Dog On It

by Spencer Quinn

“Called the paper.”

  “And?”

  “And they said you were working on a story about some private eye, gave me this address.”

  Bernie’s head turned sharply toward Suze, something I didn’t see often, a sign of surprise. I spotted a tennis ball near the tree and picked it up.

  “Just like that?” Suze was saying. “They gave you the address?”

  “Nice gal on the phone,” Dylan said. “And maybe I let the situation seem a tad more urgent than it is, not on purpose, of course.”

  “What is the situation?” Suze said.

  “I’m relocating,” Dylan said.

  “Where to?”

  “L.A.,” Dylan said. “Got a job waiting.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Interesting stuff,” Dylan said. “Flying out today. Thing is, I could use a ride to the airport.”

  Suzie glanced around. “How did you get here?”

  “Buddy dropped me off.”

  Suzie opened her mouth to say something. I can tell when a human is about to say no, had plenty of experience with that, and “no” was coming. But at that moment a police cruiser appeared on our street, slowing down and parking in front of the house. Rick Torres, wearing his uniform, gun on his hip, stepped out.

  “All right,” Suzie said to Dylan. “Get in the car.”

  “You’re a peach,” he said.

  The lemon-eating expression that I’d seen on Myron King’s face now appeared on Suzie’s. What with peaches and lemons, I got confused. “See you, Bernie,” Suzie said.

  “Yup,” said Bernie.

  They drove off. We all watched them—me, Bernie, Rick Torres.

  “Who was that?” Rick said.

  “Suzie Sanchez. She’s a reporter for the Tribune.”

  “The one who did that piece on you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We all got a charge out of it, down at the station.”

  Bernie said nothing.

  “But all the boys agreed she got one thing wrong—Robert Mitchum couldn’t hold a candle to you.”

  “Knock it off.”

  Rick laughed. “Hey, Chet.” He came over, patted my head. “Don’t care for reporters,” he said.

  “No?” said Bernie.

  “Always got some secret agenda—can’t trust them, in my experience.”

  What was he saying? I trusted Suzie, for sure, one of the most reliable treat sources I’d ever met. I started to back away from Rick, but then he scratched at the base of one of my ears, a perfect spot. That planted me right where I was. Ah, this was the life, although maybe not for Bernie, who was gazing down the empty street, his face not happy. How come? My chances of getting to the bottom of that weren’t good, not with this lovely scratching going on. Rick stopped—too soon, always too soon—and pulled an envelope from his pocket. I gave myself a good shake, unscrambled my head, leaving it all peaceful and quiet inside, actually kind of empty.

  Rick handed the envelope to Bernie. Bernie took out a photo from inside and examined it.

  “That’s her,” he said. “Madison Chambliss.”

  “Taken last night with a cell phone outside a movie theater in North Vegas, the Golden Palm Movie Palace. You can see the ticket window there in the background. Guy who snapped it—projectionist on his way to work—turns out to be a crime buff, saw the photo on some site, maybe ours, and recognized her. Didn’t speak to her, evidently, but he did call the LVPD. They checked out the cell phone—time code’s legit.”

  “She was by herself?”

  “Looked that way, according to the projectionist. She came walking out of a showing as he was going in.”

  Bernie bit his lip. That was something I didn’t see often. Good or bad? I couldn’t tell. “Do her parents know?”

  “Yup. I think the mom’s already on her way up there.”

  “And the LVPD?”

  “They put her on their runaway list.” Rick shook his head, not the headshake meaning “no,” but the one for “not much hope,” a feeling I didn’t understand. “That’s a long one, up in Vegas,” Rick said.

  Rick dropped us off at the garage. The Porsche was in the lot, all washed and shiny. Bernie paid the bill, and then we were off to Vegas!

  “Starter coil,” Bernie said after a while, possibly not in a mood like mine. “Guess what that costs.”

  I had no idea, only knew it wasn’t good or Bernie wouldn’t be worrying. Our finances were a mess. Maybe I’d find a wallet somewhere. That had happened more than once, but they’d always been empty, although wallet leather tasted great. No other moneymaking ideas came to mind. And why was it so important? We ate like kings, had a roof over our heads and the coolest car in the whole Valley. Fresh breeze, warm sun, riding shotgun: My mood brightened again, although a treat would have been nice. I sniffed the air, smelled no treats, not even old moldy ones under the seat. We passed a horse trailer, and I caught a glimpse of a big horse eye through the side slats, got off a quick bark-bark-bark, machine-gun style. Did I spot a flicker of fear in that eye as we zoomed away? Horses were jumpy—what a fun fact!

  After that I got sleepy and lay down. Just as I was nodding off, Bernie muttered, “And we’re not an item, that’s for sure.” Uh-oh: He was worried about all sorts of things. I slipped into dreamland, found myself chasing rabbits right away.

  When I woke up, the sun hung low in the sky, and we were driving down a broad avenue lined with weird buildings, weird lights, weird people, weird everything.

  “Vegas,” Bernie said. “Welcome to the ninth circle.”

  Ninth circle? A new one on me. Back in the Charlie and Leda days, we’d been to a ranch called the Circle-Z. Talk about chasing rabbits! Although that rabbit episode hadn’t turned out so well, led to a disagreement between Leda and Bernie and Bernie sleeping on the living-room couch for a long time, maybe even till she and Charlie moved away. Thoughts of the Circle-Z turned my mind in the direction of another ranch, but what one? A ranch . . . a ranch with a mine on the property, yes, and Madison’s face high up in the barn window. Had to remember that: very important.

  “What’re you barking about, boy?”

  I looked Bernie in the eye, barked and barked.

  “C’mon, Chet, ease up.”

  I eased up.

  Not long after that, we parked in front of a building with a marquee out front and a brightly lit golden palm tree on the roof. Marquees meant movie theaters, not welcoming places in my experience—had never been inside one, even though I’m a big movie buff.

  “Better stay put, Chet,” Bernie said, getting out.

  Did I know that was coming? Sure, but it didn’t help. I opened my mouth very wide, stretching it to the max, no idea why.

  “Be right back.” But Bernie had only taken a step or two when Damon Keefer got out of the car parked behind us; I knew it was him partly from the goatee but more from the sudden strong odor of Prince the cat. At the same time, Cynthia Chambliss, smelling of flowers, lemons, and a hint of human sweat, got out of another car, parked a few spaces ahead. They approached Bernie. He turned so he could face them both.

  “Have you got her?” he said.

  “No,” said Keefer.

  “Not yet,” Cynthia said. “But soon—I’m so hopeful, now that we know what’s going on.”

  “Which is?” said Bernie.

  “Cynthia refers to the fact that this is clearly a runaway situation,” Keefer said, “and not something worse.”

  “That’s not clear to us,” Bernie said.

  “Us?” said Keefer. “Who is ‘us’?”

  “I told you before,” Bernie said. “The Little Detective Agency.”

  “Why isn’t it clear?” said Cynthia, her eyebrows pinching in together, sure sign of human anxiety. “Sergeant Torres said he spoke to you. Didn’t he explain about the photograph?”

  “It’s suggestive,” Bernie said, “but I’m still not satisfied.”

  “Doesn’t matter whether you are or not,” Keefer said. “
Cynthia and I are in agreement that your services are no longer needed.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I just told you,” Keefer said. “She’s a runaway.”

  “That was possible from the start,” Bernie said. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “Except the venue,” Keefer said. “We’ve decided, Cynthia and myself, that if we choose to proceed with a private detective, we’ll hire one from the Vegas area.”

  Bernie’s face sometimes had a way of thinning out and going hard at the same time, as though turning to stone. When that happened, it was usually “Look out, perps and bad guys.” But not this time. Bernie just said, “I can recommend a few people.”

  “That would be very ni—” Cynthia began.

  Keefer cut her off. “Unnecessary,” he said. “Just send the final bill at your convenience.”

  “You can add it to the stack,” Bernie said.

  “Huh?” Keefer said.

  “Somewhere under the one from Myron King—wouldn’t want to jump the line.”

  “What does he mean?” Cynthia said, turning to Keefer. The smell of her sweat was a little stronger now, actually quite pleasant. “Who’s Myron King?”

  “The waterfall man,” Bernie said. He got in the car. Keefer’s face looked dark and swollen; Cynthia was opening her mouth to ask him something else. We zoomed off. Bernie made the tires squeal. I loved that.

  We drove for a few blocks, made some turns, stopped at a convenience store. Bernie went in, came out with cigarettes and chew strips. He moved the car into the shade of a huge billboard that showed coins pouring out of a slot machine. We sat there, smoking and chewing.

  “Staying on a case when you’re not getting paid,” Bernie said. “How stupid is that?”

  I didn’t know. These chew strips were a new kind to me, saltier than I was used to but chewier, too, in a way that was hard to pin down. I tried another.

  Bernie took a deep drag, blew the smoke out slowly. Smoke rings, please: I loved smoke rings, but Bernie didn’t make any. “Know what else bothers me? Suzie never said she was doing another story. I thought she was just hanging out with us. You know—because she wanted to.”

  Missed that one. Suzie did hang out with us, and of course she wanted to: We had fun. And would keep having fun as long as she didn’t forget who the partner was. Bernie flicked the cigarette outside.

  “Tell you what, Chet. Let’s go be stupid.”

  That was fine with me.

  twenty

  Pretty soon we were back in front of the Golden Palm Movie Palace; no sign of Keefer or Cynthia. The sun went down, and the sky turned dark pink. I’d never seen sky like that before. It made me uneasy. I twisted around on my seat, trying to get comfortable.

  “Vegas,” Bernie said. “Nothing you can do about it.”

  I settled down. Not long after that, a beat-up van parked nearby. A man got out, carrying round flat cans under one arm, kind of like Frisbees but bigger; in his free hand he held a paper bag.

  “That’s him,” said Bernie. “The projectionist.”

  Projectionists, a new one on me, turned out to be little guys, very thin, with arm tattoos and spiky hair. As this particular one came closer, Bernie opened the door and stepped out.

  “Got a moment?” he said. “I’m a detective working on the Madison Chambliss case.”

  The projectionist stopped, looked up at Bernie. “I already told you guys all I know,” he said.

  “Won’t take long,” Bernie said. “What’s your name?”

  “My name? I already told you guys.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Anatoly,” the projectionist said. “Anatoly Bulganin.”

  “Russian?”

  “American,” Anatoly said. “Born and bred in New York City, like I already told—”

  Bernie held up his hand, palm out. “We’re not those guys,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  Bernie handed him our card. Anatoly gazed at it. “Private?” he said.

  Bernie nodded. “Retained to look for the girl.” Were we still retained? I got the feeling Bernie was pulling a fast one, couldn’t put all the pieces together. But it didn’t matter, because at that moment I caught a whiff of cooked beets. I straightened up in my seat. I knew beets because Leda had grown some, back when we’d had a vegetable garden. The smell was reminding me of something, but what? I sniffed the air.

  Anatoly handed back the card. “Private—doesn’t that mean I don’t have to answer your questions?”

  “You don’t have to answer anyone’s questions,” Bernie said. “But in this case—a missing kid—wouldn’t it be a bit strange?”

  “The other guys—the LVPD—said she’s a runaway.”

  “Still counts as missing in my book. Just go through it real quick for us.”

  Anatoly sighed, the kind of sigh humans make when they give in. Bernie was good at making people do that, and I was better. “Right about where I’m standing now was where I took the picture,” Anatoly said. “I was on my way to work, and she was coming out.” He raised the paper bag in the direction of the door to the theater. The beet smell got stronger. “I’m kind of a crime junkie, and I recognized her from this site I go to.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Desert Mayhem dot com,” Anatoly said.

  “Did you talk to her?”

  Anatoly shook his head. “I wasn’t sure it was her till I went back to the site. And what could I do, anyway? I’m just a private citizen.”

  “Nothing to beat yourself up about, Anatoly. You did fine.” Anatoly relaxed a little, his whole body changing. “How did she look?” Bernie said.

  “How did she look?”

  “Happy, sad, anxious, in a hurry?”

  “Like an ordinary teenager, that was all I saw.”

  “Good enough,” Bernie said. Anatoly turned to go. “One more thing,” Bernie said. “What was playing last night?”

  Anatoly motioned again with the paper bag, this time at the marquee. “Same as tonight. We change on Thursdays.”

  Bernie read the marquee aloud. “Chainsaw Exorcist Two.”

  “Even better than number one,” Anatoly said.

  “Hard to imagine,” said Bernie.

  Another wave of beet smell passed over me. It was coming from the bag, no question, but that wasn’t the point. The point was I remembered where I’d smelled it before, who it reminded me of—Mr. Gulagov! I started barking. Anatoly jumped in his skin, a pleasant sight.

  “Call off your dog! What the hell’s going on?”

  And not just barking: I seemed to have sprung out of the car, backed Anatoly against a parking meter.

  “Easy there, Chet,” Bernie said. I lowered the volume maybe a little bit. “He’s K-9 trained. Packing some weed in that bag, Anatoly? No problem, as far as we’re concerned.”

  “Weed?” said Anatoly. “No weed. This is my snack.”

  “Hash brownies, by any chance?”

  “No hash brownies, no drugs of any kind. The body is the temple.” Anatoly opened the bag so Bernie could see. “Borscht.”

  “What’s that?” Bernie said.

  “Soup,” said Anatoly. “Russian soup, from beets.”

  Tell me something I don’t know. I barked harder.

  “Chet! For God’s sake. It’s soup.”

  Soup. I knew that, actually liked some soups, especially beef consommé, but this soup from beets reminded me of—

  “Chet! Stop!”

  I stopped, backed away.

  “Sorry for the misunderstanding,” Bernie said. “And thanks for your help.”

  “Yeah, sure, misunderstanding,” said Anatoly, stooping to pick up those big flat cans, which seemed to have fallen to the sidewalk.

  Bernie turned toward the car, paused. “Just thought of something.”

  Anatoly paused. “What?”

  “Zlatoust,” Bernie said. “Does that word mean anything to you?”

  Anatoly shook his head.
r />   “It’s Russian,” Bernie said. “Maybe I’m pronouncing it wrong.”

  “Maybe,” said Anatoly. “But I wouldn’t know—I don’t speak Russian.”

  We drove around Vegas for a while, hit the Missing Persons bureau and a few youth shelters, came up with zip; then headed for home under a sky that soon looked normal, black and full of stars. Bernie smoked. I ate a Slim Jim we’d picked up somewhere along the way; loved Slim Jims, could have lived on them exclusively. It was nice, just eating Slim Jims, maybe more than one, and staring at the fiery end of Bernie’s cigarette, which I couldn’t stop doing for some reason. We listened to Billie Holiday. “Hear that?” Bernie said. “Roy Eldridge on trumpet. The great Roy Eldridge.”

  Of course I heard. Trumpets were my favorite, made the very best sound in the world. Bernie hit replay, and we listened to the same song again. And many more times. That was Bernie when he found something he liked. We had that in common, me and Bernie.

  “They called him Little Jazz, don’t know why.”

  Me, neither. Also, I didn’t care.

  After a while we pulled over for a pit stop. Bernie went against a mesquite tree; I chose a trash can. He gazed up at the sky; I listened to the two trickles—mine was better, on account of the drumming sound from the trash can.

  “See the Milky Way?” he said.

  Milky Way? What the hell was he talking about? Long drives never tired me, not a bit, but I knew it wasn’t the same for Bernie. We got back in the car. Bernie started to turn the key, then paused.

  “Chainsaw Exorcist Two,” he said. “Is that the kind of movie a kid like Madison would want to see?” I waited for the answer. “No way, Chet. I’d bet the house.”

  Please, not that.

  By the time we got home, Bernie had raccoon eyes, which happened when he was really wiped out. Don’t get me started on raccoons. I myself felt pretty peppy, having dozed off somewhere along the way. The message light was blinking, but Bernie didn’t notice. He opened the cupboard over the kitchen sink and took out a bottle of bourbon. Bernie liked bourbon a lot, tried to stay away from it. He poured himself a glass, raised it to his lips, and saw the blinking light. Bernie went over and pressed a button.

  First came the voice of Leda, Leda in a bad mood. “We’ve been invited on a cruise off Cabo this Saturday. I know it’s your weekend, but I’m sure you wouldn’t want Charlie to miss the opportunity.”