Bow Wow

by Spencer Quinn

  We crawled over to the side, peered over. The pirate was headed toward a lone palm tree growing near the shore. Beyond the palm tree, a stone jetty extended out into the water. Tied up to a rusty post at the far end was a blue-and-white sport-fishing boat with a center tower and cabin in the bow. Small, yes, but very nice-looking.

  “Bowser! What’s Bayou Girl doing here?”

  Bayou Girl! I thought I’d recognized it. Our very best boat. As for what it was doing here, that was easy: Someone must have driven it. There were only three people I’d ever seen at the wheel of Bayou Girl, namely Grammy, Snoozy, and Birdie, with supervision. So it had to be Grammy or Snoozy. Wow! Had I ever been this far out in front of anything?

  The pirate reached the end of the jetty and yelled in his deep voice, “Hey! Anybody home? Hey!”

  I heard no answer from inside Bayou Girl.

  “Hey!” the pirate yelled again. “Snoozy, you—” He called Snoozy some names that won’t be repeated here. The point was he sounded angry. Not at us. He’d completely missed the fact that me and Birdie were along for the ride, was totally unaware of us. That meant this was probably a good time to hop over the side and skedaddle. Or—and now I had an amazing thought—we could jump into the front and skedaddle in the pirate’s own truck! I loved that idea. Did either of us know how to drive? Not me—I was perfectly aware of that, not being the type to get carried away by unrealistic notions, but how about Birdie? True, I’d never seen her drive a car. Did that mean she couldn’t? Never rule Birdie out on anything. I gave her a close look. Steal the truck, Birdie! Steal the truck!

  “Bowser—shh. What’s wrong with you?”

  Nothing. Nothing at all. As if that rumbling sort of pre-bark had anything to do with me!

  “Bowser!”

  I put a stop to it at once, whoever the culprit was.

  Meanwhile, out on the jetty, the pirate was reaching for the bow rail of Bayou Girl. He grabbed it, pulled himself over and onto the deck, then walked around to the cabin door and disappeared inside.

  “Is Snoozy in there?” Birdie said. “What’s going on?”

  I had no idea. Well, not entirely true. I did have one idea, involving a quick snack and Snoozy’s sandwiches. Just sitting there in the cooler, at this very moment, doing no one any good. But possibly that wasn’t the kind of answer Birdie had in mind.

  She rose. “Come on, Bowser.”

  Meaning sandwiches were not in the picture, at least for now. Birdie stepped over the side and lowered herself to the ground. I jumped out and followed her—from in front, of course, Bowser style.

  We walked to the shore, angling a little away from the jetty. At the water’s edge, Birdie kicked off her shoes. “This has to be real silent, Bowser. We’re going to swim out to the stern. Then we’re going to climb up the ladder from the diving platform. After that … we’ll … I’m not sure what we’ll do. But don’t forget—we have every right to be on Bayou Girl. And nobody just ups and goes on board without permission.”

  What a plan! I’d never heard better.

  We waded into the water, gently rippling water not as warm as in summertime but more refreshing, especially if you’re like me, always in a fur coat. The water rose and rose and then I was swimming. That’s the secret of the dog paddle—you just keep walking! Anyone can do it.

  Birdie’s a very good swimmer but not quite in my league because she hasn’t advanced to the walking stage, still uses the crawl. I slowed down to not get too far in front, and soon actually had to speed up. What a good crawler she was! No one like Birdie, of course. We swam straight out to sea, as far as the end of the jetty, and then made a sharp turn, which took us right up to the stern of Bayou Girl.

  Sometimes customers like to go snorkeling off the back of Bayou Girl, so we’ve got a platform that folds down to help them in and out. And more than a few of them need all the help they can get, believe me. You should see some of these characters! There’s also a ladder bolted to the transom that helps them climb up. We paused by the ladder, just bobbing in the water. Birdie cocked her head to one side, meaning she was listening hard.

  “I don’t hear anything,” she whispered. “Do you?”

  I did, as a matter of fact. I heard a distant plane, a distant train whistle, and bubbles breaking on the surface somewhere farther out. Did any of that count? Probably not, because the next thing I knew, Birdie grabbed the lowest rung of the ladder—not the actual lowest one, which was underwater—and climbed the ladder with ease. She peeked over the transom, then unhooked the hooks that held up the dive platform and lowered it so it rested just over the water’s surface. I scrambled up. We know our way around boats, me and Birdie. As for what we were actually doing at the moment, I had no clue.

  Having no clue happens sometimes. Here’s how I handle it: I do what Birdie does! It took me no time at all to figure that out. I had it in the bag from day one, meaning day one with Birdie. As for my life before Birdie, it wasn’t very pleasant and doesn’t bear thinking about—so I don’t.

  Right now Birdie was standing on the platform and peering into the boat. I rose up on my back legs and did the same, resting my front paws on top of the transom. No action on the deck of Bayou Girl. Some charts were spread out on the console and a thermos stood beside the engine control levers. Up front, the door of the cabin was closed and no sound came from inside. But I did hear a sound, namely a human footstep on the jetty. It was hard to see the jetty from where we were, on account of the bumpers hanging on the bow rail, so at first all we had were footstep sounds. Then a man appeared, a tall old guy with an eagle nose: Mr. Longstreet.

  He moved slowly and carefully along the jetty, binoculars hanging from his neck. Grasping Bayou Girl’s bow rail, he climbed over, not easily like the pirate, but in fact with a bit of a struggle, the binoculars swinging up and bopping that eagle nose. Mr. Longstreet muttered to himself, saying something that sounded to me like “clumsy old fool.” On board, he went to the console—never once looking our way—took a key from his pocket, and stuck it in the ignition. He was just about to turn it when the cabin door opened.

  The pirate stepped out. Mr. Longstreet saw him right away, his head snapping back as though he’d been hit.

  “Who are you?” he said, his voice a bit quavery at first. He got it under control. “What are you doing on my boat?”

  “Your boat? Got to do better than that if you’re gonna lie to me. I know this boat and it sure ain’t yours. Meaning you’re a thief—a thief, as well as a kidnapper.”

  “Kidnapper?” said Mr. Longstreet. “You must be insane.”

  “Knock off the crap. I know who you are—the crazy old coot who likes sharks better than people.”

  “That’s not true. But if we keep on—”

  “Cut the crap,” said the pirate. “All I want from you is Snoozy. Where is he?”

  Birdie’s eyes shifted to one side and she frowned, looking kind of confused. Why? Because we’d been thinking the pirate already had Snoozy? Wow! I was totally in the picture.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Longstreet had raised his chin in one of those human looks that says I’m better than you. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The pirate took a step forward. A big, strong dude: You could see it in every move he made. “There’s some that fall offa boats in these parts and never get seen again. Get me?”

  Mr. Longstreet nodded.

  “So try another answer.”

  “Why should I?” Mr. Longstreet said. Kind of brave, but at the same time his legs were trembling. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  The pirate took another step forward, his long black hair rising slightly behind him. “Name’s Brock Stovall, number one charter boat captain in the western Gulf. I hired Snoozy to go after the bounty, as you know, and don’t get me mad by denying it. I’m plenty mad already, and that’s when bad things happen. You and everybody else around here knew that me and Snoozy were gonna find that bull shark first. No question about it—n
ot with a team like that. Then the other night I left Snoozy at this camp we had and when I come back he’s gone and there’s signs of a struggle. You’re maybe a weak old man, but Snoozy’s no fighter.” Pirate’s eyes narrowed. “Or did you steal this boat and use it to try to lure him away? And he got suspicious and you clobbered him with …” Pirate glanced around, saw a boat hook near the bait box. “… with that there boat hook?”

  “That’s a complete fantasy,” Mr. Longstreet said. “And I did not steal this boat. It was lent to me.”

  “You don’t hear so good, do you?” said the pirate. “I told you no more crap and you keep up with the crap. This here craft belongs to Miz Gaux up in St. Roch, and she don’t lend to nobody, not when it comes to boats.”

  Pirate took another step and this time didn’t stop, but kept coming, real slow, muscles bunching with every movement.

  Mr. Longstreet backed up. “All right, then, she didn’t lend the boat. I chartered it. She charters boats.”

  The pirate smiled. Most human smiles are nice. This one was scary. “Sure, she does. Nice guess on your part. But what she wouldn’t consider, no time, no how, is bareboat charters. You can charter—and when you do, her or Snoozy is at the wheel.” Pirate put up his hand like he was shading his eyes and peered around in an exaggerated way. Birdie pulled me down out of sight before I thought of doing it myself. Don’t worry—it would have come to me.

  Meanwhile, Pirate was saying, “But guess what. I ain’t seein’ them.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Mr. Longstreet said.

  We popped our heads back up, me and Birdie. Brock Stovall didn’t like being called ridiculous—I could see it on his face.

  “I’ve heard of this Snoozy character,” Mr. Longstreet went on, “but I’ve never met him and have no desire to.”

  “See,” Stovall said, “what’s happenin’ now is you’re workin’ your way around to the truth, but way too slow. Last chance. Where’s Snoozy?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did you kill him? Dump the body somewhere?”

  “What a stupid thing to say!”

  Stovall shook his head, like he was getting forced into something he didn’t want to do. Then he started moving, the way humans do when their minds are made up. Mr. Longstreet backed away as far as he could before bumping into the console. He raised his big, bony fists like a trained boxer. Stovall knocked them away with the back of one hand. With his other hand, he grabbed Mr. Longstreet by the throat and lifted him clear off the deck. I felt Birdie gripping me tight by my collar, just helping me in case I was about to do what was in my mind. And I had been!

  “Who’s stupid now?” Stovall said, still holding Mr. Longstreet in the air. Mr. Longstreet gurgled something. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he went limp. Stovall gave him a disgusted look and dropped him on the deck. Mr. Longstreet’s eyes fluttered open. He lay there, breathing heavily.

  Stovall gazed down at him. The expression on his face changed, went from angry to sort of puzzled. He walked around to the front of the console, took the key from the ignition, and tossed it into the water. Then he hopped onto the jetty, untied the line, coiled it, and heaved the coil aboard, meaning we were tied up to nothing. He put the sole of his foot against the side of the boat and gave a big push. We drifted away from the jetty. A minute or two later I heard him starting up the moss-green pickup and driving off.

  BIRDIE STEPPED OFF THE PLATFORM ONTO the ladder and scrambled up. I did the same. That might be a bit of a surprise, but I can climb ladders—at least this one. Birdie taught me on the very first trip I took on Bayou Girl. The customers always like seeing me zip up the ladder, and often try giving Birdie a tip. Birdie is not allowed to accept tips, as Grammy has made clear in no uncertain terms. Plus there are a lot of other rules the customers have to follow. We run a tight ship at Gaux Family Fish and Bait, meaning no nonsense. But if you ever come out with us on Bayou Girl, remember that there’s nothing nonsensical about slipping a treat to any ladder-climbing four-footed types who happen to be on board. Meet me on the dock after the trip’s over and Grammy’s back in the shop.

  We stepped down onto the deck. Mr. Longstreet was sitting up, his back against the console, looking very pale. He saw us and frowned in a confused way, even closed his eyes and reopened them, like he was seeing if we were real. Ha!

  “Are you all right, Mr. Longstreet?” Birdie said.

  He nodded a weak sort of nod.

  “Don’t move.” Birdie hurried to the bow. She opened a locker, dragged out the anchor, a big, heavy thing with a curved, two-pointed bar at the end. Birdie tied the end of the anchor line to the bow cleat, and then squatted down and with a loud grunt lifted the anchor and heaved it over the side. Anchor line ran out, disappearing beneath the water. Bayou Girl gave the tiniest lurch, stopped drifting, and lay still.

  By that time Birdie was already fishing around again in the locker. Out came what all the waterfront people in St. Roch called “Miz Gaux’s Invention for Finding Stuff Dumbasses Lose at Sea,” or just “Miz Gaux’s Invention” for short: a bright orange buoy tied with a short length of line to a barbell. Birdie hauled it to the side of the boat where Stovall had stood when he threw the key overboard. She pointed to a stretch of water to our rear. “We must have been somewhere around there, Bowser.”

  I’m sure she was right about that, whatever it was. With another grunt, she swung Miz Gaux’s Invention over the side in the direction she’d pointed out, but it didn’t go very far, on account of the barbell being so heavy.

  “Have to do,” Birdie said, already putting on her gear—mask, fins, and snorkel. She glanced at Mr. Longstreet, still sitting up, although his eyes were closed. “You stay here with Mr. Longstreet, Bowser. Got that? Sit!”

  I sat, no problem. What was hard to get about that?

  Birdie sat backward on the gunwale, tipped over, and splashed down. She swam off toward the bright orange buoy, moving very fast, as she always did with fins on. Then she slowed down and started circling, her face in the water. I could feel how hard she was concentrating even from where I was, back in the boat. Imagine how strongly I’d be feeling it if I was out there with her! I checked Mr. Longstreet. Still breathing, at least a little bit, and therefore nothing to worry about, as I’m sure Birdie would have agreed.

  The next thing I knew, I was going for a nice swim in lovely, refreshing water. How had I gotten here? No idea, but once I was in, why not paddle my way over toward Birdie? I couldn’t think of one single reason.

  Birdie had moved on past the buoy when I reached her. She was still swimming in slow circles, gazing down at the bottom, a sandy bottom with only a little seaweed here and there. For some reason, she didn’t seem to notice me, even though I was right there beside her. To help her out, I pawed at one of her fins.

  Wow! Birdie almost jumped clear out of the water! That had to be because she was so happy to see me. She pulled off her mask and … and actually did not look that happy after all. “Bowser! Didn’t I tell you to stay on the boat?”

  I did my very best to remember, came up with not much, one way or the other.

  “Oh, Bowser. What am I going to do with you?”

  That was an easy one. Take me for long walks, give me lots of treats, play fetch—and those were right off the top of my head.

  “All right. Just stay here. Don’t go away. Don’t do anything.”

  Perfect. I stayed there with Birdie and didn’t do anything but paddle a bit. Birdie went back to circling slowly around. Then she was still. I heard her taking deep breaths through the snorkel. She jackknifed down in the water, her fins slipping through the surface with hardly a sound. Down, down she went. At the bottom—not too deep, not like her dive at the swimming hole where she’d found the turtle shell—she reached out and grabbed something shiny.

  Birdie swam her way up to the surface, those skinny legs kicking so smoothly, and held up the key. “Back in business,” she said, or something like that: hard to hear h
er clearly with the snorkel in her mouth. We swam back to the dive platform. As I climbed on I was aware of some sort of shadowy form not far from the bow end, but you get all kinds of shadowy forms at sea, and often they’re just clouds passing over the sun. You learn stuff like that in the charter boat industry.

  Mr. Longstreet was standing up when we got back on deck. His gaze went to Birdie, to me, and then to the key in her hand. He blinked once or twice.

  “Birdie?” Mr. Longstreet’s voice was weak and whispery. “I wouldn’t mind some water.”

  Birdie nodded and went into the cabin. She brought back a bottle of water and gave it to him. Mr. Longstreet tilted it up to his mouth and drank. Color started returning to his face right away, and when he spoke again his voice was almost back to its normal self.

  “Thank you, Birdie. But—but what are you doing here?”

  Birdie tilted up her chin. Hey! I started to notice that maybe Birdie wasn’t acting her friendliest with Mr. Longstreet. “What are you doing here, Mr. Longstreet? How come you’ve got Bayou Girl?”

  “Claire—I mean, your grandmother—lent it to me.”

  “Lent?”

  “Well, I offered to pay the normal charter price. Insisted, in fact. But she wouldn’t hear of it. I plan to treat her to a nice dinner instead.”

  “She let you take it by yourself?”

  Mr. Longstreet made an effort to stand taller. “I grew up around boats, as she knows very well. I’ve sailed around the world.”

  “Grammy doesn’t let anybody drive this boat except her and Snoozy.”

  “She made an exception in my case.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll have to ask her.” Her glanced around. “Is she with you?”

  “With me?”

  “We’re miles from home—your home, I mean. How did you get here, if not with her?”

  “I—I got a ride with someone else.”

  “But how did you know I was here?”

  “I didn’t. I saw the boat.”

  Mr. Longstreet blinked again. “Did … did you see anyone else on the boat?”