“You ski Jackson Hole?” Bernie said.
“Who said anything about skiing?” Arn said. “We’re discussing real estate.”
Bernie looked like he was going to say something, maybe not totally friendly, but at that moment the swinging doors banged open and Thad entered with . . . with Brando on his shoulder. Brando looked at me immediately, not at me in general, rather at my nose in particular—I had no doubt about that whatsoever.
“Hi, Thad,” Arn said, legs shifting like he was getting ready to rise off his chair. “Everything okay?”
Thad ignored him. “Bernie?” he said. “That your Porsche out there?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s old, huh?”
“Yup.”
“But super cool.”
“Thanks.”
“I’d like a spin.”
“Sure,” said Bernie. “Whenever you get some time.”
“How’s right now?” said Thad.
Thad wanted to go for a spin in the Porsche, and right now? There was good in everybody.
What I hadn’t realized was that Thad wanted to do the driving. Neither had Bernie: his eyebrows went way up when Thad slid into the driver’s seat—Brando still on his shoulder—held out his hand, and said, “Keys?”
There was a pause. Then Bernie said, “It’s a stick.”
Thad laughed. “Hell, Bernie, think my Lamborghini’s an automatic? Or the Ferrari? Come on, man.”
Bernie tossed him the keys and turned to me. “In the back, Chet.”
Me? In that tiny back space? Bernie in the shotgun seat? And worst of all, Brando on Thad’s shoulder, meaning he was actually in the driver’s seat? Nothing like this had ever happened to me in my life, but what could I do? I got in the back, moving in this really slow way I hardly ever use, butt practically dragging. Bernie buckled his seat belt, something he hardly ever bothered with.
“All set?” said Thad. A tiny breeze swept by, bringing the smell of Thad’s breath my way: toothpaste and mouthwash on the top layer, licorice below that—the red kind—and down at the bottom, uh-oh, what was this? Cocaine? Yes. And not only cocaine, but Oxycontin as well. How did I know? K-9 school, out of which I’d flunked on my last day, with only the leaping test left, and leaping has been my very best thing as long as I could remember. Was a cat involved? Better believe it.
Brando gazed at me in a bored sort of way, then faced front. Thad turned the key. We jolted forward, kind of how we did the one time Bernie tried giving Leda a lesson, but we didn’t quite stall as Leda had done, and, of course, Thad didn’t round on Bernie and scream, “Why can’t you drive a normal car like every other man I know?”
We drove past the trailers—Jiggs watching us from the open doorway of the last one—left the movie set, and bumped up onto the highway, in this case a one-lane blacktop that led in one direction back to the freeway and the Valley and in the other to I didn’t know what, which is where Thad headed. He stomped on the gas—Thad was one of those humans with really big feet, something I’d noticed already and forgotten and now noted again—and then va-vroom! We shot off down the road, actually more across it, back and forth, fishtailing wildly—
“Off the gas, for Christ sake!” Bernie yelled, exact same thing he’d yelled at Leda later in that lesson I was mentioning.
“Nope,” said Thad. “In the Lamborghini I just steer right into these suckers and—”
Whatever he did in the Lamborghini got left unsaid because the next moment we were no longer on two-lane blacktop, but were instead spinning around and around in circles across the desert floor. Funny how at a time like that you notice little things, such as Brando’s claws digging deep into the fabric of Thad’s shirt, and Brando’s mouth opening slightly and burping out a tiny yellowish blob of puke, and that blob getting caught by the wind and deposited right smack on Bernie’s shoulder.
Bernie can move real quick when he has to. In a flash he’d seized the wheel with one hand and with the other grabbed Thad’s leg and yanked his foot right off the pedal. We came out of all that spinning, eased back down through a bit more fishtailing, straightened out, and came to a stop. Bernie reached for the keys and shut off the motor.
It got quiet, that strange quiet that comes right after lots of noise; not a relaxing kind of quiet, more the kind that makes you want to do something to bust it up, maybe taking a nip out of Brando, for example. Would I have done that? Almost certainly not, but before I even finished getting tempted, Bernie surprised me by suddenly sniffing the air and then glancing down at his shoulder and spotting that yellowish smear of puke. He’d picked up the scent of puke with that nose of his, a nose that while not as small as many human noses, or even most, had still been pretty much useless the whole time we’d been together? That was Bernie: just when you were sure he was all done amazing you, he amazed you again.
He looked up, met Thad’s gaze. Thad raised his chin, tried to stare Bernie down. Good luck with that, was my thought.
“Uh,” said Thad, “the Lamborghini has a different feel.”
“Yeah?” said Bernie. “And the Ferrari?”
“Also different. And, come to think of it, different from the Lamborghini, too.”
“Must be a challenge,” Bernie said. “What other cars have you got?”
Thad started counting on his fingers, one of those human things which always makes me like them a bit more. He paused. “Just at home in LA, or should I include the ones in storage?”
Bernie said nothing.
Thad cleared his throat. “Here’s some hand sanitizer,” he said. “Clean up that little mess in no time.”
We drove deeper into the desert, Bernie at the wheel, Thad riding shotgun with Brando on his lap, me still in back. After not too long, Bernie turned off the blacktop and followed a dirt track up toward some big red rocks, a track that petered out before we got there. Bernie stopped the car.
“What’s going on?” Thad said.
“Want to see something interesting?” Bernie said.
“Like what?” Thad checked his watch.
“Let’s make it a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
Bernie smiled, one of those smiles of his that’s just for himself—and me, of course, goes without saying—and we all piled out of the car, me hitting the ground first. We walked up toward the red rocks, me in the lead, then Bernie, Thad, and Brando, actually moving under his own power. Once—this was back on our trip to San Diego—Bernie said that the fog came in on little cat feet, a remark that I’d never been able to forget no matter how hard I’d tried, and that was how Brando moved along, like he was made of cloud, weighing nothing, although in fact he looked pudgy to me.
We reached the big red rocks, stepped between two of them and entered a narrow shaded space with rocky walls on both sides. At the end stood a flat rock as high as Bernie’s chest. He pulled himself up with a little grunt and Thad followed with a bigger one, leaving me and Brando standing down below. Brando looked at me. I looked at Brando. Then, without any apparent effort, he glided—that was what it looked like—glided up on top of the rock.
“Chet?” Bernie called down. “You coming?”
Oh, what an awful moment: me, dead last. I sprang, one of my very best leaps, clearing the lip of the rock by plenty, and sticking my landing without the slightest bobble, but no one saw. They were all at the other end of the rock, standing before a drawing in the cliff face. We’d done some prowling around in the desert looking for drawings like this, me and Bernie, always lots of fun although the point of it I’ll leave to you. Had I seen this one before? I didn’t think so.
“That round thing with the rays is the sun?” Thad said. “And the guy’s dancing under it?”
“It’s the sun, all right,” said Bernie. “But when the figures are upside-down, D-shaped like that, they’re dead.”
“So it’s a dead guy under the sun?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Wonder why anyone . . .” Thad began. He
gazed at the drawing for a long time, then slowly reached out and touched the rock, but off to the side, not on the drawing.
“It’s warm,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” said Bernie.
There was a silence. Then Thad, eyes bigger and bluer than ever—kind of like he’d taken the sky inside him, what a thought!—and still on the drawing, said, “Thanks, man.” Bernie nodded. Thad took a deep breath. “Everything’s so fucked up,” he said.
“Like what?” said Bernie.
“You name it,” Thad said.
“Jiggs?” said Bernie.
Thad whipped around toward Bernie, real quick. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just throwing out a name,” Bernie said. “Your suggestion.”
“Why that one?”
“No real reason,” Bernie said. “He doesn’t seem like the typical bodyguard type, that’s all.”
“What are you talking about?” Thad said. “Seen the size of him?”
“A big boy,” Bernie said. “On the outside. Kind of complicated on the inside.”
“Complicated? Complicated how?”
“Just an impression. How long have you known him?”
Thad backed away a bit. Brando, who’d been curled up on the rocks, rose and climbed up on Thad, settling on his shoulder. “Long enough,” Thad said. “What are you getting at?”
“Nothing,” Bernie said. “He’s from LA?”
“So?”
“I hear you’re from out this way originally.”
Thad backed up another step. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Someone mentioned it.”
“Who?”
“Don’t remember offhand,” Bernie said. “Is it true?”
“It’s a total goddamn lie,” Thad said, his voice rising suddenly in that huge, ringing way it had. The sound echoed in the rocks, boomed back over us, maybe taking Thad by surprise because he jerked slightly, like he’d stuck his tongue in a wall socket; no time to go into that now. Surprised or even—yes, I smelled it—scared. He spoke more quietly. “Not a lie, exactly. I just meant it’s not true. I’m from LA.”
“Cool,” Bernie said.
TWELVE
Bernie stood in front of the whiteboard, the zigzag groove that sometimes appeared on his forehead now easy to see, meaning he was doing some serious thinking. We were in the office, down the hall from Charlie’s old bedroom. A basket of kid’s blocks lay by the window—the room was meant for a little sister or brother that never came along. Sometimes I played with the blocks myself, but at the moment I was watching old man Heydrich out on his deck with the leaf blower. We hated the leaf blower, me and Bernie. Old man Heydrich didn’t use it just for leaves, of which there were hardly ever any on the ground in our neighborhood, but also for blowing the dust off his deck, probably what he was up to now, except he couldn’t get the thing to start. He jerked and yanked on the cord, his bony face reddening, and finally gave the thing a real nasty kick—surprisingly powerful for such a scrawny old dude—and stalked off into his house. Nothing much new: I’d seen humans kick their machines before, also punch and slap them, throw them out windows and into swimming pools, and stomp on them till the insides came springing out—and then they sometimes stomped on the insides, too! Machines could really get humans angry, that was clear, but . . . but could humans get machines angry? Hey! What a crazy thought! I hoped nothing like it ever entered my head again.
“What’s so interesting?” Bernie said, coming over to the window. He gazed out. “Nothing going on, big guy.” He moved back toward the whiteboard. I lay down on the rug—a nice nubbly rug with a pattern of circus elephants—and watched Bernie. I can watch him all day, never get tired of that.
When we’re working on a case, he likes to spend time at the whiteboard, drawing boxes and arrows. He was doing it now. Did it mean we were on a case? This Thad Perry gig was a case? How? Then I thought of Manuel whatever-his-name-was and that slit in his chest. Next I hoped for another thought that would come zinging in and clear everything up, nice and tidy, but it didn’t.
“Over here,” Bernie said, making a box inside a box—whoa, this was going to be amazing—“we have Jiggs and—”
The phone rang. Bernie went to the desk and hit Speaker. He was wearing boxers so I could see the wound on his leg, a patch of rough red skin surrounding more skin that was flat and bluish, the whole thing kind of pushed in a bit. I wanted to lick it—even started moving that way—but Bernie doesn’t like when I do that, something I remembered in the nick of time, an expression that Bernie and I have, on account of Quick Nick Castenedes, a very fast perp who practically ran across a whole parking lot before I caught him. Was he getting out of Northern State anytime soon? I couldn’t wait to catch him again.
“Bernie? Cal Luxton.”
“Hi.”
“How’s it goin’?”
“No complaints.”
“I hear you’re doing a great job.”
“Who says?”
Luxton laughed. “How come you’re such a hard-ass?” Bernie didn’t answer. “Nan Klein’s my source,” Luxton went on. “The assistant.”
“Do you know her?” Bernie said.
“Know her?”
“Like from before.”
“Met her the other day—you were there,” Luxton said. “Not sure I understand your question.”
“What about Jiggs?”
“What about him?”
“You just met him, too?”
“No.”
“So you knew him from before.”
“He flew in to check accommodations last month,” Luxton said. “I showed him around.”
Bernie didn’t say anything, just made a squiggle in the box in the box.
“What are you getting at, Bernie?”
“Nothing,” Bernie said.
“Is there something I should know?”
Bernie was silent again.
“Need to remind you who you’re working for?” Luxton said. “You’re my eyes and ears on this project.”
“A spy?” Bernie said.
“Wouldn’t put it that way,” said Luxton.
“And I wasn’t aware we were working for you personally, Cal. Thought it was the mayor’s office.”
“That’s how I meant to put it.”
Bernie made an arrow pointing from one box to another.
“You’ve got a question about Jiggs?” Luxton said.
“No,” said Bernie. “Do you?”
“What does that mean?”
“How about the mayor’s office—does it have a question?”
Luxton laughed, normally one of the best human sounds going, but not this time, hard to explain why. “Nothing like a sense of humor,” he said, “although it can open the door to misinterpretation.”
I checked the door. It stayed closed. No one came in. I heard no footsteps in the house, no cars in the street. Miss Interpretation? I knew a Miss Singh, daughter of Mr. Singh, our pawn shop buddy who sometimes kept Bernie’s grandfather’s watch—our most valuable possession—for us, but what would she be doing here? Didn’t they already have the watch?
When I turned back to Bernie, he was no longer on the phone. He just stood there, his gaze on some faraway place beyond our walls. Now and then I can feel Bernie’s thoughts—normally like soft breezes flitting by—but now they were dark and cold.
He turned my way. “What are you barking at?”
Me? I hadn’t even been thinking of barking.
Bernie gave me a little smile. “Wish I could lie down like that.” Huh? Like what? I was just lying with my chin flat on the rug, nicely stretched out but nothing unusual. Come on, Bernie! Try it right now! I know you can do it. But he didn’t. Instead he turned to the whiteboard and shook his head. “The whole thing’s starting to stink, big guy,” he said. What a stunner! First, although Bernie was always the smartest human in the room, he hardly ever smelled anything. Second, nothing stank: our place on Mesquite Road never did, except
when Bernie forgot to take out the trash and another whole week went by. “One good thing,” he said. “It’s a legitimate reason to call Suzie.”
Losing me there, a little bit. Why would Bernie need a reason to call Suzie? Wasn’t she family? Not only that, but I missed her. Luckily for me at that moment I happened to notice a tiny tuft of rug sticking up out of the fabric. Tiny, but could I get a tooth sort of wedged up and under like so, and then try pulling with a hard, quick—yes, I could.
Bernie picked up the phone.
“Hello?” said Suzie. In the background I heard ice clinking in a glass and a man laughing; also maybe a cork popping, farther off. Bernie’s face changed in a way I didn’t like seeing.
“Uh,” he said, “it’s me. Bernie.”
Suzie laughed. What a great laugh she had! I missed that, too. “You dope. Think I wouldn’t recognize your voice? I was just about to call you.”
“Yeah?” said Bernie. “Sounds like you’re kinda busy.”
“Not at the moment,” Suzie said. “Just a sec—I’ll turn this off.” Then came a click and all that partying went silent.
“Oh,” said Bernie.
“Oh what?” Suzie said.
“Nothing,” Bernie said. He opened his mouth, closed it, looked around, possibly as though for help. “Chet’s here,” he said.
“Give him a pat for me,” Suzie said. “I miss him.”
Bernie took a step toward me. No need for that. I was already there.
“I think he understood you,” Bernie said, giving me a nice pat, although not like Suzie’s; a nice patter, Suzie, but she never did that lovely scratching thing at the end that winds up so perfectly.
“He understands everything,” Suzie said.
“Seems like it sometimes,” Bernie said.
“No seeming about it,” said Suzie.
“You think?”
Bernie looked right into my eyes, a sharp, close look like he was trying to see inside me. I opened my mouth wide, unfurled my tongue as far as I could then reeled it back in. What fun! I thought about doing it again. And then I did do it again. Just as much fun!
A Fistful of Collars Page 10
