Dog On It

by Spencer Quinn

  “Che-et.” Bernie spoke my name in the stretched-out way he used when he had a concern about what might be coming next. And sure, because of my leaping ability—I’d been the best leaper in K-9 class, which had led to all the trouble in a way I couldn’t remember exactly, although blood was involved—how could I not wonder a bit about certain possibilities? But I wasn’t about to find out now, was I? We were on the job. Thump thump. “Good boy.”

  The bird—green with scaly yellow legs and feet and a weird spiky comb on top of its head—made a horrible croaking noise.

  “Hear that?” said Cynthia.

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘Madison rocks.’ She taught him. He can say other things, too.”

  Whoa. Cynthia was claiming that he—this beady-eyed inmate—could talk? I didn’t buy it.

  “His name’s Cap’n Crunch.”

  Cap’n Crunch bobbed his head back and forth, an ugly lizard-like motion, and made the horrible croaking noise again. It ended in a high-pitched squeak that hurt my ears. One glance at Bernie and I knew he wasn’t hearing that squeak. Bernie missed some things, true, but you had to admire him: He never let his handicaps get him down.

  “What else can he say?”

  Oh, Bernie, please.

  Cynthia approached the cage. “Come on, baby.”

  Squawk squawk.

  “Hear that?”

  “What?”

  “‘Light my fire.’ He said ‘Light my fire’ when I said ‘Come on, baby.’”

  Right.

  But Bernie had one of those looks on his face, very still, eyes dark, meaning he was getting interested in something. “What else?”

  Cynthia tapped the cage. Her fingernails were long and shiny. “Cap’n Crunch? Want a drink?”

  Squawk squawk.

  “‘Make it a double’?” Bernie said.

  “You got it,” said Cynthia.

  “Pretty impressive.” It was? A bird that supposedly said ‘Madison rocks’, ‘light my fire,’ and ‘make it a double’? Impressive how? What was I missing? Bernie turned to me. “Chet! What are you growling about?”

  I wasn’t growling. But I sidled away all the same, sat down by the TV. It rested on a little table. At that moment I smelled a smell familiar from my days in K-9 school, and there, under the table: a small plastic bag of marijuana.

  Bernie shot me a quick look. “For God’s sake, Chet. Stop barking.” He turned to Cynthia. “Does Madison talk much to the bird?”

  “All the time. She’s had him, like, forever, really thinks he’s human.”

  Bernie tapped the cage. His fingernails were short, bitten right down to practically nothing. “Where’s Madison?” he said.

  The bird was silent. The whole room was silent. Bernie and Cynthia were watching the bird. I watched Bernie. Sometimes he worried me. If we were relying on eyewitness testimony from Cap’n Crunch, the case was hopeless.

  “What a brilliant idea,” Cynthia said. She gazed up at Cap’n Crunch. “Where’s Madison?” she said. When the bird remained silent, she added in a pleading tone, “Come on, baby.”

  “Light my fire,” said Cap’n Crunch. This time I heard it myself.

  “Let’s back up a little,” Bernie said. “I’d like to establish a chronology.”

  “What’s that?”

  I was curious, too. Bernie used big words sometimes. If he had his choice, he’d probably spend every day with his nose in a book; but what with alimony, child support, and the failed investment in a start-up that made pants with Hawaiian shirt patterns—he loved Hawaiian shirts—Bernie didn’t have his choice.

  “A time line,” he said. “When did you last see Madison?”

  Cynthia looked at her watch. It was big and gold. She had more gold around her wrists and neck, and in her ears. I’d licked gold a few times, didn’t care for it, although silver was worse.

  “Eight-fifteen,” Cynthia said. “When I dropped her off at school.”

  “What school?”

  “Heavenly Valley High.”

  “Don’t know that one.”

  “It’s pretty new, just north of Puma Wells. My ex is a developer up there.”

  “Your ex is Madison’s father?”

  “That’s right. We’ve been divorced for five years.”

  “Did you call him?”

  “Of course. He hasn’t seen her.”

  “You have custody?”

  Cynthia nodded. “She spends some weekends with Damon, every second Christmas, that kind of thing.”

  Bernie took out his notebook and pen. “Damon Chambliss?”

  “Keefer. I’ve gone back to my maiden name.”

  Maiden name? What was that again? They kept changing their names, all these people. I didn’t get it. I was Chet, pure and simple.

  “Madison goes by Chambliss?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she was about ten at the time of the divorce?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she take it?”

  Cynthia raised her shoulders, lowered them: the shrug. Sometimes it meant not caring—a hard one for me, right there—but was this one of those times? “You know what they say.”

  “What do they say?”

  “Divorce is better for kids than a bad marriage,” Cynthia said.

  Bernie blinked. Just a tiny movement, easy to miss, but I knew what was on his mind: Charlie; and Bernie’s own divorce. As for marriage and divorce, don’t look at me. Complete unknowns, both of them, where I come from.

  “But,” said Cynthia, “I don’t see what any of this has to do with Madison’s disappearance.”

  Neither did I, exactly.

  “Just filling in the blanks,” said Bernie. One of his favorite lines, worked like a charm in most situations.

  “Sorry,” said Cynthia. “Didn’t mean to tell you your business. It’s just . . .” Her eyes got wet again. Once one of Leda’s big fat tears had fallen to the floor and I’d had a taste. Salty; a big surprise. “It’s just . . . Oh God, where is she?”

  Bernie glanced around, spotted a box of tissues on the desk, gave her one. “When did you realize she might be missing?”

  “When she didn’t come home. She takes the bus. I’m here, but afternoons are my busy time—I run a small business out of the house.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Designing e-cards.”

  “E-cards?”

  “I can put you on my list if you’re interested,” Cynthia said. She took another tissue, blew her nose. Her nose was tiny, useless, so different from mine, but I couldn’t help wondering: What would that be like, blowing it? All of a sudden my own nose got twitchy. Cynthia and Bernie went on for a while about the bus, Madison not getting off, various calls she’d made to the school, Madison’s friends, the ex, but I wasn’t really listening, caught up in all these strange feelings in my nose.

  And then: “Why is he snarling like that?”

  “I don’t think he’s snarling,” Bernie said. “More like wriggling his nose. Chet? You all right?”

  Humiliation. I gave myself a good shake, always a nice way of making a fresh start, and moved closer to Bernie, alert, tail high.

  “He’s all right,” Bernie said.

  Cynthia was looking at me funny. “I’ve never seen a dog like that before.”

  “Like what?”

  “His ears. One’s black and one’s white.”

  Bad manners, commenting on someone’s appearance like that. Wasn’t it common knowledge? I decided then and there I didn’t like Cynthia. One look at Bernie and I could tell he didn’t, either.

  “I’ll need some things from you,” he said, his voice cool, on the way to cold. “Contact information for your ex, Madison’s friends, any special people in her life—coaches, teachers, et cetera. Plus a good photo of her.”

  “Right away,” she said, and left the room.

  Bernie turned to me and, in a low voice, got down to business. “Find something?”

  I went over t
o the TV table, leaned forward pointer-style. Bernie knelt, fished out the bag of marijuana. He hefted it in his hand, slid it back under the table.

  “Good man.” Pat pat—and a quick scratch between the ears. Ah.

  Cynthia returned, gave Bernie a sheet of paper and a framed photo of a girl with a ponytail. Horses I could do without, but I like ponytails. “Does Madison have a boyfriend?” Bernie said.

  “No.”

  Bernie looked around the room. “Then that should do it,” he said. “Except for something with Madison’s smell.”

  “Her pillowcase?”

  Bernie went to the bed, stripped off a pillowcase that looked pink to me, although I’m no judge of color, according to Bernie. I sniffed at it a couple times, got Madison’s smell: young human female, with hints of honey, cherry, and a kind of sun-colored flower I sometimes saw along roadsides. Bernie folded the pillow-case and sealed it in a plastic bag.

  “We’ll be in touch,” he said. “But if you hear anything, call right away, day or night.”

  “Thank you. I’m so grateful.” Cynthia led us down the hall to the front door. “Angela DiPesto raved about you.”

  Bernie stopped, turned to her. “You said you worked with her.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How is she involved with e-cards?”

  “She wrote my software.”

  “Angela DiPesto?”

  Cynthia nodded, and opened the door. A girl was coming up the walk, a ponytailed girl with a backpack. Her face was still in the night shadows, but I knew who it was right away from the smell.

  “Madison?” said Cynthia. She covered her mouth, one of those things that human females did sometimes and human males never. “Oh my God—where have you been?”

  Under his breath, to no one in particular, Bernie said, “I need a drink.”

  From back in the house came the harsh voice of Cap’n Crunch: “Make it a double.”

  three

  Madison smelled just like her pillowcase, except now there was sweat mixed in; sweat and a little marijuana, too. Sweat, human sweat, is a big subject. There’s a kind that comes from exercise and has a fresh tangy smell. Then there’s the kind that comes from not showering enough, less fresh, with faint nonhuman elements mixed in. The kind that comes from fear—what I was smelling now—is somewhere in between.

  Cynthia stepped outside, grabbed Madison’s wrist. “Where were you? I’ve been out of my mind.”

  “I—” Madison began, then noticed Bernie and stopped.

  “This is Mr. Little. He’s a detective.”

  “A detective?”

  “I was worried sick.”

  “For God’s sake, Mom. You called a detective?”

  “Where were you? Answer me!”

  Madison bit her lip. They do that sometimes. What does it mean? Hard to tell, exactly, but I always notice. “It’s not my fault. Mr. Rentner recommended it.”

  “Mr. Rentner? What are you talking about?”

  “Come on, Mom—my history teacher. The one who liked my essay on—”

  “Right, right, what about him?”

  “He said we should see this movie about Russia.”

  “You were at the movies?”

  “They had a special showing at the North Canyon Mall. Just today and tomorrow. I watched the movie and then hung out till I could get a ride home.”

  “From who?”

  “This senior—you don’t know him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Tim something-or-other. I don’t really know him, either.”

  Cynthia gazed at Madison, upward a little, since her daughter was taller. “Why didn’t you phone?”

  “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “And I called your cell a million times.”

  “I turned it off, Mom. Like, at the movies, cell phones, you know?”

  “Don’t talk to me that way.”

  Madison looked down.

  There was a silence. Then Cynthia said, “Let’s get in the house.” She turned to Bernie. “Thanks for your time.”

  “No problem,” Bernie said. “Glad everything worked out.” He looked at Madison. “Big fan of Russian movies, myself. Which one was this?”

  “Dr. Zhivago,” Madison said. “We’re studying the Russian revolution.”

  “Love Dr. Zhivago,” said Bernie. We watched a lot of movies, me and Bernie, although I had no recollection of this one. Truth was, I didn’t pay close attention unless my own guys were involved, even in a small way, like in As Good as It Gets, for example, or Ghostbusters II. Bernie added one more comment: “My favorite part was the tennis-court scene.”

  “Yeah,” said Madison. “That was cool.” Then she did something that took me by surprise: She came closer and gave me a pat, very soft and gentle. “I love your dog,” she said.

  They went in the house. We went home.

  It was late. Bernie found a leftover steak in the fridge. He smeared on A.1., cut it in half, and we had a little snack. Bernie cracked open a beer, sat at the table.

  “I feel guilty, not even offering to return the five C’s.”

  I chewed my steak. Loved steak, could eat it every day.

  “Except for one thing, Chet. Know what that is?”

  I looked up from my bowl, a piece of meat possibly sticking out of the side of my mouth.

  “There is no tennis-court scene in Dr. Zhivago.”

  Bernie opened his laptop. I turned to the water bowl.

  “Let me freshen that up.”

  Bernie refilled the water bowl at the sink, even threw in a few ice cubes. Ah. Love ice cubes. He went back to the laptop. “Yup. Dr. Zhivago’s playing at the North Canyon Mall, on that little screening room at the back. And Mr. Ted Rentner teaches history at Heavenly Valley High.” He sighed. Yes, the sigh, also interesting: The younger the human, in my observation, the less they do it. “Two kinds of lies, Chet. The big lie, totally out there, and the tiny one slipped into a web of truth. The girl’s damn good.” He shook the A.1. bottle, poured some more on his steak. “Did Cynthia say she was on the gifted track?”

  No idea. I crushed an ice cube. Made my teeth feel great, and then cold little chips were swirling through my mouth, cooling me down all over. Dinnertime—even a quick snack like this—was something we always looked forward to, me and Bernie.

  He flipped his laptop shut. “On the other hand, she’s back home, safe and sound. Big picture. But you see why I don’t feel too bad about taking the money?”

  Sure. We needed money in the worst way. Our finances were a mess—alimony, child support, Hawaiian pants, and almost no revenue except for divorce work. Bernie went over and over that, almost every night. An ant, one of those juicy black ones, appeared from under the stove and tried to run right by me. What was he thinking? I hardly had to move my tongue. Bernie always stressed the importance of protein in the diet.

  Bernie’s bedroom—pretty messy, clothes, books, newspapers all over the place—was at the back of the house, looking out on the canyon. He slept in the big bed he’d shared with Leda. In those days, I’d slept in the kitchen; now I was on the floor at the foot of the bed. There was a nice soft rug somewhere under all the debris.

  “’Night, Chet.”

  I closed my eyes. The night was cooling down, and Bernie had the AC off, windows open. Lots of action in the canyon—coyote yips, rustling, a sharp cry suddenly interrupted. Bernie’s breathing grew slow and regular. He groaned once or twice in his sleep, once muttered something that sounded like “Who knows?” A car went down the street and, from the sound, seemed to slow as it approached the house. I raised my head. The car kept going, engine noise fading into silence. I got up, walked around in a little circle, and lay back down, stretching my legs straight out. One white ear, one black? So what? Very soon I was roaming the canyon, chasing coyotes, lizards, and javelinas under the moonlight—in my dreams, of course. In real life, the canyon was out of bounds, unless I was with Bernie. But he trusted me. At least I didn
’t have an electric fence to deal with, like poor old Iggy.

  I woke up to the sound of Bernie snoring. The room was dark except for a faint silvery band between the curtains. I got up—feeling good, appetite sharp, a bit thirsty—and went to the bedside. Bernie lay on his back, just his face showing, from the chin up. His forehead was all wrinkled, the way it got when he was thinking hard about some big problem. There were dark circles under his eyes; he looked more tired than he had going to bed. I lay my head on the blanket.

  A car came down the street. This one didn’t keep going but stopped with a little squeak. A door slammed shut. Just from that slamming sound, I was pretty sure who it was. I trotted out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and into the TV room. The window looked out on the street, and yes, there was Leda, striding up the walk. Charlie sat in the car, staring out.

  I ran into the bedroom.

  “Chet, for God’s sake.” Bernie grabbed the blanket, tried to keep me from pulling it away. “Knock it off. I’m sleeping.”

  Ding-dong. The front door.

  Bernie sat up. “Someone’s here?”

  Ding-dong.

  “Chet! What the hell? Get off the bed.”

  I was on the bed? And kind of pawing at Bernie? Oops. I jumped off. Bernie rose, threw on his robe, the one with lots of holes and a missing belt. He hurried out of the room, hair all over the place, breath pretty strong. I followed.

  Bernie opened the front door, blinked in the light. Leda had pale eyes, like the sky in winter. She looked at Bernie, his messy hair, his robe; then at me; and back to Bernie. Bernie just stood there, mouth open.

  “Does it make you feel good to humiliate me like this?” she said.

  “Huh?” said Bernie.

  I didn’t understand, either. I’d always had trouble understanding Leda, even from point-blank range like this, where I could see every movement of her lips, every expression on her face.

  She whipped out a piece of paper, thrust it at him.

  “What’s this?” he said.

  “A letter from the school, obviously.”

  Bernie gazed at the letter, his eyes going back and forth. “The tuition check?” he said. “But I’m sure there was enough money in the account. I even—”