Bow Wow

by Spencer Quinn

  “Junior? Do you even listen to people?”

  “About what?”

  Birdie raised her voice. With anyone else, you might have said she sounded crabby, but Birdie can’t sound crabby. “I don’t want to make up a song. Do you read me?”

  “Not really. We’re musicians, after all.”

  “Not me,” Birdie said. “I’m not a musician.”

  “Okeydokey artichokey.”

  “And if you say that again, you’re going over the side.”

  “Say what?” Junior grinned a big grin, like he’d come out on top. I waited for Birdie to say whatever it was she didn’t want him to say, but she shot him an angry look—an angry look from Birdie!—and … and then suddenly froze, her gaze on Junior’s feet. He wore flip-flops, one black and one red.

  “Junior? What’s with the flip-flops?”

  “Huh?”

  “They don’t match. One’s black and one’s red.”

  Junior checked out his flip-flops. “True.”

  “How come?”

  “How come what?”

  “Let me see the red one.”

  “Huh?”

  Birdie throttled back, walked up to the bow, and took the red flip-flop right off Junior’s foot. She gave it a close look. “Size seven.”

  “That’s my size.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “Search me.”

  “Think, Junior. There must be some story.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they don’t match! Whoa—did Nola say something about that?”

  “Search me.”

  “Think, Junior!”

  Junior shut his eyes tight, not a pleasant visual, at least not on him. “No clue. Why is it important? Wait—you’re saying there’s a song in it?”

  A little muscle bunched in Birdie’s jaw. I’d never seen that before. She dropped the red flip-flop on the deck, went back to the stern, and got us under way again. The trip seemed to take a long time. That can happen when humans aren’t on speaking terms, especially if, like me on that jon boat trip, you don’t know why. But finally the bayou opened up into a sort of lake with a small town on one side and lots of big yellow earthmovers busy at the far end.

  “Can I ask where we are?” Junior said. “Without getting my head bit off?”

  Whoa! I looked around for any creature big enough to do that, and saw none. There are a lot of false alarms in human life.

  “Betencourt Bridge,” Birdie said, heading toward a long dock extending out from the shore.

  “Where’s the bridge?”

  “Blown up in the Civil War.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? What kind of question is that? Things get blown up in wars, bridges especially.”

  Junior gazed out at the lake. “So it’s down there, on the bottom?”

  “Huh?”

  “The bridge.”

  “I guess so. The remains, the metal parts anyway. Wood rots fast around here. Grab that line and hop up on the dock when I pull alongside.”

  Junior’s eyes were still on the water. “The bridge across the bottom of the lake,” he said softly, and then began humming a little tune.

  “Junior! On the dock! Now!”

  Junior sort of snapped awake, even though he hadn’t been sleeping, and jumped onto the dock.

  “The line!”

  “Line?”

  “You forgot the bowline!”

  “Oops.”

  And then came several other missteps—and Birdie, just like Grammy, hates missteps on boats, above all on landings, which had better be smooth and bumpless, or else—but finally we were squared away. Birdie set up the umbrella that Wally had put in the boat, an umbrella bearing a picture of his food truck, and Junior unloaded the coolers. I sat and watched a frog who was also sitting, but on a lily pad in the water. Something about him just sitting there like he owned the place bothered me. I began making plans.

  Here’s something you may not know about frogs: They can be hard to sneak up on. That was why I needed to do my most careful thinking, but I didn’t have a chance, because customers started showing up almost right away. They were all workers in hard hats and grimy boots, and more than one of them—in fact, just about every single one—looked at the umbrella and said, “Food truck? More like a food boat!” Or something close to that. And Junior laughed every time, even slapped his knees once or twice, like it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. I didn’t get it. Neither did Birdie, who didn’t laugh even once.

  Maybe she was simply too busy with that cash box. Were we selling or what? Po’boys were just flying out of those coolers—actually flying when Junior started tossing them to customers, some of those tosses not very good. Birdie put a stop to that. She stood by a bollard, the cash box on top, and counted out change the way Grammy had taught her. “One shrimp po’boy at four ninety-five. Out of twenty. There’s a nickel, plus five and ten makes twenty. Thank you, ma’am.” Plus there were tips, which Birdie kept in a paper cup on another bollard. In short, we were raking it in! Humans love raking it in. You can see it on their faces. Is it the best human look? Maybe not.

  Finally, there was a little pause and Junior took a swing at counting the money, but he lost track and ended up saying “Wow!” and closing the box. Birdie took it and replaced it on the bollard, keeping her hand on top.

  “You’re in a bad mood, huh?” Junior said.

  “No.”

  “You’re not laughing at the food-boat joke.”

  “You think it’s funny?”

  “Sure,” said Junior, “especially when they all say it.”

  “Hrrmf.”

  What was this? Birdie saying “hrrmf”? The only hrrmfing human I’d ever heard was Grammy. I tried to take the next step but couldn’t think what it was.

  More customers showed up. The very first one ordered a Secret Recipe po’boy, glanced at the umbrella, and said, “Food truck? More like a food boat!”

  Junior laughed and slapped his knee. Birdie just stood there, stony-faced. But then, all of a sudden, like something bright got switched on inside, her whole expression changed and she started laughing. First, just a small laugh, but it grew and grew and soon she was laughing harder than I’d ever seen her laugh, tears streaming down her cheeks. The folks in the line laughed, too, even the newcomers who hadn’t heard the joke and couldn’t have known what was going on. I myself ran around crazily and then sprang into the water and went after that frog. He gazed at me in an unfriendly way until I was real close, then dove off the lily pad. A lazy kind of dive, in truth, more like a plop. The frog plopped off the lily pad in the most infuriating way and vanished in the lake.

  Not long after that, we sold out—good timing, Birdie said, because the weather was changing.

  “It is?” Junior said.

  He glanced up at the sky, much darker now, and lower, if that makes any sense. Plus the wind was rising, the surface of the lake getting choppy. Junior packed up the umbrella. Birdie emptied the paper cup in her lap and was dividing the tip money when a boat motoring toward the opposite shore caught her eye.

  “Recognize that boat?” she said.

  Junior peered across the lake. “Nope.”

  “You were on it,” Birdie said. “It’s Dixie Flyer.”

  “Just another brave incident in my life.” Junior loaded the coolers on the jon boat, stashed the umbrella under the seats. Rain began to fall, not hard, but cold, and slanting sideways. Junior took another look at Dixie Flyer and went still.

  “Hey! Guess what.”

  “Just spit it out.”

  Spitting was going to happen now? I wasn’t a big fan, although it’s always interesting to watch spit hitting the water. I’d seen a lot of that, living on the bayou. But Junior didn’t take up Birdie’s invitation. Instead, he pointed to Dixie Flyer.

  “Funny thing about that brave incident, now that I think. Like, at the same time as I was thinking about the red flip-flop, if you see what I mean.”
>
  “I don’t,” Birdie said.

  “Like … like two trains meeting up. But not crashing. Since it’s going on inside my head.”

  “You lost me, Junior.”

  “Pretty simple. Remember when I jumped on Dixie Flyer?”

  “The brave incident.”

  “Yeah. Well, when I was on board, in that cabin, I noticed that one of my flip-flops had fallen off. So I reached around with my foot and slipped it back on.”

  Birdie’s eyes opened wide.

  “A few days later,” Junior continued, “I happened to notice that my flip-flops didn’t exactly match. One black, one red. Not a big deal, right? Who cares? But now that the trains are meeting …”

  “You’re telling me you picked up that red flip-flop in the cabin on Dixie Flyer?”

  “Looks that way,” said Junior. “Is it important?”

  THE WIND PICKED UP, DRIVING THE RAIN IN our faces as we motored into the lake, Junior in the bow, Birdie steering in the stern, and me sitting up straight beside her. At the same time, the sky darkened even more, trailing curtains of black cloud almost right down to the water.

  “Can’t see a thing,” Junior said, shielding his eyes. The rain was doing funny things to his Mohawk.

  “Good,” Birdie said. “That means we can’t be seen.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” Junior said. I was with him on that. In the distance, Dixie Flyer appeared in a dim sort of way from between a pair of those cloudy curtains and then vanished behind another one. Rain and wind blotted out all other sound. I couldn’t hear Dixie Flyer’s engine, could barely hear our own. Meanwhile, we were bumping around pretty good.

  “Birdie?” Junior said, both hands holding tight to the edge of the bow seat.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are we gonna tip?”

  “No.”

  We motored on, the weather getting worse, visibility now down to a small circle with our boat in the middle.

  “Birdie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m feeling kind of pukey.”

  “Stick your head over the side.”

  “You mean just go ahead and puke?”

  “But not in the boat.”

  “Will I feel better?”

  “For a few minutes.”

  “Then I’ll be pukey again?”

  And there was more back and forth about puking, which I tried to tune out because it was making me a bit pukey myself. The jon boat plunged ahead, bouncing up and down, the cooler sliding this way and that.

  “Can you make those coolers fast, Junior?” Birdie said.

  “How?”

  “Bungee cords are in that locker under your seat.”

  “I’ve never used bungee cords,” Junior said, making no move to open the locker. His eyes and mouth were open wide. Was he scared? I thought so. Did that mean he didn’t trust Birdie? I trusted her with all my heart, so I wasn’t the least bit scared. She leaned slightly forward, one hand on the steering lever, the other on her knee, and peered into the murk and the rain, her eyes—the blue of the summer sky—the only color around. Except for the red flip-flop on one of Junior’s feet. Had I found another one just like it somewhere? I thought and thought and … and it came to me! Yes! On Little Flamingo Island! I’d done good.

  “Look at Bowser,” Birdie said.

  “What about him?” said Junior.

  “His tail.”

  “It’s wagging?”

  “He loves rough weather. Bowser’s a born sailor.”

  Wait a minute. Was that how come my tail had been wagging? I wasn’t sure, but if Birdie said so, then that was that. Rough weather was the best! I put my front paws up on the gunwale and wagged my head off. Does that even make sense, since it was the tail I was wagging? It did to me at the time.

  Up ahead, the rainy curtains parted again, and we caught a glimpse of the far shore, a swampy dark green forest with no sign of houses or buildings of any kind. Dixie Flyer was tied up at a stone landing, and a wiry dude with stringy hair, now plastered to his head, was making his way up a narrow path through the trees. He disappeared around a bend. The rainy curtains closed.

  “Are you shivering?” Junior said.

  “No,” said Birdie.

  “You’ve got goose bumps.”

  Birdie shrugged. You had to admire her coolness in the face of a terrible insult. If Junior had accused me of being like a goose in any way, he’d have regretted it, and pronto. No end to the unpleasant things I could tell you about geese, but that will have to wait, because all at once the stern of Dixie Flyer rose up out of the fog right in front of us. Birdie swung our bow hard to one side and throttled way back. We put-putted slowly past Dixie Flyer and approached the stone landing. Here, so close to shore, the wind died down a bit, smoothing out the water. The hull of the jon boat just kissed the landing, Grammy-style, and we came to rest.

  “Hitch us to that cleat, Junior,” Birdie said, her voice low.

  “I’m still a bit pukey.”

  “And don’t forget to take the line.”

  Junior climbed onto the landing, got everything right the first time. We walked along the landing, all of us soaked from the rain, and approached Dixie Flyer. Birdie knocked against the hull with her fist. “Snoozy?” she said, in that strange, whispering shout. “Snoozy?”

  No sound on Dixie Flyer. I caught a whiff of Mr. Manly in the air, quite faint, pretty much smothered by the smell of gasoline and bait worms.

  We gazed into the boat—me with my front paws on the gunwale, the only way I could see over the side. No one on the boat that I could see. The door to the cabin was closed. Had it been padlocked at some point? I kind of thought so.

  “Snoozy?” Birdie called, louder this time. “Snoozy?”

  No response.

  “How about hopping on board and taking a quick peek into the cabin?” Birdie said.

  “After what happened the last time?” said Junior. “No way.”

  “That’s fair,” Birdie said. She climbed on board, meaning I did, too, as you must have guessed.

  “But the good news is I’m not pukey anymore,” Junior called after us.

  Birdie turned the knob on the cabin door. It wasn’t locked. We looked inside. No one there, and the Mr. Manly smell was faint. We hopped down onto the landing and headed for the narrow path through the trees, in my case because Birdie was doing it and Birdie for reasons unknown to me.

  “We’re going up the path?” Junior said.

  “You don’t have to,” Birdie said over her shoulder.

  Junior ended up coming with us. The trees blocked some of the wind and rain, but if you looked up you saw the treetops whipping around crazily. I tried not to look. We rounded the bend where the stringy-haired dude—had to be Deke Waylon, unless I was completely out of the picture—had disappeared, and then another bend, and came to a clearing with a dirt road on the other side. In the middle of the clearing stood a small trailer, the silver teardrop kind, although this one was more rusted than silvery. There was a side door, padlocked with a shiny brass padlock, and a big, round window, with a closed curtain on the inside. Rain pounded on the roof of the trailer. We stood in the trees at the edge of the clearing. I could feel Birdie thinking.

  After a few moments, Junior stepped into the clearing. Birdie grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Junior opened his mouth to say something, but right then, from close by, came the sound of a motorcycle revving up. Out from behind the other side of the trailer, the motorcycle appeared, big and black with fat tailpipes, Deke Waylon up top. He turned onto the dirt road and drove off. The throb of the bike’s engine got softer and softer, finally losing itself in the sound of the rain, even to my ears.

  We left the shelter of the trees and crossed the clearing. Birdie knocked on the door. “Snoozy? Snoozy?”

  Silence from inside the trailer.

  Birdie raised her voice. “Snoozy!”

  More silence. And then came a sort of sound—a human sound but not what you
’d call speech, close to a grrr but not a grrr, somewhat like moans, but not moans, either.

  “Snoozy? Is that you?”

  Now there were strange thumps.

  “Snoozy? Is it you? Can you talk?”

  The thumps got louder. Birdie tugged at the padlock. Nothing doing. She glanced at the dirt road. No action there.

  “Junior?” She turned to him. “What if we—”

  Junior already had a big rock in his hand.

  “Yeah, that,” Birdie said.

  We backed up a little. Junior hurled the rock at the window, missing completely the first time, in fact, missing the whole trailer. But he was on target the second time. The window got smashed to smithereens in a very satisfying way. Birdie cleared off a few stray shards of glass and pushed the curtain aside. We looked in.

  A bunk bed stood in the trailer. Snoozy lay on the bottom bunk, handcuffed to a wooden support post for the bunk above. A strip of duct tape sealed off his mouth. He saw us and his eyes seemed to be saying all sorts of things, exactly what, I didn’t know, but every bit of it urgent. We climbed in through the broken window, me actually leaping, if you want the real story.

  Birdie hurried over to Snoozy and pulled off the duct tape.

  “Ouch,” Snoozy said. And then, “Ah, that’s better. Thanks, Birdie.”

  She put a hand on his shoulder. He sat up, but not all the way, on account of being handcuffed.

  “So happy to see you, Birdie. How did you find me?”

  “A long story,” Birdie said. “We’ve got to get you out of here. Where’s the key?”

  Snoozy glanced at the handcuffs. “Deke’s got them.” He twisted around toward the door. “Where is he?” Snoozy sounded scared. I’d never heard that from him before. Also he looked scared. A scared-looking Snoozy didn’t even seem like Snoozy. I felt bad.

  “Gone somewhere on his bike,” Birdie said.

  The sound of the rain on the trailer’s metal roof was like … like being inside a drum. It made me edgy, interfered with my thinking ability. My only idea was to try chewing through the handcuffs. Not my best idea ever—I knew that at the time. That was when Junior stepped forward to save the day.

  “Let’s take the bed frame apart and slide the cuffs right off!”