The door to Hoskin’s office opened and out he came. But not alone. There was another dude with him, a salt-and-pepper-haired dude in a dark suit, with the face some men get after years of bossing around others. Hey! Hadn’t I seen him before? Outside that club with the studded wooden door? Meeting Suzie? Wow! Was I on fire or what?
They got in Hoskin’s Porsche and drove away. After them, Bernie! Floor it! Burn rubber! Make them eat our dust!
But we just sat there. Bernie got on the phone.
“Suzie?”
“Oh, hi, Bernie, that was so much—”
“Who is Loudon DeBrusk?”
“Loudon? I don’t understand. He’s not a friend or anything like—”
“But who is he?”
“Bernie? Is something wrong?”
Bernie came close to raising his voice. “Just tell me.”
“Loudon DeBrusk is a financial manager. He runs the Veritan University Endowment Fund.”
“What’s that?”
“All wealthy colleges and universities are sitting on piles of money, which they invest, with all kinds of tax advantages. Veritan’s is one of the biggest—one hundred billion dollars and rising.”
“You’re doing a story on endowment funds?” Bernie said.
“Partly.”
“Veritan’s in particular?”
“Partly.”
Silence from Bernie.
“Well, mostly,” Suzie went on. “Sorry to be so vague, Bernie. Too soon to talk about it, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh,” said Bernie.
“But what’s your interest in Loudon?” she said.
“Too soon to talk about it,” said Bernie. He turned the key and pulled onto the street.
“Oh, please don’t—” Suzie began, but then the phone did one of those fadeouts. “Bernie? I’m losing you.” And then there was just fuzziness, more fadeouts, and silence.
Twenty-four
Late that night while we were sleeping—Bernie in his bed, and me by the front door where I can keep a nose on things, if that makes any sense, and I hope it does since keeping a nose on things has worked very well for me my whole life so far—the phone rang. Late-night phone calls happen sometimes in our business. It’s the same ring but it doesn’t sound the same as the ring at any other time. I trotted down the hall and into Bernie’s room. He was sitting up in bed, moonlight gleaming on his eyes and the phone in his hand.
“Hello,” Bernie said.
“This Bernie Little the PI?” said a man on the other end. Here’s something you should know about me: I can usually hear the other end of a phone call whether it’s on speaker or, like now, not on speaker.
“Who’s this?” Bernie said, maybe asking a question he already knew the answer to. I sure did.
“Name’s Dewey.”
Bernie said nothing, just swung around and got his feet on the floor.
“We met,” Dewey said. “Over at the college, kind of a surprise at the time. I was Uncle Wendell’s nephew.”
“And now who are you?” Bernie said.
“Dewey. I already told you.”
“But in what role, Dewey? That’s the question.”
“Role? Like, um…”
“Have you and Mig kissed and made up?” Bernie said. “Let’s start there.”
“Huh? What do you know about Mig?”
“Wrong answer,” Bernie said.
Silence on Dewey’s end. Bernie rose, headed down the hall and into our office, where we’ve got a rug I love. It has an elephant pattern. Once we’d had a case involving a real elephant, name of Peanut. She’s never been in the house, of course—what a nightmare that would have been—but ever since that case our office smelled of elephant. How do you like them apples? As for apples, Bernie and I eat them together, he taking care of the outer part and me the cores.
Dewey spoke at last. “How come you’re making all this trouble?” he said. “I’m trying to do a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“I’ve got something you want and I’ll listen to offers.”
Cradling the phone with his chin and shoulder—perhaps a difficult move and never one that shows the human face to best advantage, in my opinion—Bernie removed the waterfall painting from the wall and set it on the floor.
“What is it you’ve got?” he said.
Behind the waterfall painting is the safe. Bernie spun the dial and took out the .38 Special. What a nice sight! Hadn’t seen the .38 Special in way too long. Was there some way Bernie could shoot Dewey over the phone? Whoa! What a strange thought, and totally impossible, I supposed, although could you ever count Bernie out on anything? There’s only one answer.
“Something with your name on it,” Dewey said.
“The page you cut out of Wendell Nero’s appointment book?” Bernie said.
“Uh, yeah. How’d you know that?”
“What do you want for it?”
Dewey laughed one of those little laughs possibly called a chuckle. “How much is it worth to you?”
“That depends,” Bernie said. “How many players are involved?”
“Players?”
“Have you got partners, Dewey?”
“You talking about Mig again? Him and me are done—which you’d know if you really knew anything.”
“What about the hard-ass bitch?”
“Who the hell are you talking about?”
“The woman who hires you for contract work.”
Dewey went silent. We left the office, went back to the bedroom. Bernie laid the .38 Special on his pillow—a sight that bothered me for some reason—then pulled on a pair of jeans and tucked the gun in his waistband. I felt much better.
“What do you know about her?” Dewey said.
“Not much,” said Bernie. “Who is she?”
Another silence, not as long, but long enough for Bernie to slide his feet into sneakers, new ones I couldn’t even smell, at least not from outside the house.
“You don’t know?” Dewey said.
“Why would I be asking?”
“If it was a trap, that’s why,” said Dewey. “And you were working for her.”
“You’re not making much sense,” Bernie said.
“No? Then how’s this? You can have her name, too, as well as the appointment thing—a twofer. That’s the kind of guy I am. Basically.”
“What’s the number?” Bernie said.
“Let’s make it a low low low ten K,” said Dewey.
“Five,” Bernie said.
Ten K? Five? Low low low? All of it puzzling. I settled on the low low low part, which went best with our finances. Bernie could be a very good negotiator, a fact maybe not widely known.
“Nine five,” said Dewey. “Final price.”
“I need proof you’ve got the page.”
“Why else would I go to all this trouble?”
“Do we have time for all the possible answers?” Bernie said. “Take a picture of the page and send it.”
“Think I’m stupid? If I do that, you wouldn’t need the page!”
For a moment I thought Bernie would smile, but he did not, didn’t even come close. “Crop it,” he said.
“And then we’re on for nine five?”
“If the picture looks right.”
They clicked off. Bernie finished getting dressed. “Drink some water, big guy.”
I have many water bowls around the house. I chose the one in the front hall, the biggest and also usually the coolest, what with the tiny breeze always coming through the crack under the door. Then we went out and sat in the car.
Ping!
Bernie checked his phone. He held it up, eyeing the screen this way and that. I saw what appeared to be a sheet of paper with writing at the top and the back of a man’s hand resting on the bottom, the writing disappearing under his thumb. “‘A.M.,’” Bernie read. “‘Bernie Little, friend of the Rusks, re Little C and Big C’ something or other. The next word starts with ‘a.’” Bernie
turned to me. “A is for aggravating, big guy.”
Uh-oh. A tricky one. I tried to get my head around this whole new thing but it kept kind of sidestepping me, and then it was gone completely, except for the big guy part. So we were good to go!
Bernie peered more closely. “What’s this between Dewey’s fingers?”
Whoa! Those were Dewey’s fingers? That was Dewey’s hand? Bernie had figured that out all by himself? At that moment I knew one thing for sure: we were going to be rich. Maybe not soon, but one day. What a great feeling!
“It kind of looks like the top of a cup or something like that, and then the top of something next to it, like a spout or…” He flipped open the glove box, found a crumpled envelope and a pen, started in on a drawing, greenish in the glove box light. The phone rang.
“Well?” said Dewey.
“It’s a deal,” Bernie said. “How about we meet in Dollhouse Canyon?”
“Where’s that?” Dewey said.
Bernie’s eyes shifted toward me, like he was including me in something. I had no idea what, but still, how thoughtful of him! “Don’t know Dollhouse Canyon?” he said.
“Never heard of it,” said Dewey. “And I’ll name the place, thanks just the same.”
“Then name it.”
“You know the old fire lookout tower off Franco Road?”
“Yeah.”
“Meet you there in an hour. Nine five. Cash.”
“It’ll take me longer than that to get there,” Bernie said.
“Not at this time of night,” said Dewey. “I googled the drive time.” He did that chuckling thing again. “Way ahead of you, buddy.” Click.
* * *
Ah, night. Night with the moon, the stars, the open road, and us, me and Bernie. Don’t forget about our ride, the oldest Porsche we’ve ever owned. It’s the kind of car that anyone with an ear for picking up new sounds would love, and I happen to have two ears just like that. Right now, for example, there was a tiny thweep thweep coming from the engine and a croomph croomph, even tinier, from somewhere below, both appearing for the first time. I wondered what Mindy Jo was up to tonight.
We climbed up above the Valley, huge and all lit up below. Was everyone asleep? How could they be, with all those lights on? Humans need their sleep. That’s one of the most important things you learn about them. I like just about all the humans I’ve ever met, including most of the perps and gangbangers, but I like them better when they’ve had a good night’s sleep.
We switchbacked up a steep ridge over to the other side, and all those lights disappeared. Sometimes Bernie says you can drive backwards in time. I was in the mood to hear him say it again, but instead he said, “He googled the drive time. Is it possible, Chet, there’s a law that says as technology gets smarter people get stupider?”
That didn’t have the sound of an easy question. We were on the side of the law, of course, me and Bernie. But wait. Didn’t I remember Bernie telling someone we were on the side of justice? I even remembered who it was—Deputy Beasley! Hadn’t seen him in some time and didn’t miss him a bit. Now all I had to do was tie this together and—
And then Bernie said something I knew I’d never forget. “Let’s call it Chet’s Law.”
Chet’s Law? Chet’s Law! Had I ever heard anything so wonderful? I let Bernie know exactly how I was feeling, big time. We did a three sixty, maybe two of them, but ended up not going off the ledge, the road having turned into a sort of track with sheer drop-offs on both sides while I wasn’t paying the closest attention.
Up and up we climbed, higher and higher, and at last a spindly watchtower rose before us in the moonlight. Right away I caught the aromas of booze and weed, but neither of them recent.
“They were supposed to tear it down last year,” Bernie said.
Was that why we were here? To tear down the old watchtower? Did that kind of job pay well?
A motorcycle stood at the base of the tower, moonlight gleaming on its chrome. We parked beside it, got out of the car, looked around. There wasn’t much to see—a small, flat table of land with those steep drop-offs on all sides and distant lights shining here and there, dim in the desert darkness.
A man called from above, a man I wasn’t a fan of, namely Dewey. “Come on up.”
“You come down,” Bernie said.
“Dude. Got you in my sights. Up.”
Bernie’s gaze went to the stairs leading up the tower to the little boxy room on top, a rickety-looking staircase with no rails or risers, and some treads missing, and then to me. He crouched down, took my face in his hands, and said, “I need you to stay, Chet. Hear me? Sit down, now, and stay. I’ll be right back.”
I stayed on my feet. Not because I didn’t understand. I understood perfectly. Also not because I was refusing to cooperate, although maybe I was. But who could blame me? Staying down here while Bernie went up the tower on his own? What kind of teamwork was that? We were a team, me and Bernie, had always been a team—except maybe for the time before we met—and would be a team forever.
Bernie smiled. “Counting on you for backup, big guy. Just sit and stay for a few minutes, okay?”
I was backup? That was different, backup being an important job in our line of work. I sat. I stayed.
Bernie started climbing the stairs, the moonlight glinting on the hammer of the .38 Special, tucked in his belt at the back. Up and up he climbed, and what was this? I seemed to be up myself, at least up on my feet, rather than sitting. But I was not moving even the slightest bit, just staying in place, and wasn’t staying the whole point of the sit stay? Sitting, standing, what’s the difference? As long as you’re not moving! Anyone can sit, my friends, but not everyone can stay, far from it. I heard Bernie’s voice in my head: What a good boy! How nice of him! I kept on staying, staying better than I’d ever done. Don’t forget I’m a pro.
Bernie climbed the stairs, not fast, not slow, but just right. We were in control, baby. I didn’t see or hear any movement on the little roofed platform on top, but I could smell a man up there, specifically Dewey. Once I smell someone it’s forever. I could also pick up the scent of the .38 Special, even though Bernie hadn’t fired it in some time. What else? Mesquite, no surprise there, plus one of those cute little tortoises, so much fun to flip them on their backs and—
Whap whap whap.
What was that?
Whap whap whap. Very faint, but out there in the night: the sound of a helicopter. I scanned the sky, saw no moving lights. There were only the moon and stars. They moved, too. I hadn’t known that for the longest time. Then all at once, on a night stakeout, it had come to me. The moon and stars are on the move, but very very slowly. It actually makes me uneasy, hard to explain why. I’d rather not have known.
As for the helo, the sound faded and faded, almost down to nothing. But not quite nothing. I stayed.
Twenty-five
Bernie grunted once or twice as he climbed the stairs. From the platform above came Dewey’s voice. “Got you in my sights.”
“You already said that,” Bernie told him.
“Just giving you fair warning. I like to be straight up with people.”
“What about with dogs?” Bernie said. He reached the edge of the platform and for a moment the whole of Bernie was silhouetted against the moon. I wanted to be right there with him! Why couldn’t I be? Then I remembered: I was backup. I stayed where I was, although actually I wasn’t quite where I’d been, at the foot of the stairs, but possibly up a step or even two.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dewey said.
“Think back,” said Bernie, as he stepped onto the platform and disappeared from view. But at that last instant, and moving so quick, the way he can when things are getting exciting, Bernie reached behind him and whipped out the gun.
CRACK! A gunshot, fired in the darkness up there, specifically the .38 Special. I know the sound of our own gun, goes without mentioning. Then came the clatter of something heavy, possibly metal, falling on
the platform floor.
“Ow,” cried Dewey, “you sneaky bastard!”
“Let’s see that hand,” Bernie said.
“You shot me!”
“Just a graze, if that,” Bernie said. “I was aiming for your gun.”
“Who the hell do you think you are? Some kind of trick shot?”
Well, of course he was! Better that Dewey learned that a little on the late side, rather than never at all. He was sitting on the floor—by now I seemed to be up on the platform myself—holding one hand in the other, and Bernie was crouching over him. Was there some reason I shouldn’t be here? None that came to me. I spotted a gun—had to be Dewey’s—lying on the floor, snapped it up and brought it to Bernie. He glanced at me, kind of in surprise, which made no sense. It was me, Chet the Jet. His mind must have been elsewhere, but he got a grip at once.
“Good boy, Chet.” He took Dewey’s gun—just a little thing, hardly what you’d call a real gun, and stuck it in his pocket.
“Ow,” said Dewey. “Jeez, it hurts.”
We gazed at Dewey’s hand, me and Bernie. Was there a drop of blood on the edge of the thumb? I couldn’t quite make it out.
“You’re going to be fine,” Bernie said.
“The hell with you. I thought you were one of the so-called good guys.”
“That’s it exactly,” Bernie said. “I’m taking you in.”
“In where?”
“To the cops,” Bernie said. “Theft, two counts. Count one, the page from Wendell Nero’s appointment book. Count two, which shouldn’t be theft at all in my book, but kidnapping, was the abduction of Chet.”
Dewey’s eyes shifted my way. More or less just for fun, I showed him my teeth. He looked somewhere else real quick.
Whap whap whap.
I’d almost forgotten about the helo. Was that whap whap whap getting louder? Maybe a bit.
Bernie held out his hand.
“What about the nine five?” Dewey said.
Of Mutts and Men Page 20
