voice, more like lowering it, if anything.

  Mig thought. After a while he said, “Surfing. That’s how he met her.”

  “Met who?”

  “The lady who pays him for the contract work. They met surfing. Maybe he was giving lessons. Something like that.”

  “Did he mention her name?”

  “Nope. And I didn’t ask.”

  “Where were they surfing?”

  “Hawaii, maybe?” said Mig.

  “Which island?”

  “Hell, might not even have been Hawaii.”

  “Did he say anything about this lady who hires him?”

  “She’s a hard-ass bitch. That stuck in my mind. There are more hard-ass bitches in charge these days—ever notice that?”

  “It depends on the definition,” Bernie said.

  Mig blinked.

  “What else about her?” Bernie said.

  “Nothin’,” said Mig. “I’m reaching as it is.”

  Then we just sat there for a bit. Far far away I heard that train whistle again, somewhere in the desert.

  “What are we going to do with you, Mig?” Bernie said.

  “How do you mean?”

  Bernie didn’t answer.

  Mig glanced at me, then back to Bernie. “Got an idea,” he said.

  “Go on,” said Bernie.

  “I know some guys down in Mexico,” Mig said. “And Chet here’s a special dog. These guys have a thing for special dogs. They pay serious money—I’m talkin’ fifteen grand, maybe twenty. I could handle the transaction for you, no sweat. How does a fifty/fifty split sound?”

  I had no idea what they were even talking about, but it must have sounded bad to Bernie. Had I ever seen him move so quick? In a flash he was on his feet, looming over Mig, arm drawn back like he was going to smack him, not a backhander, which I’d seen him do once or twice, but an open-handed slap across the face, which would be a first from Bernie, in my experience. His hand whipped forward, so fast it made a breeze I could hear, and Mig cried out and flinched, and Bernie slapped the hell out—

  But no. At the last second, or even later, Bernie slammed on the brakes. His hand trembled in the air, so close to Mig’s face there was no daylight in between. But he didn’t touch him.

  Twenty-two

  “Not all questions have answers,” Bernie said. “Demand exceeds supply. Does that mean the cost goes up? And if so, is it the cost of the knowledge itself that’s rising, or the cost to the well-being of the seeker?”

  Bernie went silent. I was glad of that, especially if it meant his mind was taking a little rest. He’d been asking so many questions lately. Not when we were getting the 411 from witnesses—that was business as usual—but in times like this, on the road, just the two of us. And it wasn’t just how many questions, but how hard they were. The cost of knowledge? Good grief.

  “But,” he went on, patting his pockets and finding no cigarettes, “here are three that must have concrete, findable answers. One: Where is Dewey? Two: Who is the quote hard-ass bitch who employs him? Three: Who is looking for him—besides us, I mean?” He glanced my way and gave me a look. I gave him a look back. “And that leads to all the subquestions: Did Dewey break into Bo’s room at the hospice and … kidnap you? How the hell could he have managed that?”

  What was this? Me kidnapped? That didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Meanwhile we seemed to be driving along a road that bordered a vineyard. I tried to settle into the world of smells and smells alone, a very interesting world where … whoa! Where all the questions have answers! What a thought! I hoped no more like it came around anytime soon.

  “But somehow he did manage it,” Bernie went on. “Did he have help? From the quote hard-ass bitch, maybe? Was he working for her? What would her reason have been?” He gave me an elbow, not at all hard, the way good buddies do. “A lot of loose strings to pull on, huh? Better than having none.”

  We were good buddies, me and Bernie, and also more than that. But there were no loose strings in the Porsche, or any strings at all, for that matter. I hoped he wouldn’t be too disappointed. At the same time I had the strange feeling I already knew the answers to some of his questions. Me, Chet! Maybe they would come to me. In the meantime, I let myself get lost in the sweet sweet smell of grapes under a hot sun and was even considering a brief nap when Bernie pulled over to the side of the road.

  A gentle hill sloped down from the roadside, planted with rows of vines. Off in the distance on the valley floor stood a few adobe buildings. Had I seen all this before, but from a different angle? Bernie turned and gave me the quiet sign, finger across his lips. I loved the quiet sign, hadn’t seen it in way too long.

  We got out of the car. No way you would have heard us if you’d been there. Well, no way you’d have heard me. A few rows over—oh, those smells so lovely, if I hadn’t been a total pro I might have had trouble concentrating on the job—a man knelt on the ground,
eyes closed and hands pressed together in front of his chest, a sweat-stained cowboy hat lying beside him. Some humans prayed from time to time. This was how they did it. As to what it was all about, I wasn’t sure. None of the humans I knew well did any praying—not Suzie, Eliza, Charlie, Leda, Malcolm, Rick Torres, Captain Stine—although more than one of our perps had sort of … prayed to Bernie, falling to their knees, pressing their hands together, and saying, “C’mon, man, cut me a break.” Whoa! So maybe I did know what prayer was about: getting cut a break. Yes? No? Maybe? I guess I really didn’t know. But I’ve left out something important: I’d once seen Bernie pray.

  This was back on the horrible broom closet case, the only missing-kid case we didn’t solve. Well, we did solve it, but too late. The little girl’s name was Gail. We were on our way, pedal to the metal, bringing the wind, the night moonless but full of stars, both of us hunched over, when Bernie took his hands off the wheel, pressed them together in front of his chest and said, “Please don’t let us be late.”

  I didn’t know who he was talking to and in the end we were late. Later we took care of justice on our own. There. That was all I knew about prayer.

  This old praying man, dressed like a field worker in dusty denims, was someone we knew. Last time he’d been real angry at us, maybe because Bernie had eaten one of his grapes. Whoa! Was that a clue? Hadn’t I heard Bernie say clues were important in my business? Yes! And now, I, Chet the Jet, had come up with a clue all by myself! Not only that, but I knew exactly how to put this clue in action. The time had come for me to eat a grape or two myself. I was sizing up a big purply cluster hanging from the nearest vine, when the old man, Diego Torrez, if I was remembering right, opened his eyes. He saw us, looked alarmed, then confused, and finally angry.

  “Praying for rain?” Bernie said, his voice gentle.

  Diego gazed at Bernie in silence. Then he nodded a small nod, hardly any movement at all. “You a pastor?” he said.

  Bernie shook his head.

  “But I’ve seen you before. In church, maybe?”

  “No, sir,” Bernie said. “I’m the one you caught eating your grapes.”

  Diego gave Bernie a closer look. “Now why’d you go and do a thing like that?”

  “I guess I was trying to educate myself,” Bernie said.

  “About what?”

  “Mourvèdre, it turns out.”

  “You know something about Mourvèdre?” Diego started to get up, had some trouble. Bernie gave him a hand.

  “Not really.”

  Diego faced Bernie. A bowlegged old man, maybe trembling a bit. I liked him. “But you’ve drunk some?”

  “Yes.”

  “Such as?”

  “Turkey Flat, for one,” Bernie said.

  “Goddamn Aussies,” said Diego. “Tried mine?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I liked it.”

  “Liked it? How’s that going to help me? What was your impression, man? How did it strike you?”

  “I don’t know much about wine language.”

  “Screw wine language! Wine language has scared off more potential drinkers than you can shake a stick at.”

  Sticks were in the conversation? A welcome development. I perked up.

  “Want a better starting point?” Diego was saying. “All wine is masculine, feminine, or a mix. So what’s Mourvèdre?”

  “On the masculine side,” said Bernie.

  “There you go.” Diego tilted his head sideways, like he was trying to see Bernie in a new way. Then he reached out to one of the grape clusters, plucked a grape and handed it to Bernie. “Try this.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “It’s mine,” said Diego. “If I want to give it away I can give it away.” He put his hand to his chest. “Mine, plus the sun’s and the earth’s,” he added.

  Bernie put the grape in his mouth. What about me? Was I getting a grape? It didn’t look that way. We were partners, me and Bernie, perhaps something Diego wasn’t clear on.

  “Chew slowly,” he said.

  Bernie chewed slowly.

  “Taste,” said Diego.

  Hello? Couldn’t I chew slowly? Couldn’t I taste? Yes to both, with the possible exception of the one about chewing slowly. I began to think that I actually wasn’t going to be included in this grape tasting. Fine. No problemo. I moved down the row a bit and marked a perfectly placed cluster of grapes, for no particular reason.

  “Well?” Diego said.

  Bernie swallowed. “The truth is it’s maybe not much of an eating grape.”

  “Of course not! It’s the raw material, for god’s sake. What else?”

  “I’m not sure I can really—”

  “What about juicy? Is it juicy?”

  “Yeah,” Bernie said. “Juicy for sure.”

  “You got that right,” Diego said. He toed the hard ground with his dusty boot. “Juicy as ever. Maybe even more so. But how is that possible?”

  “I don’t understand,” Bernie said.

  “Eighty percent of an average grape is water and these are higher than that. So what’s going on?”

  “Are you talking about the lack of rain?”

  “Not just that,” said Diego. “Ever heard of aquifers?”

  Bernie nodded.

  “We got an aquifer right under our feet,” Diego said. “Been feeding vines up here for centuries. And now it’s drying up, squeezed out like a sponge. So how come my grapes are so juicy?”

  “How do you know the aquifer’s drying up?” Bernie said.

  “Seen the report,” said Diego.

  “What report?”

  “Scientific report on the aquifer.”

  “Who prepared it?”

  “Couldn’t tell you,” Diego said. “But it’s been kickin’ around for a few years.” He gazed over the vineyard. “And I’m an old man, so these decisions aren’t up to me. Worse thing you can do—try to dictate what happens after you go. But … but that’s not the same as prayin’, is it?” He turned to Bernie. “So yes, sir, I’m praying for rain.”

  He looked up at the sky, clear blue, not a cloud. But I actually didn’t need to see. I can sort of feel when rain is coming. There wasn’t going to be a single drop, not for quite some time.

  “What decisions are you talking about?” Bernie said.

  Diego spread his arms real wide, like he was getting ready to hold something big. “Gila Wines,” he said. “What to do with it, the whole future.”

  “But what’s the future if the water’s drying up?” Bernie said.

  Diego shot him an angry look. “You been talking to my son?”

  “No,” Bernie said. “Well, yes, but not about this. He invited me to the monthly tasting.”

  Diego stuck out his chin. “Slippery answer if I ever heard one. You a slippery customer, by any chance—what’s your name again?”

  “Bernie Little. And this is…”

  He looked for me at his side, but as I’ve already mentioned I’d wandered off slightly and now it seemed I’d wandered some more and was now … marking another grape cluster, meaning I’d saved a spurt or two for marking purposes without even having to think about it. So nice when the body takes over sometimes and does the thinking for you.

  “… Chet,” Bernie finished up.

  Diego gazed at me. I gazed back, not much else I could do, what with one back leg raised up like it was.

  “Sorry,” Bernie said, “he—”

  “Nothing to apologize for,” said Diego. “Tell you a secret. The night before every harvest I come out here by myself and piss on a vine. For luck, you understand. My daddy did the same thing, and his daddy before him. It’s a family tradition.”

  What a great family! I started feeling very good about the case. As for what it was about, exactly, those details would come to me soon, or later, or not at all. But the important thing was that we were cooking, me and Bernie.

  “You got any family yourself?” Diego said.
r />   “A son,” said Bernie.

  “How old?”

  “Almost seven.”

  “The easy days. My Jimmy’s forty-five. The not-so-easy days.”

  “You’re having disagreements about the winery?”

  Diego’s eyebrows, white and shaggy, rose. “How’d you know that?”

  “You pretty much told me.”

  “I did?” Diego’s eyes got an inward look. He took a deep breath. “We got an offer to sell out. Not a bad offer. Decent, in fact. Jimmy wants to take it. Makes sense, I can see that, with the aquifer being squeezed dry.”

  “Who’s the buyer?”

  He shrugged. “Some outfit. Swiss, maybe. Can’t remember the name.”

  “But isn’t there some sort of discovery attached to the sale?” Bernie said.

  “Sure,” Diego said. “We showed them the report. They didn’t blink an eye. Who knows? Maybe they want a tax loss. Maybe they’re wine hobby types. Jimmy says who cares.”

  “But it’s hard to let go,” Bernie said.

  “Not just that. The thing is … Bernie, was it?”

  “Yup.”

  “The thing is, Bernie, the grapes are so juicy. That’s been bothering me. I even mentioned it to Wendy.”

  “Who’s Wendy?”

  “An old friend from grade school. Haven’t kept up at all, but when you go way back like that there’s always a connection. So I looked him up.”

  “Wendy’s a he?” Bernie said.

  “Nickname for Wendell—what the kids used to call him. Wendell Nero—he went into hydrology. I only learned that recently. Bottom line: we talked and he seemed interested, interested enough to start looking into things in Dollhouse Canyon, just over the rise. Then a terrible thing happened—maybe you heard about it?”

  “Tell me,” Bernie said.

  “He got murdered in an armed robbery,” said Diego. “They caught the bastard, thank god. I felt so bad.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was there on account of me, doing a favor.”

  “You’re not responsible,” Bernie said. “Unless you were involved in the murder.”

  Little splotches appeared on Diego’s face. “What the hell? Who are you anyway, asking all these questions?”

  Bernie handed him our card. Diego held it at arm’s length and peered at it. “What’s it say?”