To Fetch a Thief

by Spencer Quinn

  “Oh, and miss?” said Bernie. “How about a couple shots of JD, just to celebrate.” He raised his mug, clinked it against Ollie’s.

  “Celebrate what?” said Ollie.

  “The artistry of the trapeze,” Bernie said.

  “Artistry my ass,” said Ollie. He drained his first mug, started on the new one. “Know how long I’ve been doing this?”

  “No.”

  “Long as I can remember. I was the flyer for years.”

  The waitress came with the shots. Ollie knocked his back in one throw; Bernie left his alone.

  “What do you like more,” Bernie said. “Flyer or catcher?”

  “What do you think?” said Ollie. “Flyer’s the star of the goddamn show.”

  “Wouldn’t have guessed that,” said Bernie, “seeing how strong and quick the catcher’s got to be.”

  “Frickin’ right,” said Ollie, giving one of his upper arms a little rub; I glimpsed that through the glass table top in mid-bite. “But does anyone appreciate it?”

  “Tough break,” Bernie said. “Who decided to make the switch?”

  “Gramps, of course,” Ollie said. “Who else? That old scumbag decides everything.”

  “Maybe he was thinking since Fil’s the smallest—” Bernie began.

  “She’s as strong as an ox. Gramps always liked her better, simple as that. And I was practically an Olympic gymnast.” His legs started trembling under the table. I’ve seen a lot of that, mostly from perps. Hey! Was Ollie a perp? I glanced at his pant leg: our cases usually end with me grabbing the perp by the pant leg. Ollie’s pant leg was in easy striking distance.

  “Didn’t know that,” Bernie said, sliding his shot glass closer to Ollie.

  “I had a screen test at Universal,” Ollie said.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  Ollie’s hand moved toward the shot glass. “Still waiting to hear on that.”

  “It can take time.”

  “That’s what I tell Gramps, but he says after five years there’s no chance. See the kind of support I get? And on top of that, Fil’s a drill sergeant.”

  “So you’re under a lot of pressure,” Bernie said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Ollie downed the second shot. While he was doing that, Bernie made a quick motion to the waitress.

  “Don’t know about you,” Bernie said, “but when I’m under pressure my sleeping patterns go all to hell.”

  Ollie raised the shot glass, found it empty, switched to the beer. “Can’t sleep for shit,” he said. “I’m up every goddamn night.”

  “Without exception?”

  “Huh?”

  “Meaning each and every.”

  “Didn’t I just get finished saying every?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bernie. Bernie calling someone sir? Always a sign we were winning. “My mistake. I’m a little surprised that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it means that the other night when Uri DeLeath and Peanut disappeared and no one saw or heard anything, there’s a real good chance that you did.”

  Ollie sat back.

  “So you must have had a good reason for keeping your mouth shut,” Bernie said.

  “You a cop?” Ollie said.

  “No.”

  “You look like a cop.”

  “Ex-military,” Bernie said.

  “Yeah?” said Ollie. “I was thinking of joining up with the SEALs myself.”

  “You’d have been great.”

  Ollie drank more beer. “Thing is,” he said, “I’ve never been comfortable in the water.”

  “They can work around that,” Bernie said.

  Ollie gave Bernie a long look. By that time I was all done with the short ribs, also done with licking the plate clean, and was just getting comfortable in a shady patch. “Know what kind of guy you are?” Ollie said.

  “Tell me,” said Bernie.

  “A glass is half-full guy,” Ollie said. “All I deal with is the half-empties.”

  The shots came. “Cheers,” Bernie said.

  They threw down the shots. Ollie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, I saw some shit that night, but I’m no fool—I keep things to myself.”

  “Don’t blame you,” Bernie said. “Like what kind of things?”

  “Like this big old eighteen-wheeler going out the back gate,” Ollie said. “I was just coming in from this after-hours joint I hit sometimes.”

  “Uncle Rio’s?” Bernie said.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “It’s nearby,” Bernie said. “What can you tell me about the eighteen-wheeler? Or were you seeing two of them?”

  Ollie paused for a moment. Then he laughed, a squeaky little laugh. “So right,” he said. “Maybe even four. Four times four red roses—that makes sixteen.”

  “Not quite following you,” Bernie said.

  “That’s what was on the side of the trailer,” Ollie said. “Four red roses.”

  TWELVE

  We drove home. Bernie’s face had this still and quiet kind of look it gets when he’s thinking. I was thinking, too, in my case about short ribs. After a while, he said, “The whole universe is just one huge clock. But keeping time for what? That’s what I’d like to know.” So what if short ribs turned out to be shorter than the longer kind—they still tasted great.

  A car was parked in front of our place. The door opened and a man got out as we pulled into the driveway. I recognized him from the comb-over: Marvin Winkleman. “What the hell is he doing here?” Bernie said.

  Winkleman walked over to us, one of those human walkers whose knees go in and whose feet go out. Getting around on two legs: you have to wonder.

  “Hey, Marvin,” Bernie said. I wagged my tail. I had nothing against Marvin. His checks had cleared, no problem. Not sure what check clearing was all about, but we’d had trouble when they didn’t—take the DeMarco case, for example, where we’d ended up getting paid with a gift certificate at a hair-cutting place, useless to us since Janie’s Pet Grooming Service—We Pick Up and Deliver took care of my hair, and Bernie always went to Horace the Barber on the Rio Seco strip, where you could still get a haircut for a reasonable price, Bernie says, like eight dollars, or maybe seven, I can’t remember, the low prices having something to do with the back room at Horace’s, a bookie joint where Bernie once bet a whole retainer fee on a horse named Scooter Girl. That was a bad day.

  “You don’t answer your calls?” Winkleman said.

  “We’ve been on the road.”

  “I tried your cell.”

  “Beyond the coverage area, Marvin. What’s up?”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I want you to look into him.”

  “Who?” said Bernie.

  “The asshole who’s dicking my wife, who else?” said Winkleman.

  “I thought you were getting divorced.”

  “I am.”

  “Then what’s the point?”

  “Bobbi Jo won’t tell me his name.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yeah, it matters.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Marvin waved his arms around, a human thing that happens sometimes when they’re getting worked up. “Because why should I take this lying down, is why.”

  Bernie reached out, put his hand on Winkleman’s bony shoulder. “We see a lot of divorce in this job,” he said. Way too much. “The people who do best are the ones who put it behind them.”

  Winkleman jerked away. “Why should I be the putz?”

  On, no. Putz had come up before, late one night when a mob guy named Sid Siegel asked the exact same question and then pulled a .44 out of his pocket; he’s now wearing an orange jumpsuit up at Northern State Correctional. I shifted closer to Winkleman, got my legs under me. Sid Siegel had squeezed out a round or two; I wasn’t going to let that happen again. Winkleman waved his hands around some more, but they didn’t go near his pockets; if he had a .44, it stayed tucked away.


  “You’re not the putz,” Bernie said.

  “Then who is?”

  “Does there have to a putz?”

  “When it comes to someone dicking your wife?” said Winkleman. “Damn right.”

  A funny look crossed Bernie’s face, like something wasn’t comfortable. Hey! I came close to making—what would you call it? A connection? Or not.

  “Maybe,” Bernie was saying, “but that just makes it more important to move on.”

  “I’ll move on when I’m good and ready,” Winkleman said. “Right now I want the dirt on that son of a bitch.”

  “What if there isn’t any?” Bernie said.

  “Doesn’t have to be dirt dirt. Just some facts, that’s all.”

  “Like?”

  “Like is he married, for example?”

  “Why would you want to know that?” Bernie said.

  “Think about it,” Winkleman said, and at that moment another look crossed Bernie’s face, a look he gets when he tastes anchovies, which he doesn’t like; me, neither. “What if he’s married and what if she’s living in the dark,” Winkleman continued, “just like I was? What if there’s a kid or two? Maybe it’s my duty to enlighten her.”

  “He’s not married,” Bernie said.

  “No? What else do you know about him?”

  “Not much.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “We never got that.”

  “You never got that?”

  “Weren’t the pictures enough?” Bernie said. “You seemed to think so at the time.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t I explain? I don’t want to be the putz.”

  I moved closer, kept my eyes on Winkleman’s hands.

  “What’s your dog doing?”

  “Chet? Just hanging out.”

  “His teeth are huge.”

  “Come over here, big guy.”

  I went over to Bernie and sat beside him.

  “How come you know he’s not married, but you don’t even know his name?” Winkleman said.

  “Information flow is unpredictable in this business,” Bernie said.

  I had no idea what that meant, but it seemed to make sense to Winkleman. He nodded and said, “This guy—does he have a girlfriend, maybe? A fiancée?”

  “Can’t say,” Bernie said.

  “I’m hiring you to find out. What do you want for a retainer? A grand? Two?”

  “We’re pretty busy right now,” Bernie said.

  “Fine,” said Winkleman. “I’ll take my business elsewhere. I hear the Mirabelli brothers are pretty good.”

  The Mirabelli brothers down in Sunshine City? Who said they were any good? What about that time when both the brothers got themselves stuck in the same chimney and we had to rescue them, me and Bernie?

  One thing about Bernie: he hardly ever gets angry. Another thing: sometimes when he doesn’t get angry there’s anger going on inside him. When that happens a little muscle bulges in his jaw. It bulged now, real quick and then gone.

  “All right, we’ll take the case,” he said.

  Winkleman reached for his checkbook. Now was the kind of moment when Bernie often said something about paying later, but not this time. “Make it twenty-five hundred.”

  Winkleman gave him a glance and wrote the check. As he handed it over, he said, “Enjoy the circus?”

  “The trainer and his elephant are missing.”

  “So I heard. I had a minority stake until last year.”

  “In what?”

  “Drummond’s circus. He bought me out, paid cash. Surprised me.”

  “How so?”

  “Where’s he coming up with swag like that? His circus has been hemorrhaging money for years.”

  “Why?”

  “Lots of reasons. Drummond’s a big spender, been married four or five times, pays alimony out the wazoo. But mainly it’s the competition.”

  “Other circuses?”

  “Nah. Other forms of entertainment, mostly involving screens. Screen addicts, practically the whole goddamn country.” Winkleman turned, moved toward his car. As he got in, he paused and said, “When am I gonna hear from you?”

  “When we’ve got something to say,” Bernie said. Winkleman drove away. Bernie watched until he was out of sight. “Christ,” he said, “what are we going to do?”

  Funny, but I thought of something right away. We have three trees out front, my favorite being a big shady one just perfect for napping under, but there’s also a soft spot in the earth on the other side of the trunk, ideal for burying things. I ran right over and dug up my lacrosse ball. You don’t see lacrosse balls that often, but they’re fine bouncers and chewing on them makes your teeth feel great.

  I dropped the lacrosse ball at Bernie’s feet. At first he didn’t seem to see it; his eyes were all cloudy. I picked up the ball and dropped it at his feet again. His eyes cleared.

  “Wanna play a little fetch?” he said.

  Exactly.

  Bernie picked up the ball, reared back, and fired it up Mesquite Road. Bernie pitched for Army until his arm blew out, if I haven’t mentioned that already, but it’s still a great arm, if you’re asking me. The ball soared away, finally touching down and making a bunch of those huge lacrosse ball bounces. It was still bouncing when I snatched it out of the air with one quick head lunge, wheeled around—my claws actually ripping into the pavement!—and tore off, back to Bernie, airborne almost the whole time. I dropped it at his feet.

  “That was quick,” Bernie said.

  We did it again. And again. And once more. And a few more times after that. And again. And once more. And a few more—

  “Chet! My arm’s falling off.”

  Uh-oh. Didn’t want to see that. We went into the house and drank some water, me from my bowl, Bernie from the tap. He raised his head.

  “One thing’s for sure—Winkleman and Leda can never be in the same room.”

  We went into the office. Have I described the office yet? It’s a little room next door to Charlie’s bedroom, at the side of the house facing old man Heydrich’s fence. A basket of kid’s blocks lay in one corner—the room was meant for a little sister or brother that never came along; sometimes I played with the blocks myself. The rest of the office was mostly Bernie’s books—on shelves, in stacks here and there, sometimes scattered on the floor; plus the desk; the two client chairs; the wall safe, hidden behind the picture of Niagara Falls, and a nice soft rug with—and this was the part that got my attention now—a pattern of circus elephants. The rug had been there forever, so I was very used to that circus elephant pattern. Normally I lie down on the rug, but all of a sudden I didn’t want to, something about a real circus elephant now being in our lives, couldn’t quite figure it out. I lay under the desk instead.

  Bernie tapped away at the keys, a calming sound. I snuggled up against his feet; they smelled nice.

  “What we’re looking for,” Bernie said, “is some hauling company with red roses on their trucks.”

  My eyes closed. That often happens after fetch.

  I felt a nudge in my side, a gentle nudge I knew well. I opened my eyes and there was Bernie looking down.

  “Sorry to yank you out of dreamland, big guy.” I’d been dreaming all right, but what? I came close to remembering. “We got work to do.”

  The next thing I knew we were in the Porsche, Bernie at the wheel, me riding shotgun. The sun was low in the sky, big and orange, and we were headed right into it. Bernie took his shades from behind the visor and put them on.

  “Chet! You do that every time.”

  Do what? The barking? That was me?

  “They’re just sunglasses, for God’s sake.”

  Sure, just sunglasses, but I didn’t like when he wore them, couldn’t help it. I shifted back over to my seat, turned my head to look out the window, which was always down because it wasn’t working these days, and neither was the top, not a problem because the monsoons
had come and gone, what there was of them which had been hardly any—a big problem for Bernie on account of how much he worried about the aquifer—and so there was no chance of getting wet, not that I minded getting wet. I’ve never laid eyes on the aquifer and it’s a big mystery to me. All I know is there’s only one of them and back in Indian times the arroyos ran with water all year. But if they didn’t now, was it a problem? We went by a golf course, water spraying all over the place, making beautiful rainbows, and then another golf course, and another. We had water out the yingyang.

  We got off the freeway, went through a rough part of town with boarded-up houses and lots of dudes sitting around doing nothing. Some of them looked like okay kinds of dudes; some watched us go by with hard eyes. We’d taken down a lot of hard-eyed dudes, me and Bernie. Then I thought of Jocko, a hard-eyed dude for sure, and the taking-down had been done by him.

  “What’s that growling about?” Bernie said. “You see something?” He glanced around. “I don’t.” He gave me a pat. We crossed some train tracks. I settled down.

  On the other side of the tracks everything was warehouses, chain-link fences, loading bays. We turned down a dusty street, passed a lumber yard, and stopped in front of a low brick building with some pallets stacked by the door. Over the door, a sign: “Cuatro Rosas Trucking,” Bernie said. “Know what that means?” I did not. “Four roses.” Four roses? I remembered something about that.

  We went inside. I’d been in lots of offices but never seen one quite like this, so empty. There was a desk, a phone, and a chair. A round-faced guy with a black handlebar mustache sat in the chair, reading a newspaper, his feet on the desk. He wore cowboy boots of shiny snakeskin—that got my attention—and a cowboy hat. He gave us a look, first Bernie, then me, then back to Bernie.

  “Cuatro Rosas Trucking?” Bernie said.

  “That’s what it says over the door, last time I checked.”

  “We’re looking for some information on one of your trucks.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Specifically a truck that left the fairgrounds early Saturday morning.”