“What’s that?” Charlie called over from the car.
“No idea,” Bernie said. “Looks like a weapon of some sort.” His face brightened a bit; that sometimes happens when he has a good thought. “Have I ever mentioned General Beauregard?”
“A friend of Chet’s, right, Dad?”
Actually one of my very best pals. General Beauregard lived down in Gila City with Otis DeWayne, our weapons expert. Gila City was somewhere in the Valley or maybe not, but the important thing was all that open country in the hills behind the house. Can’t beat open country, of course, and guns often got fired out back for testing purposes, which was always fun, but the best part was General Beauregard, a real big dude—the biggest German shepherd I’ve ever seen—who likes to tussle.
The Porsche hadn’t even come to a stop when the General bounded over, his big white teeth exposed. I leaped out of the car. He ran right into me, knocked me off my feet. I rolled over, ran right into him, knocked him off his feet. He rolled over, ran right into me, knocked me off my feet. I rolled over, ran right—
“What the hell is going on?” Otis came hurrying out the front door. He had hair down to his shoulders and a beard down to his chest. “Shoulda known it was you,” he said. Did he mean me or Bernie? I had no time to figure that out, because at that moment the General gave me a nip. I gave him a nip back. For some reason that made him charge around the house. I charged after him. We charged around and around the house neck and neck, ears flat back. What was more fun than this? Dust clouds were rising, who knows why. We ran through them and ran through them again. I’d been in dust storms before, and believe me this was nothing compared to—
Crack! At first I thought it was a gun going off—nothing unusual at Otis’s place, if I haven’t mentioned that already—but then the sound came again and I saw Otis clap his hands. He was one of those real loud clappers. We came to a halt, me and the General, outside the front porch, panting side by side. Bernie, Charlie, and Otis were sitting at a table, drinking cold drinks—beer for the men, what smelled like lemonade for Charlie. Right away I was in the mood for a cold drink myself, preferably water, always my favorite.
Bernie laid the stick thing on the table, holding it with the edge of his shirt. “Know what this is?” he said. “Chet found it.”
“Where?”
“In a ditch behind the fairgrounds.”
“Circus in town, by any chance?” Otis said. Or something like that: he had so much beard it hid his mouth, and I do better when I can see the mouth moving.
“Yeah,” said Bernie. “What makes you say that?”
Otis wasn’t wearing a shirt. He had lots of hair on his chest, which met his beard hair in a sort of big hairy confusion, but that wasn’t the point. The point was he didn’t have an edge of shirt for picking up the stick thing, so he used a scrap of paper that happened to blow by. Otis picked up the stick thing and gave it a close look.
“Any elephants in this circus of yours?” he said.
“Come on, Otis,” Bernie said, “spit it out.”
Uh-oh. Spitting is something humans did from time to time—although not the women, for some reason—but they never looked their best doing it, no offense. I got ready for a glob to fly, but it didn’t. Instead Otis set the stick thing down and said, “Ankus, Bernie. Also known as an elephant hook, elephant goad, or bull hook.”
Charlie put down his lemonade. “It’s not for hurting the elephants?”
“’Fraid so,” said Otis DeWayne.
SIX
We swung by Burger Heaven, picked up a quick snack. Back home, I went into the kitchen, lay down under the table, stretched my legs way out. All of a sudden, my paws did that quivering thing. Can’t start it or stop it, but I like when it happens. When the quivering was over—ending just like that—I closed my eyes. In the mood for a nap, no question about it: that always happened after my visits with General Beauregard.
When I awoke it was night, maybe late at night, the house dark and quiet. Somewhere in the canyon coyotes were shrieking. I trotted to the back door, a plan forming in my mind, all about getting to the patio, checking the gate, maybe even leaping over, something I’d done in the past, kind of a secret. But the back door was closed.
I went down the hall, paused outside Charlie’s door. He sounded restless, turning over in his bed, even muttering to himself, words I didn’t understand. I stayed there, standing still, until he settled down, his breathing soft and regular. The coyote shrieking died away, but for some reason my ears remained stiff and straight up, listening hard. Do you ever get the feeling that something’s going on? I had that feeling, but nothing happened, nothing went on. I moved into Bernie’s room, stood by the bed. He was sleeping quietly, moonlight shining on his face, making it look like stone. The stony look made me uneasy, and I was already a bit uneasy to start with. I hopped up on the bed, lay beside him.
Bernie spoke in a sleepy voice, thick and slow. “Go to sleep, big guy. It’s late.”
I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. After a while, I got up and went into the front hall, lying down with my back to the door. The feel of the night leaked in through the crack at the bottom. I caught the scent of flowers, specifically those big yellow ones in old man Heydrich’s garden. Sleep came.
“Dad,” said Charlie the next day, “are we going to look for Peanut now?”
“Can’t,” Bernie said.
“How come?”
“We’ve got no standing in the case.”
“What’s standing?”
“Reason to be involved.”
“Don’t you care about Peanut?”
“I do.”
“Then that’s a reason.”
Bernie reached over, mussed up Charlie’s hair. Charlie jerked his head away, like he was angry or something. Bernie withdrew his hand. “We’re not the same as the police,” he said. “They get involved whenever there’s a crime—that’s their job. The Little Detective Agency is private. We can’t operate without a client.”
Of course not: who else would cut the checks?
“Could Colonel Drummond be the client?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t exactly beat down our door.”
And if he or anyone else ever tried that, they’d have me to deal with, count on it.
Charlie gazed down at the table. Bernie’s hand moved. For a moment I thought more hair mussing was on the way, even though Charlie’s hair was already messed up pretty good, sticking out all over the place, but instead his hand went still—hey, Charlie’s hair was a lot like Bernie’s except much lighter—and he said, “Tell you what. Why don’t I show you how to change the oil on the Porsche?”
I could think of a reason right away—namely what had happened the last time Bernie changed the oil. Not too many women would have been as nice as Suzie about how her dress ended up. Suzie was a gem, always brought treats from Rover and Company. Was she coming over today? I listened for her car—one of those Volkswagen Beetles, an easy sound to pick up—and didn’t hear it.
Soon we were in the garage, Bernie and Charlie dressed in old clothes, me in my brown collar; the black is for dress-up, when I went to court, for example. Once I was Exhibit A. The judge had me come up and sit beside him. He gave me one of those nice pats that let me know he liked me and my kind. Nothing wrong with judges, in my opinion. The perp’s now up at Northern State, wearing an orange jumpsuit.
“First,” Bernie said, sliding under the car, “always do this with a cold engine. Second, identify the oil pan—here—and the cap, which is—”
“What if you didn’t change the oil?”
“It gets dirty—” Grunt. I stood back a bit. “All these moving parts, the engine could seize up and—” Bernie let out a cry, but not the kind that comes from pain; he would never do that. I didn’t get splashed at all, a good thing, because once oil gets on my coat the smell stays for weeks, or months, or some other long long time.
After Bernie and Charlie finished with their shower
s, we had a little snack on the patio: blue skies, not too hot, nice breeze, tuna sandwiches for them, Milk-Bone for me.
“When can we do that again?” Charlie said.
“In five thousand miles.”
“How far is that?”
“From here to New York and back.”
“That’s where Mom went this weekend.”
“Yeah?”
“Her and Malcolm.”
“Um.”
“You ever been to New York, Dad?”
“Once.”
“What’s it like?”
“Don’t remember,” Bernie said. “I was on leave.”
Charlie nodded like that made sense, but I couldn’t figure it out.
“Uh,” Bernie said, “how are—you know—things?”
“What things, Dad?”
“In general. Pretty good? Going all right? No big problems?”
“Well,” said Charlie, “one big problem.”
“Oh?” Bernie said, his voice normal, but his body growing still. “What’s that?”
“Peanut,” said Charlie.
“Besides that,” Bernie said. “Everything okay at your mom’s place?”
“At home, you mean?” Charlie said.
“Yeah,” said Bernie. Sometimes a little twitch happens in his jaw; like now. “At home.”
“Fine.”
“How’s, uh, um, well . . .”
“Malcolm?”
“Yeah, Malcolm.”
“It’s a Scottish name.”
“Yeah?”
“They throw the caber.”
“Sorry?”
“The Scottish. It’s like a big pole they throw. For sports, Dad. Malcolm told me.”
“Did he throw the thing? Cable, whatever the hell it is?”
“Caber, Dad. Nope. He’s not strong like you. Mom had to open the pickles.”
Bernie grunted, not one of those grunts humans do when they’re changing the oil, or lifting something heavy, or getting hit in the gut; in my job I’ve heard that hit-in-the-gut one plenty of times. No, this was the kind of grunt where whatever’s just been said clears things up. So, if all that—pickles, cabers, other stuff that had zipped right by—cleared things up for Bernie, great. As for me, I felt cleared up already.
Leda and Malcolm came to pick Charlie up a while later, Leda walking to the door, Malcolm waiting in the car. Leda threw her arms around Charlie, picked him up, and gave him a big kiss. She looked real happy, eyes and mouth smiling at the same time; I didn’t remember much of that from before.
“Did you have fun?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothin’.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” She put Charlie down. “Where’s your other shoe?”
“Don’t know.”
“Go find it, Mr. One Shoe Off One Shoe On Diddle Diddle Dumpling My Son John,” Leda said.
“Huh?” said Charlie. His eyebrows were fair and hardly noticeable, but they rose just the way Bernie’s did at that exact same moment.
Leda laughed. “Just go look,” she said. “Pretty please.”
Charlie went back into the house to look for his shoe, leaving me, Bernie, and Leda in the front hall. Bernie gave Leda a quick glance.
“Good trip, huh?” he said.
“A very good trip,” Leda said. She looked him in the eye. “We’re getting married.”
Bernie’s eyebrows rose again, even higher this time, and his mouth hung open for a moment. “Married? You and—”
“Malcolm, of course, who do you think?” She laughed again, and seemed about to elbow Bernie in the ribs, but then came Charlie’s voice.
“Can’t find it.”
“Oh, Charlie,” she said and went down the hall.
Bernie glanced down at me. “She’s getting married to Malcolm?”
I wagged my tail; couldn’t think of a reason not to.
Bernie turned toward the street. Malcolm sat in his car, that same dark sedan, thumbing some little device. Bernie walked toward him. I went with Bernie.
“Hey,” Bernie said.
Malcolm glanced up. The car window slid down.
“Bernie?” Malcolm said. “Something wrong?”
“Wrong?” said Bernie.
Malcolm looked past us, toward the house. “With Charlie?”
“Can’t find his shoe,” Bernie said.
Malcolm checked his watch. “Still got a way to go on his organizational skills.”
“Like every other six-year-old on the planet.” Bernie and Malcolm exchanged a look. These guys didn’t like each other; I could smell that in one sniff. “Congratulations,” Bernie said.
“For what?”
“I hear you’re getting married.”
“Oh,” Malcolm said, “yeah. Thanks, Bernie. Appreciate the sentiment.”
“Got a date set?” Bernie said.
“Still working on that. We’re not planning anything extravagant.”
“No.”
“Second marriage for both of us, after all. We’re not kids anymore, none of us.”
“You can say that again,” Bernie said.
Malcolm blinked. “But still, very exciting and everything.”
“Must be,” Bernie said.
“A big step, is what I mean.”
“Sure,” said Bernie. “What made you decide now?”
“Decide what?” Malcolm said.
“To pull the trigger.”
“Isn’t it ‘tie the knot’?” Malcolm said.
Triggers and knots: if this was making sense, please let me know how. Bernie didn’t answer about the knot. Maybe he was going to, but at that moment Leda came out of the house, trailed by Charlie, now wearing shoes on both feet.
“Hi,” Malcolm said. “Bernie was just asking how we decided to tie the knot.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I was about to tell him,” Malcolm said, still speaking to Leda but looking right at Bernie—humans could be tricky—“that sometimes you just know.”
Leda smiled.
Then she and Charlie were getting in the car. As they drove off, I heard Charlie say, “What’s ‘tie the knot’?”
Donut Heaven is across the street from Burger Heaven. We met Rick Torres outside, parking beside his cruiser cop-style, driver’s side door to driver’s side door. He handed a bag through the window.
“Bear claws,” Rick said. “Half price after four.”
Bears I’ve seen plenty of on Animal Planet, never in real life—fine with me—and I’d watched what their claws could do, oh, brother, but how these delicious bear claws fit in was a mystery. We got busy with our bear claws, Rick and Bernie sipping coffee at the same time.
“Got anything?” Bernie said.
“Nope,” Rick said. “An elephant disappears and no one saw zilch.”
“Plus the trainer.”
“Yeah, plus the trainer. We checked his bank account. Balance of a few thousand dollars, no recent withdrawals amounting to anything.”
“But he could have stashed something somewhere,” Bernie said.
“Thanks,” Rick said. “That’s a big help.”
“There’s also this,” Bernie said, handing over the ankus, now wrapped in plastic.
Rick turned it in his hand. “Which is?”
“An ankus,” Bernie said.
“Looks nasty.”
“It’s an ancient device from Asia, apparently. For training and managing elephants.”
“They poke them with it?”
“More like goading them,” Bernie said.
“Christ.”
“Yeah. Chet found it in a ditch, not far from that back gate at the fairgrounds.”
I thumped my tail, or at least thought about it. This was the best bear claw I’d ever had, no question.
“Someone dropped it?” Rick said.
“Or it fell off the back of a trailer,” Bernie said. “Hard to imagine Peanut on foot
and not even one lousy citizen calling in.”
“I can imagine that easy,” Rick said. He touched where the point of the ankus hook pushed at the plastic. “I thought DeLeath was supposed to be humane.” Rick sipped his coffee for a bit. “I’m gonna have this dusted for prints,” he said.
“See?” Bernie said, talking to who I didn’t know. “That’s the kind of thing that can’t be taught.”
Rick winged his coffee cup lid at Bernie. Bernie laughed. Humans can be impossible to understand, but I don’t let it bother me.
Night was falling when we got home; that’s the way humans put it, but to me night seems to rise up from the ground, the sky dimming last. Also night and day smell different, even indoors. But forget all that. The important thing was that someone in dark clothes—a thin someone with a thin face and dark hair, cut short—was standing at our front door, all shadowy. Bernie didn’t notice at first, but I did. I leaped out of the Porsche, charged toward the—and then caught the scent, caught and recognized it. I slowed down. Bernie came up behind me.
“Looking for someone?” Bernie said.
“You. You and Chet.”
“Do I know you?” Bernie said.
“This always happens,” said Popo.
SEVEN
No one knows the real you?” Bernie said.
“I wouldn’t quite put it that way,” Popo said. “More like no one recognizes me out of costume.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Bernie said. “Might even be useful.”
“What do you mean by that?” Popo said.
“To be unknown to people who think they know you,” Bernie said.
“I’d have no use for that,” Popo said.
Bernie’s head tilted slightly, a look he sometimes gives people, why I’m not sure. Also, I had no idea what they were talking about. Plus, I was a bit thirsty; bear claws did that to me. So, time to go inside. I pressed against Bernie, just a little. Popo turned to me.
“Is it true what they say about Chet’s tracking ability?”
“Why do you ask?” Bernie said.
To Fetch a Thief Page 5
