“Maybe I should send flowers,” he said. “Or buy her a present. But it’s so hard to . . . She never wears those earrings I gave her, for example.” Earrings. I tried to remember. Was he talking about the ones that glowed at night?
His gaze fell on the blinking message machine. He pressed a button.
“Still not taking your calls? The retainer I—”
Bernie pressed the button, shut him up. “Winkleman’s trouble, Chet. Big trouble.” That little guy with skinny legs and a comb-over was trouble? I didn’t see it. Jocko—he was trouble.
“Hey—what are you barking about?”
Jocko had cased our house, that was what.
“Easy, big guy. Want a Milk-Bone?”
Life can be funny. Milk-Bones had been the farthest thing from my mind, but now I wanted one more than anything. And soon I had it.
“Let’s try to be smart about this,” Bernie said. I had no idea what he was talking about. We hopped in the car, me downing the last bite.
Pretty soon we turned into High Chaparral Estates, one of the nicest developments in the whole Valley, as Leda often mentioned. She and Malcolm had a big house there, and that was where Charlie lived now, except when he was back home, which wasn’t often.
We parked in front of their house. It had columns, big windows, balconies, and a bright green lawn that went on and on. “There’s only one aquifer,” Bernie said as we left the car and walked up the winding, flower-lined path to the door. “Why don’t people get that?” He pressed the buzzer.
The door opened and there was Leda, talking on a cell phone. Her eyebrows went up in surprise at the sight of us, not that she has much in the way of eyebrows, on account of how she’d go at them with tweezers, at least back when we were all together. “A hundred and ninety a head and you’re telling me we don’t get the sabayon?” she was saying. She listened to a squeaky voice on the other end, but not for long. “Stop, stop, stop, stop,” she said, her voice rising in a way I remembered well. “Run those numbers again and call me back—with a different answer this time.” She clicked off. “Caterers are going under all over the goddamn Valley, and still they try to pull this shit.”
“What’s sabayon?” Bernie said.
“Sabayon? You don’t know sabayon?” She blinked. “What are you doing here anyway?” She checked her watch, a beautiful glittering thing that reminded me of an unfortunate incident involving me and her leather jewelry box, not long before the split. “Charlie’s not home yet, and it’s not the weekend, and even if it were it’s not your weekend.”
“True,” said Bernie. “Uh, the fact is, we were in the neighborhood, and I thought, well, why not stop by and see how you’re doing?”
“See how I’m doing? Are you feverish?”
“Ha ha,” Bernie said. “There’s that sense of humor.”
“Bernie. Do I look like I’ve got time for your sarcasm?”
“No sarcasm,” Bernie said. “I always, uh, admired your sense of humor.”
“You hid that so well.”
“Ha ha—there it is again.”
A silence fell. I got ready for the door to slam in our face, wouldn’t have been the first time. Their eyes met, Bernie’s and Leda’s. And then, big surprise: Leda was laughing—and so was Bernie. When was the last time I’d seen that, if ever?
“So,” Bernie said. “How are you doing, really? Must be a lot of stress, planning the wedding and all.”
“Understatement of the century.”
“I’m sure it will be great.
“Thank you. Oh, Christ, don’t tell me you’re angling for an invitation.”
“No, no, no. Not in my wildest—”
“Because even though Malcolm’s doing so well—you wouldn’t believe what’s coming in even if I told you—we’re still trying to keep the guest list manageable. There’s such a thing as overdoing it. In terms of taste, if nothing else, what with the economy and all.”
“I agree. Remind me what Malcolm does again.”
“Software.”
“But more specifically.”
“It’s complicated—licensing, China, integrated apps.”
“Integrated apps?”
“No time to explain. Is this good mood of yours all about the alimony?”
“Alimony?”
“After the wedding you won’t have to pay alimony anymore.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Bernie said.
“You hadn’t?”
“Nope.”
“You know something, Bernie? You’re changing.”
“How?”
“I’ll put it this way,” Leda said. “If things hadn’t worked out so well with Malcolm, crazy as it might seem, I could almost even toy with the idea of . . . dot dot dot.”
Dot dot dot? What the hell was she talking about? Did Bernie know? I couldn’t tell. He was looking down at his feet, doing a strange little shuffling thing.
“Crazy,” he said. “I mean great, just great the way everything’s, you know, you and Malcolm. He’s, uh, excited about this, too?”
“What a question! He’s head over heels. Haven’t you seen the engagement ring?” She thrust her hand out at Bernie before I had chance to think about that head over heels thing.
“Wow,” he said.
“Forty grand,” Leda said. “Took it to the appraiser first thing.”
“Wow,” Bernie said again.
What was going on? I had no idea. A phone started ringing in the house, and Leda said, “That’ll be him right now.”
“The appraiser?”
“Of course not,” Leda said. “Malcolm—he’s away on business.”
“Well, then, we’ll just—”
“Bye,” Leda said. “And Bernie? Thanks.”
“—be on our—”
The door closed in our face, but not in a slamming sort of way. We got in the car. Bernie rummaged around in the glove box, found a bent cigarette way in the back. He lit up, breathed in, blew out a big smoke cloud. I knew he was trying to quit, but that smell—I couldn’t help liking it. I breathed in, too.
“That wedding has to happen,” he said, turning the key. “And not just that—the goddamn marriage has to last. In fact, it has to be great, like . . . like—I don’t know, think of some great marriage, Chet.”
Missed that, whatever it was. We drove out of the Valley and into the desert, and not long after on account of how we were passing everything in sight although I didn’t know what the hurry was, we entered a little town I recognized, the one that Bernie had called flea-bitten. I started scratching, first behind my ear, soon along my side, then both at once, really digging in with my claws, faster and—
“Chet, for God’s sake.”
We parked behind the palm tree on the street in front of the horseshoe-shaped motel. Two cars in the lot: one a red convertible, the other a dark sedan.
“Oh, boy,” Bernie said, and almost right away a motel room door opened and out came Marvin Winkleman’s wife—unless the divorce had already happened, couldn’t recall the details on that—short, blond, and curvy, possibly named Bobbi Jo, followed by Malcolm, knotting his tie. “I want to strangle him with it,” Bernie said. I got ready, but no strangling happened. We sped off while they were still getting in their cars, the strangling of Malcolm maybe being something to look forward to in the future.
SIXTEEN
The heel is down at the foot: I was pretty sure of that, because when Bernie says heel, which he really never has to, I walk along right beside his feet. The head is the head, at the top. So head over heels means what? The head is always over the heels, except in an upside-down situation, for example when a perp by the name of Nuggets Bolliterri tried to escape on us from an upstairs window and ended up dangling headfirst in a tangle of tied-together sheets. Leda had just said Malcolm was head over heels. Meaning what? He was tangled in tied-together sheets? I couldn’t take it any further.
We got stuck in traffic, not moving at all, the kind of getting stuck
where drivers climb out of their cars and stare into the distance. Bernie called Suzie. “Hi, it’s me. Are you there? Did you get my message, uh, the one about being sorry about the Dry Gulch thing? Hope you didn’t hang around there too long, and also, um—”
Suzie picked up. Her voice came over the speakers. “Three hours,” she said.
“Oh,” said Bernie.
“But I’ll never do that again.” Suzie’s voice over the speakers, yes, except I’d never heard her sound like this. Suzie has one of my favorite voices, like she’s having fun just being there—can’t help listening whenever Suzie speaks, letting the sound flow over me—but there was no fun in her voice now. Instead it was flat, and also kind of cold.
“Like I said,” Bernie said, “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are,” Suzie said. “And I also know how it is when you’re on a case. But I’m starting to think you may not be ready for this.”
“For what?” Bernie said. Someone honked behind us; traffic was moving again. Bernie shifted into gear, but not in the usual way: there was a nasty grinding.
“See, right there,” Suzie said. “I’m talking about being ready for whatever this is we’ve got going on between us.”
“Oh,” said Bernie again. This wasn’t easy to follow, but I knew from experience that whenever Bernie kept saying “oh” things weren’t going well.
“How would you define it, Bernie?”
More honking. Bernie pressed on the gas, maybe too hard. We jerked forward. “Define what?” he said.
Suzie’s voice got colder. “What we have.”
“What we have?” said Bernie. “It’s like, you know, a good thing.”
“A good thing,” Suzie said.
“Yeah.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Elaborate? Well, a very good thing. Very, very good.”
“Have to go into a meeting,” Suzie said. “When you come up with a better definition, feel free to give me a call.”
“But—”
Click.
“Christ,” Bernie said. “What was that about?”
I couldn’t help him.
“I mean,” Bernie said, rummaging in the glove box, this time coming out empty-handed, “it’s very, very good. What’s better than that? When I’m with her I feel great, every single minute. She doesn’t even have to say a word, but I love when she does. Christ Almighty. Just her presence makes me want to be my best self.” He tried fishing under his seat, found a pen, a broken CD case, and a coffee cup lid, but no cigarettes. “So what the hell does she want me to say?”
I had no idea. In my world, the nation within the nation, we do things differently. Take this one night, for example, when I heard some distant she-barking, and in fact it didn’t turn out to be so distant after all—I was there in no time! She was in a fenced-in backyard, kind of a high fence, but not quite high enough. No, sir. I’ve always loved leaping and that night I loved it even more, taking this all-out sprint—she was standing still watching me the whole time through chain-link—and getting my paws underneath me and—
The phone buzzed. “Suzie?” said Bernie, just before hitting the button.
Not Suzie; the voice over the speakers was Rick’s. “Update for you,” he said. “Autopsy came in on DeLeath. Cause of death—” Paper rustled in the background. “—necrotic blah blah, here we go—shock, induced by cytotoxic venom resultant from a snakebite to the dorsal yada yada of the right hand.”
“You’re saying he died of snakebite?”
“Haven’t lost your quick, Bernie.”
“Any other signs of violence?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Rick said. Bernie didn’t answer. “Nothing else,” Rick said. “Snakebite, period.”
“Thanks.”
“Any time. Talked to that little trapeze guy, by the way, Ollie Filipoff. Do you know if they use a net?”
“Yeah, they do. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Why?”
“It makes a difference, don’t you think?” Rick said. “Like say the difference between kissing and the old boom-boom.”
“Have to think about that,” Bernie said. Not me. I didn’t get any of this, so far. “Is that what you talked to Ollie about—sex and the flying trapeze?”
“Nope,” said Rick. “We discussed his retraction.”
“Of what?”
“That tale he fed you—the eighteen-wheeler with four roses on the side, leaving the fairgrounds by the back gate.”
“Tale? What are you talking about?”
“Fiction, Bernie. He made it up.”
“Why the hell would he do that?”
“Says he was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of you. You and Chet.”
“Bullshit.”
“He says you came on strong—don’t tell me that never happens. Plus he has a fear of dogs.”
Whoa. Rick was saying Ollie was afraid of me? No way. Not that he’d patted me or anything like that, but when a human had fears of me and my kind I always knew, and Ollie didn’t.
“He sensed rough treatment just around the corner,” Rick was saying, “so he gave you what he thought you wanted.”
“It’s just around the corner now,” Bernie said.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“And how could he have known what I wanted? I never mentioned a truck of any kind, let alone with four roses on the side.”
“Ah,” said Rick. “The roses. They were for verisimilitude.”
That one was brand new, sounded very bad.
“Meaning?”
“Verisimilitude? I’m surprised you’re not familiar—”
“Cut the crap,” Bernie said.
Rick laughed. “Apparently you were plying him with JD.”
“Plying? We had a friendly drink.”
“And, in search of the telling detail that sells the story—he’s that kind of witness, basically a sneak—he happened to think of another bourbon.”
“Four Roses?”
“Haven’t lost your quick, Bernie. Or did I already say that?”
The next day—or was it the one after? or maybe the same one?—we parked in a lot outside a cemetery gate, away from all the other cars. The gate was open, but we didn’t go in. A burial was happening inside—we could see people in dark clothes standing around—and Bernie tries to stay away from burials, not always easy in our job. About cemeteries, all I know is that they probably smell different to me than they do to you. A big black bird flew in slow circles high above but no one was watching it, except me. I admit I’ve got a thing about birds, bad-tempered critters, and I don’t just mean the one that followed me and a tiny show dog named Princess across the desert, something wicked on its mind. But that’s another story. The point is, would I be bad-tempered if I could drift around in the bright blue sky all day? I ask you.
After a while the people started coming out and getting in their cars. I recognized some of them—Popo, Colonel Drummond, Fil, and others I’d seen around the circus. They got in their cars and drove away. We sat where we were until Ollie Filipoff walked through the gate, just about the very last person. He headed toward a motorcycle in the far corner of the lot, took off his jacket and tie, and then his shirt, balled them all up and shoved them into a saddlebag. A little guy, but with big pop-up muscles. He took a T-shirt from the saddlebag, put it on, and carefully rolled the sleeves up a little higher over his arm muscles.
“At least somebody loves Ollie,” Bernie said. I waited to find out who, but Bernie didn’t say.
We walked across the lot. Ollie was swinging one leg over the motorcycle when he saw us. He paused, then sat slowly on the seat.
“Got a moment?” Bernie said.
“Pressed for time, tell you the truth,” Ollie said.
“The truth is always a nice change of pace,” Bernie said.
“Huh?” said Ollie.
Bernie smiled, the kind that’s only about s
howing teeth. “Cool bike,” he said, putting his hand on it.
Ollie gave Bernie’s hand a look—he didn’t like his bike getting touched, hard to miss that—but all he said was, “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Came to express our condolences,” Bernie said.
“For what?”
“The circus’s recent loss.”
“What was that?”
“Uri DeLeath,” Bernie said. “Unless we’ve got the wrong funeral.”
“Nope, it’s the right one. He passed on.”
“One way of putting it.”
“Like, to the other side,” Ollie said.
“How do you feel about that, Ollie?”
“The other side, you mean?”
“Sure, why not?”
Ollie squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. A certain kind of dude, the kind we always bring down, does that when he’s trying to have a thought. “I don’t know,” he said, eyes opening. “Is there a hell, too? Or just heaven.”
Bernie smiled again, this time the actually-having-fun type. “What if there’s hell and hell only? Ever think of that, Ollie?”
“Damn. You think that’s possible?”
“Depends on the point of all this,” Bernie said, “assuming there is one.” Ollie glanced around the way humans do when they’re trying to figure out where they are. “But what we really wanted to know,” Bernie went on, “is how you feel about DeLeath’s death.”
“How I feel?” Ollie licked his lips; I watch for that—usually a good sign. “Tough break, I guess,” he said.
“Hear about what killed him?”
“Oh, yeah. Snakes scare the shit out of me. Ironic, huh?”
“Didn’t quite follow you,” Bernie said.
“The animal guy getting offed by an animal.”
“Where did you hear that?” Bernie said. “About the irony.”
“The colonel mentioned it.”
“Did he?”
“On the way out of the church.” Ollie leaned forward, put his hands on the controls. “Well, better get goin’.”
To Fetch a Thief Page 13
