Bow Wow

by Spencer Quinn

  —and got there in no time. Birdie placed the order and we went to wait at one of the picnic tables out back. There was one customer already there, a rumply-haired kid with a strange jumble of teeth, some little, some big. Birdie rocked the same jumbly look when it came to teeth, except it worked better on her. But that wasn’t the point. The point? The customer was Rory, a good buddy of ours, and son of Sheriff Cannon.

  Rory didn’t notice us right away. His head was down and he appeared to be staring at nothing. I do that, too! A nice way to relax from time to time, zone out, clear your head. Nothing like a clear head, absolutely empty, to make you feel on top of things. But Rory didn’t seem to be having a nice, relaxing time. In fact, he had that brooding look humans sometimes get.

  “Hey, Rory,” Birdie said.

  He looked up. I like to see a lively expression on a human face—the same way a wagging tail is a good thing!—so Rory’s face was a bit of a letdown.

  “Hi, Birdie,” he said.

  “Wha’cha doin’?” Birdie said.

  “Waiting for a pizza.”

  “Same.”

  Birdie sat down across from Rory at his table. Usually when kids meet up, there’s a whole buzz of chitchat right from the get-go—like they can hardly wait to get started—but not this time. Rory had a drink in a plastic cup. He swirled the ice around for a bit, and then, still staring into the cup, said, “Junior Tebbets.”

  “What about him?”

  “Heard you and him are cutting a record.”

  “I wouldn’t call it cutting a record. And Nola’s part of it, too.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “WSBY’s having a song contest. We’re entering.”

  “You and Junior.”

  “And Nola.”

  “Uh-huh, sure.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.” Rory swirled the ice around some more. “You don’t think he’s a little weird?”

  “Weird how?”

  Rory shrugged. “He doesn’t play any sports.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “But you could, if you didn’t help out in the store after school. You’re fast and you’ve got a great arm.”

  Hey! I remembered about Birdie’s arm from the day she pitched Rory out of his hitting slump. That was the best baseball I’d ever tasted.

  “And anyway,” Rory went on, “fishing’s your sport—you said so yourself.”

  “Not sure where you’re going with this,” Birdie said.

  I was with her on that. Truth is, I’m usually not sure where any human is going with anything! With Birdie, of course, you always know you’ll end up someplace good.

  “Nowhere.” Rory raised his cup, downed what was left, including an ice cube or two. All at once he started choking and pounding his chest and staggering around. In other words, something had gone wrong. I was all set to get pretty excited, but Birdie just said, “Ice cube?”

  Rory nodded his head kind of frantically and said, “Rrmmgh, rrmmgh.”

  “Just relax. Breathe through your nose. It’ll melt.” Birdie didn’t even get up.

  Rory staggered around some more, maybe trying to do what she’d told him. After a few moments of that, he paused, gulped, straightened, took a deep breath, and said, “Whew.” He turned to Birdie. “Uh, thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “Where’d you learn that?”

  “Grammy.”

  Rory sat back down, now looking more like his usual self. “What’s the song about?”

  “Bull sharks,” Birdie said. “Actually, this one particular bull shark that’s maybe in the bayou. There’s a fifty-thousand-dollar bounty. Heard about it?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “‘Oh, yeah’ meaning …”

  Now he looked down again. “Can’t say.”

  “Can’t say what?”

  His voice rose. “If I can’t say, I can’t say.” He looked up and glared at her.

  “Fine,” Birdie said. “Keep it to yourself.” Silence. “Whatever’s bothering you.”

  More silence. Then Rory sighed. “Birdie?”

  “Yes?”

  “You have to promise not to tell.”

  “I promise.”

  “You have to swear.”

  “I swear.”

  “That’s not an official swear. It has to be on something.”

  “Like what?”

  Rory glanced around. His gaze settled on me, scratching behind my ear and minding my own business. “Bowser. Swear on Bowser’s head.”

  Birdie touched my head and said, “I swear.”

  Was this some new game? Not very promising so far. I preferred the old ones, fetch, for example.

  “I told my dad,” Rory said.

  “Told him what?”

  “That I wouldn’t tell anybody.”

  “Right,” said Birdie. “But I swore.”

  Rory nodded, sighed another time or two, and sort of blurted, “We’re moving.”

  “Where?”

  “Betencourt Bridge for now—well, not now, but in the spring. And maybe later to Chicago.”

  “How come?”

  “My dad’s been offered this new job. He’s not gonna run for sheriff in the spring.”

  “What new job?”

  “The bounty guy you mentioned.”

  “Mr. Kronik?”

  “Yeah. He’s doubling my dad’s pay to come head up security for all the development he’s got going in the state.”

  “I thought it was just the call center.”

  “Way more to it,” Rory said. “And if everything works out Mr. Kronik might bring him up to Chicago to be on the executive committee of the whole company.”

  “What’s the executive committee?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  Then came another silence. Birdie got all thoughtful. Rory watched her think.

  LOVED THAT STRAWBERRY SHAKE,” GRAMMY said the next morning. “Set me up real good.”

  It was early, Birdie still in her pajamas, hair all wild and a tiny dried streak of drool on her cheek. Who could take their eyes off Birdie?

  “You don’t have to come in today,” Grammy went on. “There’s a two-hour swamp tour that I’ll handle, and Lem can watch the store.”

  “Yeah? You’re sure?”

  “You’re a kid. Kids are supposed to have fun.”

  “I am having fun.”

  “I think you’re worrying too much.”

  “I’m not, Grammy,” Birdie said. “Um, is there any word on Snoozy?”

  Grammy gave her a close look.

  “What?” Birdie said. “What?”

  “You don’t realize what you just did?”

  “What did I just—oh!” Birdie started laughing.

  Grammy laughed, too. “Proves my point. And if I hear from Snoozy, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Grammy left for work. Birdie and I had breakfast. “Grammy sure looks good today—like that strawberry shake was a magic potion.” Birdie went on about this and that for a while—a lovely sound—but I was mainly listening to the crunch crunch of my kibble, even lovelier. I was almost done when there was a knock on the door. Normally, I bark in no uncertain terms when someone knocks on the door, but this knock—bumpity bump bump—was Nola’s. I finished with breakfast in an unhurried way, or at least told myself I would, although the truth is I have only one eating style, namely gobbling up every last morsel as fast as possible.

  Nola came in, sat down, spooned herself some cereal from Birdie’s bowl. “Junior thinks we should have a name.”

  “A name for the band?”

  “Yeah. I suggested Birdie, Nola, and Junior. No go.”

  “He wants Junior first?”

  “Kind of. What he wants is Junior and His All-Stars. Actually Junior Tebbets and His Personal All-Stars, with all the letters of Junior Tebbets in capitals—at least that’s how it was on the napkin.”

  “Forget it.”

  “That’s
what I said. He said think of something better.”

  “Strawberry Shake.”

  “Huh?”

  “Isn’t that better?”

  “Yeah,” Nola said. “Can’t wait to see his reaction when we tell him. Mind if I put a little sugar on this?” She added sugar to Birdie’s cereal, helped herself to more. “Almost forgot,” she said, talking with her mouth full, not so easy to understand. “That corner-cutting guy? Charter boat captain or something?”

  “Deke Waylon?”

  “Yeah. He was in the store yesterday, buying a rifle. But Mom didn’t have the exact one he wanted. She ordered overnight. He’s coming back this morning.”

  Birdie was on her feet. Was something up? That would have been my guess, but as to what, I had no clue.

  Claymore’s General Store is a friendly place, sort of like Gaux Family Fish and Bait but much bigger. Also it doesn’t smell of fish and bait. There’s always a water bowl on the shaded porch out front. I wasn’t particularly thirsty, but a single sniff told me that one of my kind had been drinking here and not long ago. That meant he thought the bowl belonged to him! How crazy was that! This particular bowl, like all the other bowls I’d ever drunk from, was mine! Just to prove it once and for all, I lapped up every last drop from that bowl on the porch of Claymore’s General Store. On account of that, I didn’t follow Birdie and Nola inside right away. By the time I went through the swinging doors—squeezing through underneath, my go-to method when it comes to swinging doors—Birdie and Nola were standing in front of Mrs. Claymore, a short, round woman with a no-nonsense face but a warm and musical sort of voice that seemed to send the message that a little nonsense would be okay, after all. Kind of a complicated thought on my part, way beyond what I can usually do. So let’s skip ahead to what she was actually saying.

  “… Weatherby carbine. Paid cash.”

  “You mean he’s already been here?” Birdie said.

  “Left half an hour ago.”

  “Where did he go?” Birdie said.

  “Couldn’t tell you,” Mrs. Claymore said. “What’s up?”

  “Kind of a long story,” Birdie said.

  “About Snoozy LaChance,” Nola added.

  “Say no more,” said Mrs. Claymore. “Bound to make no sense if it’s about Snoozy. Let me check the paperwork.” She went over to the cash register, thumbed through some papers. “Here we go. Deke Waylon. Got an address down in Baie LaRouche—”

  “Baie LaRouche?” Birdie said.

  “… but in case the delivery came in last night, he wanted it brought over to his boat—the Dixie Flyer. He had it tied up over at East Bank Marine. Not sure if he’s still—”

  By that time, we were on our way. I had no idea where, but somehow I still managed to stay in the lead pretty much the whole time. We crossed the little square in front of Claymore’s General Store—a square with the statue of a soldier in the center, the flowerbeds around it neat and tidy—and headed down Lucinda Street to the bridge. And there, just off to the side, was Wally Tebbets’s food truck. The truck had a line out front and Wally, behind the counter, was doing several things at once. Junior sat in a lawn chair on the shady side of the truck, tapping his drumsticks on his knee and chewing gum. He looked up.

  “Hey! Guys!”

  Birdie and Nola glanced his way without breaking stride.

  “We’re good on the name?” he called after us. “Junior Tebbets and His Personal All-Stars?”

  “Not now,” Nola called back.

  “Not now you can’t talk about it?” Junior rose. “Or not now you’re not good on the name?”

  “Both,” Birdie yelled.

  We ran across the bridge, got on the boardwalk that lined the other side of the bayou all the way to the vet’s office, and—whoa! Were we on a visit to the vet? I like just about any visit you can name, but not that. Going to the vet always reminds me of my time in the shelter before Birdie came along and made everything right. So I kind of lagged back a little, letting Birdie and Nola get ahead. But I hated that. So I sprinted past them. But what about the vet? I lagged back. Then sprinted. Then lagged back. And was so busy with all that, I didn’t notice we’d gone past the vet’s place until it was well behind us and we were on a paved path.

  “What’s with him?” Nola was saying, in that panting voice humans have when they’re running.

  “Sometimes he gets in a state.”

  Who were they talking about? No time to get to the bottom of that, because we were just reaching a small marina—parking lot, office, drink machine, gas pumps, boats in slips along the dock. We slowed down, walked from boat to boat along the dock, Birdie checking the writing on the sterns.

  “Here we go,” she said. “Dixie Flyer.”

  I’m not what you’d call an expert when it comes to boats—nothing like Grammy—but when you work at Gaux Family Fish and Bait you get familiar with the basics. Dixie Flyer was not a nice boat. Nice boats don’t have stray ropes lying all over the place, or sandwich wrappers under the console, or bait buckets standing uncovered in the sun, or a fish half-cleaned near the fishing seats at the back, blood and guts spilled on the deck.

  “Kind of messy, huh?” Nola said.

  “A floating yard sale,” said Birdie. “That’s what Grammy calls a boat like this.” She turned toward the cabin up front and raised her voice. “Hey! Anybody on board?”

  Silence.

  “Aren’t you supposed to say ‘ahoy’?” Nola said.

  “Try it.”

  Nola cupped her hands to her mouth. “Ahoy! Ahoy there!”

  Silence. At that moment, Junior came running up, panting and sweating, his Mohawk slumped over to one side.

  “Hey,” he said. Pant, pant, pant. “What’s the hurry? You don’t like the ‘personal’ part? We could go with ‘His Hand-Picked All-Stars.’ Or—”

  “Junior, zip it,” Nola said. “This is something else.”

  “What?”

  “Snoozy’s disappeared,” Birdie said. “He might be on this boat.” She raised her voice again. “Snoozy! Snoozy! Are you in there? Are you okay?”

  Junior raised his voice even higher, so high it hurt my ears. “SNOOZY! WAKE UP!”

  “Never thought of that,” Nola said. “But it’s so obvious.”

  “Thanks,” Junior said.

  Nola yelled, “SNOOZY! WAKE UP!”

  Silence.

  “Nobody sleeps like Snoozy,” Junior said. “Guess we’ll have to …” And then he took a little jump and hopped on board, one of his flip-flops catching the top rail and falling into the bayou. Junior didn’t seem to notice. He headed toward the cabin.

  “Junior!” Birdie said. “You can’t board someone’s boat without permission.”

  “Yeah?” said Junior, knocking—actually more like pounding—on the cabin door.

  No sound from inside the cabin.

  “What if it’s an emergency?” Nola said.

  “Like the Titanic,” Junior said. “And you have to rescue the girl.”

  “But—” Birdie said.

  By then Junior had turned the knob, opened the door, and disappeared inside. Birdie turned to speak to Nola, but saw something over Nola’s shoulder, a sight that made her eyes open wide. I looked in that direction.

  What was this? We had company? No doubt about it: A small, wiry dude with long, stringy hair was coming our way. He looked kind of familiar. How come I hadn’t heard him? He must have been one of those quiet walkers, rare among humans. That realization got me so close to remembering his name. Then the wind shifted a bit and I caught a whiff of him. This dude smelled fishy. Had to be—Deke Waylon! Wow! Let’s hear it for Bowser!

  Birdie spoke in a strange voice, kind of a loud whisper. “Junior! Junior!”

  No answer from Junior.

  “Hey,” said Deke Waylon, shifting a long, hard case he was carrying from one hand to the other. You see those long, hard cases around these parts from time to time, especially during hunting season. “What’s goin
g on?”

  Birdie gave him a smallish wave. “We—we’re looking for Snoozy.”

  “Snoozy LaChance? What would he be doin’ here?” He gave Birdie a squinty look. “You’re the Gaux kid?”

  “Yeah,” Birdie said. She shot a real quick glance at the cabin. “And … because he went on the shark hunt with you, we thought, uh …”

  “He’d be on board,” Nola finished up.

  Deke stared at her. “You look kind of familiar.”

  “Um,” Nola said. “So is he on board?”

  “Well, now,” Deke said, “don’t know where you got that idea in your heads.”

  Birdie tilted up her head. Her face gets kind of hard when she does that. Not really hard, of course: How could a face so beautiful look hard? “From when you came to the store looking for him.”

  Deke licked his lips. “Right there you jumped to the wrong conclusion. I never met up with that no-good—I never met up with Snoozy LaChance.”

  Birdie’s face got a little harder, a little more beautiful. “But what about Joe Don Matisse’s tattoo parlor?”

  “Huh? You’re makin’ no sense.”

  “Didn’t you pick Snoozy up there? Mrs. Roux saw him drive off in your truck.”

  “Truck?” said Deke, leaning in toward Birdie in a way I didn’t like one little bit. At the same time, the cabin door on Dixie Flyer opened and out stepped Junior.

  He opened his mouth to say something, then noticed what was going on and shut himself up double quick. Nola made a tiny motion, waving him away. Junior backed into the cabin and slowly closed the door.

  “I don’t own no truck,” Deke was saying.

  “A pickup,” Birdie said. “With lots of gear in the back.”

  “Makin’ me say it again? No one taught you manners? I don’t own no truck, no pickup. Don’t even own no car.”

  “You don’t own a car?”

  “Harley’s my ride, now and forever. Any more dumb-ass questions?”

  “But then where’s Snoozy?” Birdie said. “What happened to him?”

  “How in—” Deke stopped himself. His eyes shifted, not a good look, what with how squinty they were to begin with. “Don’t ask me,” he went on. “But there’s certain environmental types all worked up about the bounty.”

  “Do you mean Mr. Longstreet?” Birdie said.