A Fistful of Collars

by Spencer Quinn

  “And that tail,” Carla went on, “you could power the whole city off it.”

  “He likes getting patted,” Bernie said.

  They were talking about me?

  “Sure you do, you beautiful boy,” said Carla.

  Yes, me. How nice.

  Carla gave me one more pat. She was glossy, too, at least her hair, and also had smooth skin the color of coffee the way Rick drank it—with lots of cream—skin that today was smelling of grapefruit soap. We’d met Carla downtown, in the little park across from city hall. The morning sun shone brightly on the white columns of the building, making all the details, like the chipped paint and the bird droppings, so clear. What a day this was going to be!

  “Working on a story?” Bernie said.

  “Zoning reform,” Carla said.

  “Gonna happen?”

  “Soon, no. In our lifetime, yes.” She checked her watch. “Starts in ten minutes, Bernie. What’s up?”

  Bernie got going on one of those stories with lots of twists and turns, something about Suzie and Thad Perry and the Valley, not easy to follow. I preferred a very short story with no twists and turns—only my opinion—and besides, right under the next bench, on which a drooling old guy with a paper bag drink between his knees was zonked out . . . could it really be? Yes! A half-eaten hot dog with ketchup and relish, still in the bun. Humans: how often they threw food away! I just didn’t understand, and neither did those shiny black ants, some of them getting their tiny legs stuck in the ketchup. I made short work of the hot dog—don’t get me started on that strange name—ants and all. Ketchup and relish: a nice combination, and pretty unusual. Didn’t relish usually go with mustard? My head practically spun with fascinating thoughts about hot dogs and all the things you could put on them. I drifted back over to Bernie and Carla.

  “. . . but I can’t remember whose uncle,” Carla was saying. “Probably one of my friends at the time—I’ll make a call or two after the hearing and get back to you.”

  “Thanks, Carla.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Carla said. She got up from the bench. “Heard from Suzie?”

  “Yup.”

  “The Trib’s not the same without her.”

  Bernie looked down at his shoes. He was wearing his best sneakers, not the pair with the paint spatters but the ones with mismatched laces, one black, one white, on account of the other white lace breaking and . . . a thought, possibly very important, fluttered through a shadowy part of my mind and disappeared. Wait! Something about black and white? It came oh so close to where I could grab it. But no.

  “I’m not, um . . .” Bernie began, and then came to a halt.

  Carla, kind of hesitant, reached out and touched Bernie’s shoulder. He looked up. “Not my place to say anything,” she said.

  “No fair to stop now,” Bernie told her.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t admit it,” Carla said, “but sometimes I’ve found wisdom in sappy song lyrics.”

  Bernie smiled. “Like?” he said.

  “‘Once you have found her, never let her go,’” said Carla. “Just an example.” Did her eyes well up? I didn’t get a good look because she walked away immediately, headed toward the street. “Almost forgot.” She turned and reached into her purse, her eyes now definitely dry. “Can Chet have a treat?”

  “Don’t see why not,” Bernie said. And what was this? Now his eyes were a bit misty? Was everyone getting all emotional about my treat? That was nice, but totally unnecessary. “Did you have breakfast, big guy?” Bernie said. I couldn’t remember. “And even if he did, he hasn’t had a bite since then.” I found myself licking my muzzle, not sure why. The next thing I knew I was taking an extra-large size biscuit—my favorite of all the possible sizes—from Carla’s hand, gently but firmly.

  She walked across the street. At that moment I happened to see the stone stairs leading up to city hall, and there was Cal Luxton in a dark suit, watching us from the topmost step. I looked at Bernie. He was checking his cell phone. I got a bit uneasy and barked a short, sharp bark. Bernie glanced down at me. “What’s up, Chet?” Then he turned to city hall. Carla was just going through the door and there was no sign of Luxton. I barked again. “You’ve had your biscuit,” Bernie said. “Don’t be greedy.”

  Greedy? A new one on me. I was wondering whether to try puzzling it out when the old dude on the bench woke up and started going on about a hot dog, or something like that, hard to tell on account of most of his teeth being missing. Bernie made this quick little clicking sound in his mouth that means time to split. We split.

  A taxi was idling in front of our place on Mesquite Road. The rear door opened as we parked in the driveway and a young blond woman in a very small dress jumped out and ran up to us.

  “Felicity?” Bernie said. “Something wrong?”

  Felicity: Thad’s girlfriend. The connection came to me with amazing speed, not always the case. There’s a lot to keep track of in our line of work. Try it sometime.

  Felicity nodded, a real quick and nervous nod. Nervous humans had a special smell, sort of thin and sour, and Felicity was giving off plenty of it. Bernie lost control of his gaze for a moment—oh, Bernie—and it slipped down to the top of her very small dress. But he snapped that gaze right back up to her eyes in a flash—so quick for Bernie, really on his game today—big, golden brown eyes, with tears maybe on the way at any moment.

  “What is it?” Bernie said.

  “Thad,” she said. “I think he’s gone on one of his rambles.”

  “Rambles?” said Bernie. “A kind of hike?”

  She shook her head, again with that same nervous speed. One Christmas when Charlie was younger—and completely by accident—I’d taken apart this little wind-up bear that banged on a drum when the key got turned—well, who wouldn’t have?—and all these springs had come springing out. I thought of that now, not sure why; funny how the mind worked.

  “Rambles is Thad’s word for it,” Felicity said. “It’s kind of a . . .” Her eyes shifted. She was searching for a word. Humans had so many, no surprise when one or two got lost. They did lots of struggling in life—humans, I mean—but no time to go into that now.

  “Euphemism?” Bernie said, losing me completely.

  But not Felicity. She nodded, a calmer movement this time. “You’re smart,” she said. “That’s what Thad says—you’re smart in the old-fashioned way.”

  The old-fashioned way? And every other possible way, amigo.

  “Euphemism for what?” Bernie said.

  The taxi driver stuck his head out the window; he needed a shave and a haircut. “Hey, lady, wan’ me to wait or what? Meter’s tickin’.”

  Bernie made a little flick flick motion with the back of his hand—had I ever seen him do that before? I loved it!—and the window slid back up.

  “Thad . . . goes off by himself sometimes,” Felicity said.

  “With Jiggs?” Bernie said.

  “No.”

  “Isn’t that hard for someone in his position?” Bernie said. “So recognizable?”

  “He’s, um, not thinking straight when these things happen,” Felicity said.

  “Drugs?” Bernie said.

  “You can never say anything,” Felicity said. “Promise?”

  “I can promise I won’t say anything in order to profit from the knowledge or simply hurt Thad,” Bernie said. “Making it a promise with limits.”

  Felicity gazed at Bernie, then blinked and turned away. “Why is everything always like this?” she said. Hey! For a moment she looked like a little kid, not much older than Charlie.

  Bernie didn’t speak. He just stood there. I sat beside him. We could keep that up for a long time, me and Bernie. It was one of our techniques at the Little Detective Agency. We’ve got lots.

  She faced Bernie, met his gaze. I was starting to like her. “All right,” she said. “Thad has—I wouldn’t say a problem, more like the occasional issue with drugs.”

  “What drugs?”

>   “I’m not really sure—it can be just about anything.”

  “Have you ever seen him inject himself?”

  “Oh, no, never never,” Felicity said. “And I don’t want you to think it’s this humongous deal, not compared with . . . well, how things go down in the industry.”

  “Then let’s forget all about it,” Bernie said.

  There was hardness in Bernie—although never when it came to the two of us, goes without mentioning. His hardness, when it showed up, had an effect that you could see in people’s faces. I saw it now in Felicity’s.

  “You’re not going to help me?” she said.

  “Help you do what?” said Bernie.

  “Find him,” Felicity said. “His next call’s for eight tomorrow morning.”

  “He’s the star. They’ll wait for him.”

  “Maybe if there hadn’t been . . . an incident or two in the past. Now there’s a nonperformance clause in his contract.”

  “Saying what?”

  “I haven’t actually read it.” Felicity laughed, one of those quiet little laughs meaning . . . what? Something was only a little bit funny? I didn’t know. “Neither has Thad. But I heard Nan talking about it with the agent. It’s all about big fines and how they can fire him whenever they want.”

  “And he signed?”

  “Thad signs tons of stuff. He doesn’t even look. He’s just a child sometimes—which is where his art comes from, I’m sure of it—and all these vultures—” Felicity’s voice got real thick, meaning the tears were on the way at last. Instead, a bit of a surprise: she fought them off, wiping the back of her hand over her eyes and stiffening her whole body. The expression in Bernie’s eyes changed.

  “Any idea where he went?” Bernie said.

  “I woke up in the middle of the night and he was gone. He took Jiggs’s car.”

  “With permission?”

  She shook her head. “Jiggs is pretty pissed.” And then came some more about Jiggs, maybe how he was out looking for Thad but had a poor record of finding him in the past, Thad always coming back on his own when good and ready, but I couldn’t concentrate on account of my mind suddenly snapping back to vultures. I was pretty sure Felicity had mentioned them, and if vultures were in the case, we had problems. Birds in general bothered me. Why those angry little eyes? Would I be angry if I could soar around the big blue sky all day? And vultures were the worst. I’ve been circled by them. I know.

  “Does Thad have any friends or acquaintances in the Valley?” Bernie was saying.

  “Nobody,” said Felicity. “Not that he’s ever mentioned to me.”

  “Has he ever talked about living in the Valley at one time? Or growing up here?”

  Felicity frowned. Hey! All of a sudden I noticed that she was kind of beautiful. “I don’t understand. Thad was born and raised in Southern California. What are you getting at?”

  “Nothing,” Bernie said. “How long has Jiggs been the bodyguard?”

  “From way back, I think,” said Felicity. “They were friends when Thad was still waiting tables and surfing. That’s how he got discovered.”

  “Waiting tables?”

  “Surfing. He was surfing Little Dume when some producer saw him. You didn’t know that? It’s kind of a famous story. They re-created it for 60 Minutes.”

  What was all that about? You tell me. And maybe Bernie didn’t get it, either, because now he was staring in the distance, his mouth slightly open like some question was on the way. None came. No problem. When he’s standing so still that way, all caught up in his mind, I could watch him forever.

  “Brando’s missing, too,” Felicity said.

  Bernie brought his gaze slowly down to her.

  “I’ll pay you,” Felicity said. “Just say how much.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said.

  Meaning what? We were turning her down? We weren’t turning her down, just turning down the money? Oh, no: I hoped it wouldn’t be that.

  SIXTEEN

  But it was that. Working for no money, and not for the first time. Have I mentioned Bernie’s grandfather’s watch, our most valuable possession, now in hock at Mr. Singh’s? I was worried, and when I’m worried I like to gnaw things. For example: the rounded edge of the leather trim on the shotgun seat.

  “Chet! How many times do I have to tell you?”

  Uh-oh. Bernie sounded . . . not mad—he’d never get mad at me—more like not in his very best frame of mind. I sat up straight and tall, still and quiet, a total pro, on the job and eager for work. Keeping Bernie in the very best frame of mind was part of what I did.

  “How about a chew strip instead?” Bernie said, opening the glove box.

  Bernie: what can I tell you? The best.

  We drove, and while we drove, listened to some of our favorites: “Going Back to Greenville,” “Lonesome 77–203,” “If You Were Mine.”

  “Like that trumpet?” Bernie said. “Roy Eldridge, at the top of his game.”

  Like it? I loved it. The trumpet did things to me. We listened to “If You Were Mine” again. And again. And one more time. And were still listening to it when we climbed into the mountains beyond the Valley, passed a huge red rock—which was when I started to pay attention to where we were, so easy to get lost in music—and stopped at Boo Ferris’s gate. He came out of the gatehouse, polishing off a burger. I started in on some real crazy barking.

  “Chet! Knock it off!”

  I knocked it off, just in time to hear my barks echoing in the hills. Hey! Not bad, not bad at all. They even scared me a little.

  “I don’t think Chet likes me,” Boo Ferris said.

  “It’s not you,” said Bernie. “He’s in a strange mood today.”

  “Have you fed him?” said Boo Ferris, suddenly showing signs of being a smart guy.

  “Food is not the problem,” Bernie said.

  Oh? What made him so sure? True, there’d been that hot dog, but not close to a whole hot dog, and hadn’t it been a long time since then? All at once I was ravenous.

  “I noticed last time,” Bernie was saying, “that you didn’t ask what I was doing up here.”

  “You were on the list,” said Boo Ferris. “That’s all I need to know.”

  Bernie smiled. “Just like the army.”

  “Except we’re not taking fire,” said Boo Ferris.

  “You were in the service?” Bernie said.

  “Briefly.”

  Bernie nodded, like that made sense. “Fact is,” he said, “we’re on a job.”

  “Figured that.”

  “And I’m wondering when you came on duty.”

  “Midnight,” said Boo Ferris.

  “Long shift.”

  “I’m covering for one of the guys.”

  “Nice of you.”

  “Don’t need much sleep,” Boo Ferris said. “And I can use the money.”

  “Know Thad Perry?”

  “Seen him come and go.”

  “Did he go last night?”

  Boo Ferris didn’t back off, exactly, but the way he was standing changed, so somehow he seemed farther away; farther away and not so friendly. “They’re big on discretion up here,” he said.

  “Me, too, down where I am,” said Bernie. “So my preference would be to take all that Boo and Bo confusion to my grave.”

  Boo Ferris stared at Bernie. “Why is it always me?” he said.

  “Interesting question,” said Bernie. “But we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Christ,” said Boo Ferris. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Goes without saying.”

  Boo Ferris glanced around. We were all alone. The sun shone, nice and warm but not too hot up here on the mountain. Boo Ferris took a deep breath. “He drove through. Four a.m. on the nose. Honked like a bastard until I came to the gate. I said, ‘There some problem?’ Just letting him know, hey, I’m a human being. ‘Goddamn right there is,’ he said, but not like he was pissed at me. So I kind of took a close loo
k at him, and I coulda sworn he’d been crying.”

  “Yeah?” Bernie said.

  “Allergies, you’re thinking?” said Boo Ferris. “Possible, I guess. But he stank of booze, and he had a fat old spliff burning away in the ash tray. So I told him, like, maybe this might not be the right time for a ride. But he went anyway.”

  “He didn’t say anything else?”

  “Not really,” said Boo Ferris. “Just some weird shit about the time being right if everything was upside down.”

  “Upside down?”

  “He wasn’t making much sense. But what could I do? Arrest him?”

  “Imagine,” Bernie said as we drove down the mountain, “if we had citizens arresting each other all the time, willy-nilly?”

  Not sure what that was all about, but I liked the sound of willy-nilly. I was feeling tip-top. And so was Bernie—I could feel it. Perps, bad guys, gangbangers: heads up.

  “Of course, I might be wrong,” Bernie said.

  About what? Was it even worth a thought, what with Bernie never being wrong, plus don’t forget that thinking can be hard, compared to leaping high walls, for example, or finding your way home when you were all alone and deep in the desert, or . . . I kind of lost the thread.

  Meanwhile, Bernie was saying something about upside-down. “. . . no more than a thin thread, and it’s not even clear that he was even listening.”

  Whoa. Thread? Lost, or just too thin? Was he talking about me? I always listened to Bernie. Now, sitting tall in the shotgun seat, ears up, stiff, and open to the max, I listened my hardest. I heard a plane, the faintest hum, from somewhere high high above. Gazing up, I saw one of those white trails planes leave in the sky—they turn gold at the end of the day, a puzzler but very beautiful—with the tiny silver plane at the front, although the sound wasn’t coming from there, instead from farther back on the white trail. What was that all about? The white trail made the sound? That was as far as I could take it.

  Meanwhile, Bernie was saying something about having nothing better to go on, so why not? “Let’s roll the dice.”

  Uh-oh. Please, not the dice. The last time—in a late-night dive in the diviest part of South Pedroia after the Police Athletic League fundraiser—we’d had to take Bernie’s grandfather’s watch to Mr. Singh, and at the moment Mr. Singh already had it, if I haven’t already pointed that out. So what would be our move if a financial emergency turned up, the kind of financial emergency that always enters our life when dice get rolled or cards get dealt? If only Bernie would just stick to arm wrestling: we’ve made some serious green from arm wrestling. Serious green: my mind got stuck on that idea and stayed there.