Bow Wow

by Spencer Quinn

  “Forget it.”

  “Just like that? You’ve got a great voice, Birdie. Everyone says so.”

  “Name one actual person.”

  “Mr. Savoy.”

  “The librarian?”

  “He says you’ve got music in your blood.”

  Uh-oh. I’d tasted human blood on a number of occasions, some of them pretty action packed, but did not recall any music in the mix.

  “He’s talking about Grammy’s father,” Birdie said. “Mr. Savoy found a record he made. But that doesn’t mean—”

  “Sure it does! Ever heard of Bach?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. But Mr. Savoy says music ran in his family for, like, centuries. And then there’s your name—Birdie. Think that happened for no reason?”

  “It happened because it’s a good southern name, and my parents couldn’t agree on anything else.”

  “Got to be more to it than that. The word fate mean anything to you?”

  “It’s my fate to be in a band with you and Nola?”

  “You got it!”

  Birdie gave Junior a long look. For a moment, she reminded me of Grammy! How was that possible? A weird and frightening thought—I got rid of it at my very fastest. “Tell you what,” Birdie said. “I’m in if Nola’s in—which, by the way, will be never.”

  “Wrong on that one,” said Junior. “She already said yes.”

  “What?”

  “The lure of fame is strong, my friend,” Junior said. He handed Birdie a pencil on his way out of the store. “I think we should aim for a written song by lunchtime.”

  NOT LONG AFTER THAT, GRAMMY APPEARED.

  “Any customers?”

  “Not yet, Grammy. But it’s early.”

  “Hrrmf.”

  “But someone came by looking for Snoozy.” She handed Grammy the card that the little wiry dude—Captain Deke Waylon—had given her.

  Grammy peered at it. “Waylon?” she said. “Would that be one of those good-for-nothing Waylons from down in Baie LaRouche?”

  “I don’t know, Grammy. How come they’re good for nothing?”

  “Corner cutters, each and every one, going way back.”

  “What are corner cutters?”

  I was interested in the answer myself—corner cutting sounded like something speedy and fun—but Grammy had no time to explain, because the door opened and another person came in. All sorts of foot traffic this morning, although we didn’t seem to be doing any actual business, actual business meaning money passing from the customers’ hands to ours. Not mine personally, of course, although I’ve snapped up money in my mouth on more than one occasion. Always a thrill! Then comes the opposite of a thrill, when Grammy catches sight of what’s going on.

  But back to this new person, who turned out to be Sheriff Cannon, father of our pal Rory, which I might have mentioned already. The sheriff’s got the sort of face that’s hard to ignore, with a square chin, big nose, and bushy eyebrows. Also he’s tall and strong, and folks often back away a step or two when he’s around. Not Grammy. She backs away from nobody.

  “Hi, there, Miz Gaux,” he said. “And Birdie.”

  “Hi,” said Birdie.

  “Sheriff,” said Grammy.

  Sheriff Cannon looked down at Birdie. “Rory says hi.”

  “Hi back,” Birdie said.

  This conversation, although short so far, was not easy to follow.

  “We’re having a cookout week from Sunday,” the sheriff said. “He wondered if you’d like to drop by.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Birdie said.

  “And bring Bowser along—I’m guessing he’s a fan of cookouts.”

  Wow! The sheriff turned out to be a great guesser! I’d always been a little wary of the sheriff, but now I gave some serious consideration to going over to him and sitting on his foot, possibly even licking his hand.

  Meanwhile, Grammy was looking impatient. “You came here to invite Birdie to a cookout?”

  “No, ma’am,” the sheriff said, and he was the one who took a step back. “I’m actually looking for help with an investigation.”

  “What kind of investigation?”

  “Well, maybe it’s too soon to call it an investigation. What I need is your advice, as someone who knows our local waters better than anybody.”

  “Not so sure about that,” Grammy said.

  “Oh, Grammy,” said Birdie. “Who knows better than you?”

  Grammy shot her a sharp glance, Grammy language for zip it, partner. Birdie zipped it. “Go on, Sheriff,” she said.

  “You familiar with bull sharks?” he said.

  “Pah,” said Grammy.

  “Meaning you are?” the sheriff said. “Or you don’t like them? Or what?”

  “Who likes a bull shark?” Grammy said. “Have to be out of your mind.”

  “Is there anything particularly unlikable about them? Compared to other sharks?”

  “That’s a big subject,” Grammy said. “Let’s just put it this way: Bulls are big, aggressive, hang out close to shore, and don’t scare easy, suppose you wanted to shoo them away.”

  “Shoo them away?” said the sheriff. “I don’t understand.”

  “Ever done any spearfishing?” Grammy said.

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m talking about. Say you’re snorkeling out in the Gulf, and you just speared a nice red snapper, and all of a sudden, out of the gloom, comes a big bull shark who wants to take it away from you. Can’t let that happen, so you gotta shoo that shark away—except it’s hard to get them to cooperate, like I said.”

  Birdie’s eyes opened wide. “Were you a diver, Grammy?”

  “Not a scuba tank diver,” said Grammy. “What’s the sport in that? We were free divers.”

  “Who’s ‘we,’ Grammy?”

  “Me and my friends.”

  “Do I know any of them?”

  Grammy shook her head. “All gone now.”

  “Drowned?”

  “Drowned? Where’d you get an idea like that?”

  “I just thought—”

  “Whoa,” said the sheriff. “Can we back up a bit? This was all free diving?”

  “Didn’t I just explain that?” Grammy said.

  “What’s free diving?” said Birdie.

  “When you hold your breath,” the sheriff told her. He turned to Grammy. “How deep did you go?”

  “Not much compared to what they’re doing nowadays. Seventy, eighty feet or so.”

  “Grammy!”

  “And way down there a bull shark would sometimes try to take a fish off your spear?” the sheriff said.

  “Didn’t I just explain that?” Grammy said again.

  The sheriff nodded. “So I take it you must have shooed away some bull sharks successfully.”

  “Successfully? Where’d you get that idea?”

  “You’re still here,” the sheriff said.

  “But those darned sharks stole my fish every single time! Right off the spear! Sometimes they even tried to take my gun—can you imagine?”

  “How did you stop them?”

  “Bopped them on the snout, of course. How else do you shoo off a shark?”

  “Bopped them with what?” the sheriff said.

  “Why, the end of the spear gun barrel. Maybe my fist, once or twice.”

  “You—you punched a shark with your fist, Grammy?”

  “I was ticked,” said Grammy. “Most sharks, you bop them on the snout, they swim off. Not used to it, you see. Their normal prey just turns and tries to hightail it—exactly the wrong move. But your bull shark maybe backs off for a bit, and then sometimes comes in again. Which used to tick me off even more!”

  “So they’re more persistent than other sharks?” said the sheriff.

  “Didn’t I just explain?”

  What? Grammy was saying that again? I got the idea this conversation wasn’t going well. As for bull sharks, I was a little fuzzy on what they were. Something li
ke gators? I’d had a run-in with a gator once, had no desire to do it again. Then a thought came right up to the edge of my mind, a thought about pelicans. I got the feeling this was going to be an important thought but just like that—zip!—it vanished. Did I fret about that? Not for a second! That wouldn’t have been me.

  Meanwhile, the sheriff was starting to look a little ticked himself. “I’m just trying to get up to speed, Miz Gaux, if you’ll be patient.”

  Grammy crossed her arms over her chest. “Why?”

  “I’m coming to that,” the sheriff said. “First, is it true that bull sharks can survive in freshwater?”

  Grammy nodded.

  “How can they do that, Grammy?” Birdie said.

  “Kidneys,” said Grammy. “They got special kidneys.”

  “So finding bull sharks up rivers and bayous wouldn’t be surprising,” the sheriff said.

  “Can’t say I’d put it like that,” said Grammy. “A bit of a shock to most folks, especially if they’re swimming at the time.”

  “How far up rivers and bayous?” the sheriff said. “Like, in terms of our own bayou, for example.”

  “Don’t know for sure,” said Grammy. “Five, ten miles from the ocean, maybe.”

  “How about as far as Betencourt Bridge?”

  “Betencourt Bridge?” Grammy said. “That’s seven miles farther on up the bayou from us, and we’re thirty-three miles from the sea. There’s never been a bull shark in St. Roch, not as long as I’ve been here.”

  “But how can you be sure?” the sheriff said, adding “ma’am” when he caught the look crossing Grammy’s face.

  “You asked my opinion,” Grammy said. “I answered.”

  “Right,” the sheriff said. “But supposing a bull shark went by undetected. At night, say, underwater, and when you were asleep.”

  Grammy asleep? It did happen, but she was a very light sleeper, as I’d learned late one night when I’d caught a whiff of pizza left on the kitchen counter and set off silently down the hall. I’d relearned the same lesson several times after that—once with a burger and once with pizza, again. The point being: Nothing got past Grammy.

  The sheriff gazed down at her. Grammy gazed up at him. Some humans radiate a kind of force you can feel. The sheriff and Grammy were two of a kind that way, Grammy even more so.

  “How about doing me a favor?” the sheriff said at last.

  “Like what?” said Grammy.

  “I’ve got a citizen up in Betencourt Bridge who claims he had an encounter with a bull shark Thursday evening. Actually, the encounter was with his twelve-year-old son. They’re pretty upset—the dad went out on his boat blasting away with a twelve-gauge at what turned out to be shadows in the bayou, plus a catfish. I’d like you to come up there and help out, as a kind of expert witness.”

  “Was the son hurt?” Birdie said.

  “No physical damage,” the sheriff said. “But he got a pretty good scare thrown into him, and lost his rod and reel.”

  Then came a silence where Grammy seemed to be thinking and Birdie and the sheriff seemed to be watching her think.

  “Why not?” Birdie said. “Let’s do it, Grammy.”

  “Oh?” said Grammy. “And who’s going to mind the store?”

  Which was the moment the front door opened once again and Snoozy walked in. When were we going to get an actual paying customer?

  “Hey, everybody!” Snoozy said. Snoozy had on his usual outfit—sleeveless T-shirt, shorts with sagging cargo pockets, red flip-flops—and wore two pairs of sunglasses, one perched on his head, the other dangling on a Croakie around his neck. Snoozy had a large Croakie collection. This one was decorated with tiny mermaids. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Snoozy can watch the store,” Birdie said.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Snoozy. “Especially since that’s why I’m here!” And he started laughing like something funny had just happened. Snoozy was one of those people who shake when they laugh, meaning all his fish tattoos shook, too.

  No one else was laughing. “That’s exactly why you’re here, but not for much longer,” Grammy said.

  “Huh?” said Snoozy.

  “Do you realize you’re half an hour late?”

  Snoozy cast an alarmed glance at his wristwatch, only to find he wasn’t wearing one. But there was a blue crab tattoo on his wrist, which distracted him for a moment.

  Grammy’s voice sharpened. “Snoozy!”

  “Uh, sorry,” he said. “I’ll come in—what did you say? Half an hour? I’ll come in half an hour early next time, balance everything out nicely.”

  Grammy gave him a look I wouldn’t want to get. She turned to the sheriff. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

  We headed for the door, with me nosing ahead of Sheriff Cannon just as we went through, the sheriff grunting, but not necessarily in pain: I’d hardly brushed his knee. What’s important is that I got out first, as I’m sure the sheriff would tell you when he’s in a good mood. Getting through doorways first is part of my job, although it’s hard to explain why.

  “Hey! Where’s the party?” Snoozy said.

  Grammy handed him Deke Waylon’s card on our way out.

  “What’s this?” Snoozy said.

  By that time we were in the parking lot, the door closing firmly behind us.

  “This, uh, gentleman up in Betencourt Bridge is new to the parish,” the sheriff said we drove onto the highway.

  We were all in his cruiser—Grammy up front in the shotgun seat, my favorite spot in any vehicle, although I was cool with the setup this time, on account of having Birdie beside me in the back.

  “Hails from up north,” the sheriff went on. “Chicago, or maybe Milwaukee.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Grammy, not sounding interested. I was with her on that. Where were we going? Why? I had no idea. But car rides were always fun. Sometimes, for example, you came upon a car with a cat lying on the shelf by the rear window! And then you barked your head off at that stuck-up little critter! Makes your whole day, every time. I sat up straighter.

  “What’s he doing here, this guy from up north?” Birdie said.

  “Important question,” said the sheriff. “Mr. Kronik is building call centers.”

  “What are those?” Birdie said.

  The sheriff glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Like when you call because your computer’s frozen, or your remote’s gotten screwy, or there’s a mistake in a credit card bill. That voice on the other end is coming from a call center.”

  “Call centers in Betencourt Bridge?” Grammy said.

  “Cheapest land in the parish,” said the sheriff.

  “And cheapest labor, too,” said Grammy.

  “I don’t know the stats on that.”

  “Don’t need stats. Just look around at how folks live.”

  I looked around, saw cane fields on one side, the bayou on the other, and in the distance flares rising from a gas well, fiery orange against the big blue sky. No actual folks around except for us, and we seemed to be living just fine. What more could we want? A cat to bark at?

  Grammy twisted around in my direction. “What in heck’s he barkin’ about?”

  “Bowser,” Birdie said, putting her hand on my back.

  Barking? That was me? I was barking at … at nothing. So maybe there was no good reason. I got a grip in no time flat, went so silent you wouldn’t have known I was there.

  We drove into a town, smaller than St. Roch, not as nicely kept up, and even the bayou wasn’t as blue. “Betencourt Bridge,” the sheriff said.

  “Where’s the bridge?” said Birdie.

  “Got blown up in the Civil War,” said the sheriff.

  “A long time ago,” Birdie said.

  “Hrrmf,” said Grammy.

  The sheriff followed a road beside the bayou, which soon widened into a big lake with yellow earthmovers crawling around a big construction site at one end and a marina at the other. We parked at the marina and walked down to t
he dock, where a very big houseboat was tied up.

  “Mostly house, not much boat” was something Grammy often said about houseboats, and this one—so tall and wide—was like that and even more so. A man was pacing back and forth on the top deck, a cell phone at each ear. Sheriff Cannon waved to him. The man ignored him, kept pacing and talking, sounding pretty angry on one phone and really angry on the other. He disappeared behind the wheelhouse, and when he reappeared both phone conversations were over, the phones clipped to his belt. He looked down at us.

  “Gannon?” he said.

  “Cannon,” said the sheriff. “Sheriff Cannon.”

  “Uh-huh,” said the man. “And what?”

  He was short and very thick, his neck especially, and wore one of those neatly trimmed beards you don’t see much around these parts, most of our bearded dudes sporting the unruly type. I prefer unruly beards on account of how food morsels can get caught in them and sometimes, if you’re lucky, fall to the floor. Unless you catch them in midair, of course—one of my specialties.

  “And what?” said the sheriff.

  “I mean,” the man said, “how come you’re back here?”

  “Just following up on our talk.”

  “What for? We told you the whole story. Meanwhile, that killer is out there waiting for his next victim.” He made a jabbing motion toward the water.

  “Not sure there’s been a victim yet,” the sheriff said.

  “Am I hearing right? Have you forgotten Holden?”

  “Well, he wasn’t actually hurt.”

  “Not hurt? The kid was traumatized!”

  “I meant physically,” the sheriff said. The man started sputtering something, but the sheriff talked over him. “What I’d like to do first is gather some more information. I’ve brought an expert on our local waters. Mr. Miles Kronik, meet Miz Claire Gaux.”

  “How do,” said Grammy.

  Mr. Miles Kronik glanced down at Grammy and said nothing.

  “Can we come aboard?” said the sheriff.

  That was when Kronik noticed me for the first time. “Is that a dog?” he said.

  Wow! I’d already gotten the idea that this dude was from somewhere else, but somewhere else without dogs? Like he was seeing one for the first time? What a shocker! Who’d even want to live there, a dogless place? Not me, buster. And of course I … I actually couldn’t. At that point I got confused and might have lost the thread.