“And the last time we had any contact with the reporter— Suzie something?—was at the corral when you were here,” Nance said. “So now, if you don’t mind—”
“We wish to be alone,” Borghese said.
“Of course,” said the lieutenant. “We’ll be in touch about, uh, the delivery of the . . . of Mrs. Borghese.”
“Contessa,” said Borghese, his tone sharpening. “The Con-tessa di Borghese.”
Up there, up above my head, things went on that weren’t too clear. Down here on the putting green, Princess and I were close together, kind of by ourselves. I lowered my head to give her a friendly little bump. And what was this? She nipped me on the nose? And it hurt!
“Chet?”
“What does it mean?” Lieutenant Stine said. Later that morning: we met at a bench outside the sheriff ’s office in the town Bernie called Nowhereville. Bernie and the lieutenant sat on the bench; I lay in the shade underneath. Still no sleep, that force dragging down my eyelids getting stronger and stronger. I’m pretty strong myself, but because all my strength was concentrated on pulling my eyelids back up, I might have missed a bit of what was going on. I’m pretty sure I caught Bernie saying:
“What does what mean?”
And after that, the lieutenant said something about Adelina being in Suzie’s car.
“Isn’t that what we’re working on?” Bernie said. “What it means?”
“Sure we’re working on it, but what do your instincts tell you?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, Bernie. Won’t hold you to anything—this is me. And even when you were on the force, despite all the . . . well, friction—your instincts were good.”
“Friction?” Bernie said.
“Aw, Bernie, do we have to? How about after we clear this case, I’ll stick my chin out and you can take a free swing?”
“How about I do it now?”
I opened my eyes. Yes, they’d closed and I’d been on my way to dreamland—which for me is almost always the canyon behind our place on Mesquite Road, where I have the kind of adventures I have in the canyon in the daytime, or even better—when I got the idea that Bernie and Lieutenant Stine were about to throw down.
And what was this? Lieutenant Stine sticking out his chin? He had kind of a big chin anyway, already sticking out quite a bit, but now it was way way out there. Bernie made a fist, drew back his arm. I started scrambling out from under the bench, with no particular idea in mind except I liked Lieutenant Stine. He’d been the source of so many crullers I couldn’t even count them—not quite what I mean, since I always stop counting at two. And why shouldn’t I? Two is enough.
But back to Bernie’s fist, a big fist and I’d seen what it could do. Maybe Lieutenant Stine had, too, and didn’t want to look. He closed his eyes, all scrunched up like a little kid, very strange on such a hard face. Bernie threw a punch, pulling it at the last possible instant. His hand relaxed. He gave Lieutenant Stine a light pat on the cheek.
“You’re the biggest jerk in the state,” said the lieutenant.
“Second biggest,” Bernie said.
What the hell was going on? No idea, and no time to figure it out, because at that moment the door of the sheriff ’s office opened and out came Earl Ford, star on his chest, cowboy hat on his head.
“Mornin’, boys,” said the sheriff. “Sorry to keep you coolin’ your heels—last-minute details. Let’s roll.”
“Roll where?” said Bernie.
“Thurman Barger’s place.”
“What’s there?” Bernie said.
“Want you boys to see for yourselves.”
We went for a drive—the sheriff ’s cruiser, then the lieutenant’s, us last. For a while, I kept my eyes on Bernie’s heels, saw nothing different. The force started up, the one that made my eyelids so heavy. Soon all of me got heavy, too heavy to even sit. I lay on my seat. Everything so heavy, and then came a heavy fog rolling through my mind. The car went rumble rumble beneath me.
I woke up. Usually I wake up in the middle of an exciting dream, but not this time. No dreams? I tried to remember any, even the leftover pieces, and couldn’t. Dreams or no dreams, I felt pretty good, tip-top, in fact, except for a slight thirst. I sat up, looked around. We were somewhere new, just coming to a trailer park. Loved trailer parks—we’d had plenty of trailer park adventures, including one I’ll never forget where a gangbanger with a pet gator . . . maybe a story for another time—but we didn’t turn into this trailer park. Instead we kept going, past some boarded-up buildings and vacant lots, and up a rutted road to a grove of dusty trees at the end. Some buildings stood among the trees, wooden buildings more like shacks, all faded and worn.
We parked and followed Earl Ford to the biggest shack. The door opened with a creaking sound and out came the deputy, a toothpick sticking from the side of his mouth. That always caught my attention. I wanted that toothpick real bad. How to get it? Couldn’t think of a way. I lifted my leg against the wall of the shack, not sure why.
“All cleaned out,” Les said, the toothpick bobbing up and down. “Looks like ol’ Thurman was getting set to take off to somewheres far away, maybe Alaska, accordin’ to sources.”
“So?” said Lieutenant Stine, sounding kind of irritated. “Why are we here?”
Les smiled, not a friendly smile because his eyes weren’t part of it, more like just showing his teeth. I showed mine, but nobody was watching. “Left one little thing behind in the garage,” Les said.
He headed toward another shack further back on the property. This one had big double doors. Les threw them open and said, “Ta-da!”
A rusty old pickup was parked in the garage, a dirt-floor garage full of car smells. This wasn’t the white pickup I’d escaped from, looked green to me.
“Green one fifty,” said Lieutenant Stine.
“Bingo,” the sheriff said. “Matches up real nice with the description of the kidnap vehicle, don’t it?”
“What description?” Bernie said. “Didn’t the witness turn out to be legally blind?”
“Had another witness step up,” said the sheriff.
“Who?”
“The count’s driver.”
“I thought he remembered zip.”
“Now he remembers better,” the deputy said.
“Sometimes happens after trauma,” said the sheriff.
We all gazed at the pickup.
“Where are the plates?” said the lieutenant. He walked around the pickup.
Les shrugged. “Searched all over.”
The lieutenant peered through the windshield. “No VIN either?”
“Looks like it got ripped out,” Les said.
“Registration?” said the lieutenant.
“Hasn’t turned up, yet,” Les said.
“Maybe you can ask ol’ Thurman these questions when you’re back in the Valley, lieutenant,” the sheriff said.
“He’s not that old,” Bernie said.
I didn’t get that; in fact, didn’t get anything about this deal with the green pickup. Whatever was happening made everybody’s face look kind of mean. Not Bernie’s: he never looks mean, but angry sometimes, yes, and he was angry now. If Bernie’s angry, I’m angry, but who was I supposed to be angry at? Time to grab someone by the pant leg? Who? I checked out everybody’s pant legs, got nowhere. All I could think of to do was growl, so I did. Bernie gave me a pat.
On the way back to the cars, Les spat out the toothpick. I made quick work of it, felt lots better.
TWENTY-SIX
Know what’s interesting?” Bernie said as we drove away. I sure did: bacon was interesting, also Frisbees, socks on the laundry room floor, squirrels trying to sneak across the front yard, the hunting show on ESPN2, a certain she-bark that came across the canyon from time to time—where did it end?
“They finish each other’s sentences,” Bernie said.
Huh? Missed that one, and whatever it was didn’t sound interesting to me. I checked Bernie’s face: no
t happy. He worried a lot. When he worried, I worried, but I didn’t know what to worry about and it’s hard to worry about nothing, so pretty soon I stopped and looked around. We were zooming down a two-lane blacktop, Lieutenant Stine’s cruiser not too far ahead, low reddish hills off to both sides. Bernie reached into his pocket, took out—uh-oh—Suzie’s little gizmo, forgotten the name—and started pressing the buttons again.
“. . . bourbon? In case a certain someone comes sham-bling—” Click click. “Purchase price? Passaic Realty?” Click click. “Hello? Yes, this is she. Who are—” Click click. “Who are—” Click click “Who are—” I’d seen humans—Leda, for example—sometimes cover their ears, wished for the first time I could do the same. There was no sign the click-clicking would be stopping soon, but at that moment, the lieutenant’s brake lights went red and he pulled over to the side, fishtailing a little. We stopped behind him.
Lieutenant Stine was already out of the cruiser, hurrying toward us. He came to the side of the Porsche and said, “Disco rolled.”
“Where’s Suzie?” Bernie said.
“Doesn’t seem to know about Suzie,” the lieutenant said. “The sheriff wasn’t too clear on that, or a number of other things. I’m headed back there.”
“We’re coming,” Bernie said.
Lieutenant Stine stared down at him. Bernie stared back. “Just try not to screw it up,” the lieutenant said.
“It’s already screwed up,” Bernie said.
Back in Nowhereville. “Whoa,” said Les, as we went into the front door of the sheriff ’s station. “We didn’t say nothin’ about this guy.” He pointed his chin, one of those too-small chins some humans have, at Bernie.
“He’s with me,” Lieutenant Stine said.
“And the dog?” said Les.
“What’s the problem?” Bernie said. “Afraid of dogs?”
“Hell, no,” Les said. But he was: I could hear it and smell it. I got that funny feeling at the roots of my teeth, like they needed lots of pressure on them.
We followed Les inside, around a long counter, past some desks—one of which must have had a tuna sandwich in a drawer, the smell of tuna being pretty hard to miss—and down a hall. At the end was a small room with the sheriff sitting on one side of a table and Disco, now in an orange jumpsuit, on the other.
“The PI’s coming to this party for some reason,” Les said.
“Now, now, Les,” the sheriff said. “Bernie here’s on the good side. Been doing some checking—he’s got an excellent rep.” The sheriff gestured at me. “So does the dog, here, name of Chet, I believe.”
“The dog has a rep?” Les said.
“Grade A,” said the sheriff.
One of those sudden breezes sprang up behind me, like a fan getting switched on. I knew rep. The sheriff was turning out to be not so bad.
Bernie sat at one end of the table, Les at the other, the sheriff and Lieutenant Stine in the middle. I sat on the floor beside Bernie, the fan behind me switching off. All eyes were on Disco. Disco’s own eyes, little brown ones, were darting around in a way that reminded me of the eyes of this huge rat I’d once cornered in an alley in the bad part of Pedroia, and that’s bad. Also, Disco didn’t have his long gray fringes anymore; he no longer looked like a hippie, just a bald old man.
The sheriff leaned forward and rubbed his hands. I always noticed when humans did that. It made me watchful, no idea why. Had I ever seen Bernie do it? Not that I could remember.
“Disco here and me been gettin’ to know each other,” the sheriff said. “Ain’t that right, Disco?”
Disco nodded the tiniest nod, hardly a movement at all.
“Interest you in another Pepsi?” the sheriff said. He turned to Bernie. “Mostly this is Coke country,” he said, “but Disco turns out to be a Pepsi guy.”
Bernie said nothing and his face was blank.
“Yeah,” said Disco, his voice not much above a whisper.
“Pepsi.”
“Les?” said the sheriff.
Les rose and left the room.
“Feel like tellin’ my friends here how you come by that handle— Disco?” the sheriff said.
“Told it already,” Disco said.
“But these folks didn’t get to hear and it’s such a good story.”
Disco licked his lips. He had a pointy tongue, white and dried-out looking. My own tongue felt nice and moist at that moment. Disco looked at Bernie. His eyes shied away, moved on to Lieutenant Stine instead. “Know those disco balls?” he said.
“Familiar with them,” said the lieutenant.
“I . . . uh, stole one,” Disco said, and went silent.
“C’mon now,” said the sheriff. “You’re not makin’ it live.” He smiled at Bernie. “Ends up that the disco ball heist is the oldest item on Disco’s rap sheet, step one on a long life of crime.”
“Wouldn’t, um, say a life of crime,” Disco said.
“No?” said the sheriff.
Disco gazed down at the table.
“Tell the story,” the sheriff said.
Disco kept his eyes on the tabletop, spoke in a low voice. “I hated disco,” he said, losing me completely. “Disco sucks, you know? Drove me nuts, couldn’t believe it was happening—like they were stealin’ our future. And then this club, the Electric Pumpkin, my favorite—Quicksilver Messenger Service played there, man—” Disco’s voice got stronger, and he raised his head. “—and then one night the Pumpkin goes disco, just like that, no discussion, no warnin’, finito. So I went in there—”
“Bust in there,” said the sheriff. “After hours.” He laughed. “Meanin’ in broad daylight.”
“Bust in there,” said Disco, “and ripped down that fuckin’ disco ball and smashed it to goddamn smithereens.” His hands, not big or powerful, curled into fists and his jumpsuit sleeves fell back. He was wearing handcuffs.
Silence in the room. Can’t speak for anyone else, but as for me I wasn’t even trying to understand what Disco’s little speech was about, in fact was having thoughts of those hunting shows on ESPN2 and how much I wanted to go hunting and Bernie was such a crack shot but we’d never been hunting, not once. Why was that?
Meanwhile, the sheriff was saying, “And forever after, everyone called you Disco—stuck with the name, so to speak.”
Disco shrugged. “I got used to it.”
Les returned with a can of Pepsi, cracked it open, set it on the table. Disco took it in both hands and drank.
“Moving on to the kidnapping,” the sheriff said.
“Again?” said Disco. “We been through this already.”
“New customers,” the sheriff said.
Disco’s eyes flickered over to Bernie, then to the lieutenant, settled again on the tabletop. “Starting where?” he said.
“The idea,” the sheriff said.
Disco licked his lips again. Lips all cracked and that dry white tongue: hard to take my eyes off the sight. “Thurman had the idea.”
“Speak up,” said the sheriff.
“Thurman had the idea.” He went silent.
“Which was?” said Bernie.
“Hey,” said Les. “We’ll do the asking.”
“Now, Les,” the sheriff said. “Gotta be more flexible. And Bernie here has a rep, as I mentioned.”
Me, too: I had a rep. My tail did some sweeping of the floor.
Bernie hadn’t seemed to pay attention to any of the back-and-forth between Les and the sheriff; he watched Disco. “Which was?” he said again.
“Ransom,” said Disco. “Kidnap for ransom.”
“How much?” Bernie said.
“Like two or three mil.”
Bernie leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. He did that sometimes; nothing good for perps ever happened after. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Stine leaned forward, also interesting, what with Bernie leaning back.
“But there was no ransom demand,” the lieutenant said.
Disco glanced at the sheriff. “Yeah,” he sai
d. “It all got messed up.”
“How?” Lieutenant Stine said.
“Like, uh . . .” Disco took a deep breath.
Lieutenant Stine turned to the sheriff. “You honestly see this asshole in front of a jury?”
“Won’t never get that far,” the sheriff said. “He’s nervous, that’s all. Don’t be nervous, Disco.”
“All buddies here,” said Les.
“Won’t get that far means, uh?” Disco said.
“Everybody pleads,” said the sheriff, “like I explained. But the lead singer does short time, maybe no time, depending on performance.”
Disco’s voice got a little stronger. “Things were goin’ good, the snatch and all that, but—”
“Who was the target?” the lieutenant said. “The woman or the dog?”
“The both of them. Thurman said the dog was valuable, so we took her, too.”
“Who drove?” the lieutenant said.
“Thurman. We headed right to Clauson’s Wells—there’s this cabin Thurman knew about. Took turns guarding her, the three of us, and on Thurman’s shift—me and Crash were zonked in the RV—she got aholt of his gun and—”
“Which gun?” said the sheriff.
Disco nodded. “Yeah, sorry. The .44. The woman gets aholt of the .44, pistol-whips Thurman, and takes off with the keys to the truck. Thurman comes out of a daze—got a bad temper, Thurman—and pops her with the rifle.” Disco shrugged. “Pretty much it.”
“Shrug like that again,” Bernie said, still sitting back with crossed arms, “and I’ll beat your head in.”
Disco’s eyes opened wide. Everyone else whipped around quickly to Bernie.
“Don’t know about down in the Valley,” the sheriff said, “but hereabouts we don’t treat prisoners like that.”
“I’m sure Bernie was just speaking metaphorically,” the lieutenant said.
“Huh?” said Les.
“And maybe was a little pissed off at the notion of the story ending how it did,” the lieutenant went on. “Leaving out any remorse concerning the victim or any details of what happened after. Such as—”
“Suzie Sanchez,” Bernie said. His voice got low and harsh, his real dangerous voice which I’d hardly ever heard. “Did she get popped, too, you son of a bitch?”
Thereby Hangs a Tail Page 21