Arf

by Spencer Quinn

  Pardo laughed. “He sure has a funny way of showing it.”

  “Bowser,” Birdie hissed. “Stop that growling.”

  Growling? Yes, that was me, and for a good reason. Growling was the way to go at times like this, possibly even followed by biting. I amped it up. Pardo laughed harder. That was too much!

  “Bowser!” Birdie said.

  But by that time I had him! An easy lunge? Even easier than I’d thought. Oh, yeah! I sank my teeth deep into Pardo’s leg, and if not his leg—on account of him dodging away with surprising speed—then at least clear through the fabric of his trousers. Then came lots of commotion, possibly including a cry of fear from Pardo, followed by the sudden grip of a very strong hand on my collar. The strong hand turned out to be Mama’s. She whisked me across the kitchen, out into the hall, and slammed the door practically right in my face. First I thought: Bowser the hero, strikes again! My second thought was: What had I done?

  Voices came through the door.

  Mama: “Vin, I’m so sorry.”

  Grammy: “Disgraceful!”

  Birdie: “I’m sure he didn’t mean it. He’s never done anything like that before.”

  Grammy: “Once is more than enough.”

  Mama: “I can sew up that tear in a jiffy.”

  Pardo: “No problem. Please don’t go to any trouble on my account. And … and what I’m guessing this is all about is him smelling cat on me.”

  Did I smell cat on him? Of course! But it wasn’t that. At least, not only that. I clawed at the door.

  Mama: “Bowser!”

  Grammy: “Bowser!”

  Birdie: “Bowser, please.”

  I started amping it down. Somehow Birdie, Mama, and Grammy—my people!—were alone with Vin Pardo. Who was in charge of security at 19 Gentilly Lane? Wouldn’t that be me? Therefore, it was my duty to keep Pardo in sight. I turned my voice into what you might call a pleasant murmur.

  Birdie: “He’s whimpering.”

  Grammy: “I’ll give him something to whimper about.”

  Birdie: “He’ll be good. I promise.”

  Mama: “Vin?”

  Pardo: “Fine with me. Just give me a moment to get up on the table.”

  Lots of laughter followed that, and then the door opened. Birdie gave me a—oh, no!—sort of sternish look. “Go right to your bowl and lie down.”

  I trotted in a straight line over to my water bowl in the corner and lay down, paws tucked underneath, eyes on nobody. Pardo got up and came over.

  “Bowser,” Birdie said, “you be good.”

  Pardo bent down and said, “Let’s be friends.” He patted my head, just a little too hard. The look he gave me—there and gone real quick—was not the least bit friendly. I closed my eyes. Pardo straightened. “Back on track with man’s best friend,” he said.

  More laughter. “So you’ve got a cat?” Mama said.

  “She’s got me, more like it,” said Pardo.

  Mama laughed some more. I opened my eyes, and happened to notice Grammy watching Mama laugh, watching closely, Grammy-style. “What’s her name?” Mama said.

  “Bonnie,” Pardo said.

  “Like in Bonnie and Clyde?” said Grammy.

  Pardo smiled at her. “I just like the name,” he said. He went over to Grammy, handed her the bottle of wine. “So nice of you to invite me into your home.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Grammy.

  “Did I just hear there’s a whole other wing?”

  “Wouldn’t call it a wing,” Grammy said. “More like a separate apartment, actually, across the breezeway.”

  Pardo glanced at the door that led to the breezeway. “Ah,” he said.

  “Crawfish casserole?” Pardo said as Grammy spooned some on his plate. “This is my lucky day.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to the Gaux.”

  “No stopping us,” said Grammy.

  “Ha!” said Pardo. “That’s funny.”

  He took a sip of wine. So did Grammy—just a small one. Mama had what looked to me, over in the corner by my bowl, like a pretty big gulp. Birdie had a big gulp, too, but she was drinking water.

  Pardo tried the crawfish casserole. “Mmm. Delicious. Don’t suppose you’d share the recipe.”

  “Sure,” said Grammy. “Right out of Betty Crocker. Does your wife like to cook?”

  “No wife,” Pardo said, looking down for a moment like he was having an unhappy spell. “I’m divorced.”

  “Kids?” said Grammy.

  “None.”

  “Ah,” Grammy said.

  Pardo looked up, the dark mood, if that’s what it had been, quickly shaken off. “But this sure has the feel of a happy home.”

  “Thanks,” said Mama, reaching for her wineglass.

  “So, Mr. Pardo,” Grammy began.

  “Vin, please,” said Pardo.

  “So you’re not with Jen’s company?”

  Mama’s name was Jen? I was just finding that out now? Or … or she had more than one name? What sense did that make? For example, I was Bowser, period. So what was going on with—

  Birdie turned to me, her eyes—alarmed, you might say. “Shh.” Had a growl started up again? I wasn’t sure, but made an effort to get a grip on any growling that might have involved me. I’m a team player, probably not news to you by this time.

  “No, ma’am,” Pardo said, wiping his mouth on the napkin, but missing a tiny casserole scrap that had stuck in his mustache. “I run a little operation down in New Orleans.”

  “An operation in the oil patch?” Grammy said.

  “Not exclusively,” Pardo said. “I’m an investor—maybe that’s the best way to put it. Always on the lookout for trends. The details are probably kind of boring.”

  “I’m not bored,” Grammy said. “But I don’t want to be prying.”

  Mama spoke up, maybe a little on the loud side. “Especially when we can google him later.”

  Grammy’s eyebrows rose, and so did Birdie’s.

  Pardo laughed. “Let me know what you find out, Jen,” he said. “In the meantime, just shoot me your résumé and I’ll draw up a list of possible matches. We can go over them and if you give the go-ahead I’ll make some calls.”

  “That’s so kind of you,” Mama said.

  “Just good business,” Pardo said. “Got to give before you take—that’s what investing is. I try to apply that idea in everyday life.”

  “Well,” said Grammy, sipping her wine. “Well, well, well.”

  “But enough about me,” Pardo said. “I get the feeling I’ve stumbled upon one of those famous clans you hear about from up in these parts. Tell me about the Gaux.”

  “Clans?” Grammy said. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Sorry if I misspoke,” said Pardo. “How about strong, multigenerational families?”

  “No denying that, Grammy,” said Mama.

  “What’s ‘multigenerational’?” said Birdie.

  “Just like this,” Mama said. “Grandmother, mother, and daughter, all together.”

  Pardo nodded. “Very nice, the way you put that,” he said. “Even—” At that point, maybe jarred loose by the nodding, the little scrap of casserole fell from Pardo’s mustache and splashed down—with a tiny splash—in Pardo’s wineglass. His smile faded and he gave that little scrap—now sinking to the bottom of glass—a real annoyed look. But the look vanished so fast I ended up not being sure I’d really seen it. Sometimes I imagine things. Once, for example, I imagined that I could get into the fridge just by clawing at it. Let’s not bother with what happened after that.

  “Even,” Pardo went on, giving Mama a little smile, “even touching. How long have you all lived in St. Roch?”

  “Grammy’s people have been here since … since when, Grammy?” Mama said. “Going way back, I know that.”

  “Seventeen eighty-five, according to tradition,” Grammy said. “But there’s no proof.”

  “Happy to take your word for it, ma’am,” Pardo said, raising
his glass to Grammy. He gazed into it for a moment, swirled it around. “And you, Jen?” he said. “If you’re the daughter-in-law you must have married into the family.”

  “That’s right,” Mama said. “I married—was so very fortunate to marry—Claire’s son, Robert.”

  Pardo glanced around the room. Looking for what? I had no idea.

  “Who,” Mama went on, “is no longer with us.”

  “Meaning dead,” said Grammy.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Pardo said. “I had no intention of—”

  “Nothing for you to be sorry about,” Grammy said. “You didn’t do it.”

  At that moment, Pardo came close to dropping his wineglass. It actually did slip from his fingers, but he caught it almost immediately, a big golden wave of wine slopping over the top of the glass. He grabbed his napkin, took some stabs at mopping up.

  “Good god,” he said, “so clumsy of me. Please forgive—”

  “No harm done,” Mama said, reaching for the bottle and topping up his glass. “It’s just a little wine.”

  “I’m happy to have the tablecloth laundered,” Pardo said. “Or even better, I’ll send you a replacement.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Grammy. “And besides, it’s white wine. White wine don’t stain. It’s the red you can’t get out.”

  Pardo licked his lips, then licked them again. He had a whitish tongue, and kind of pointy. “Baking soda,” he said, but it was more of a thick, low mutter, as though something was clogged inside.

  “Beg pardon?” Grammy said.

  Pardo cleared his throat, took a big swallow from his glass. “Baking soda, ma’am,” he said. “Baking soda does the trick on red wine.”

  “Much obliged,” said Grammy. “I’ll remember that.”

  “And now, Vin,” Mama said, “let’s hear a little more about you.”

  “Not much to tell really.” He cleared his throat again, gave his head a little shake, as though getting inside-the-head things back in order. “Born in New Orleans, only child, parents divorced, ended up on my own pretty young, got involved with one thing and another, mostly in construction, lucked into an ownership stake, got bought out at the right time, used the proceeds to get into real estate, lucked out there as well. So now”—he smiled at Mama— “I am where I am.”

  “Well, well,” Grammy said. “And what’s the name of this company of yours?”

  “Bonnie Investments,” Pardo said.

  “Named after your cat?” said Grammy.

  “Yup.”

  “That’s funny,” Mama said.

  “I thought so,” said Pardo, giving her another smile.

  I myself saw nothing funny about Bonnie the cat, or anything named after her. Or about anything going on in our kitchen, for that matter. But I stayed by my bowl, a threat to no one. From there I could see that the above-the-tabletop part of Vin Pardo was nice and relaxed, but down underneath one of his legs was going a mile a minute, which I’m guessing is pretty fast.

  DELICIOUS,” SAID VIN PARDO, DOWNING his last bite of pecan pie. “You should open a restaurant, Claire.”

  “Fastest way to lose money yet invented,” Grammy said.

  “You’re right about that,” Pardo said. “Based on that exact same insight, I once bought a restaurant equipment supplier.”

  “Figuring that the turnover in restaurants would drive up demand?” Mama said.

  Pardo pointed his fork at Mama. “See, right there is why you’re going to have your pick of good jobs in no time flat.”

  Mama’s face pinkened a bit.

  “So the restaurant supply company made money?” Grammy said.

  “Actually, no,” said Pardo. “Turns out that the restaurant supply business is the second-fastest money loser known to man. But that doesn’t change Jen’s prospects, not one bit. It’s the presentation that counts.”

  “I don’t quite understand,” Mama said.

  “It’s all about communication,” Pardo said, wiping his mouth with his napkin and pushing back his chair. He looked around the kitchen. “What a great space!”

  “This kitchen?” Grammy said. “What’s great about it?”

  “Hard to put in words,” Pardo said. “And I’m no architect. Just a plain ol’ businessman. But tell you what—I sure would appreciate a quick tour.”

  “A tour of the house?” Grammy said. “What in heaven’s name for?”

  “Just a little idea germinating in my mind,” said Pardo. “But if it’s any trouble at all, the last thing I’d want to do is—”

  “It’s no trouble,” Mama said, pushing back her own chair, as though maybe she was about to show Pardo around our place.

  But before that could happen—or Mama could say another word—Grammy spoke up. “Birdie,” she said. “Show Mr. Pardo around.”

  “Vin, please,” Pardo said.

  “Me?” said Birdie.

  “Either that or the washing up,” Grammy said.

  Pardo laughed. Mama shot Grammy a quick glance and then sort of laughed, too. Sometimes, hanging around with humans, you get the strange feeling you’re missing the whole show. I was having that feeling now.

  “Can Bowser come?” Birdie said.

  “Well,” Mama began.

  “Of course the little fella can come,” Pardo said, waving me over. “Now that we’re buds.”

  “Come, Bowser,” Birdie said.

  Little fella? Had to do my best to ignore that. I rose and trotted across the room, stood close to Birdie. And rock solidly between her and Pardo.

  “Where should I start?” Birdie said.

  Mama shrugged. “There’s really not that much to see. Maybe start with the living room, then a quick peek into the bedrooms, I suppose, and out the side door and round to the back.”

  “Okay,” Birdie said, and headed toward the hallway. Pardo followed her. I followed Pardo, kept him right in front of me. The backs of human legs can feel nervous, as you probably know already. The backs of Pardo’s legs were nervous at the moment. My mood brightened. From behind came the sound of water running in the sink.

  “Well,” Birdie said, “this here’s the living room.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Pardo.

  “That’s the TV and there’s Bowser’s bed for napping in the daytime.”

  Pardo glanced back at me. “Does he go everywhere you go?”

  “Pretty much,” said Birdie. “Anything else you’d like to see in the living room?”

  “No.”

  We headed down the hall.

  “Mama’s room.”

  “Nice and tidy.”

  “My room. Mine and Bowser’s.”

  “Love the walls—just like the sky. And hey! You’ve got a nifty little camera. Take many pictures?”

  “Not really.”

  “Mind if I check it out? Happen to be in the market for a new camera myself.”

  “Uh, sure.” Birdie went to the desk, got the camera, handed it to Pardo.

  “How about we snap one of Bowser?” He pointed the camera at me, did some fiddling with it, then some more fiddling, paused for what seemed like a longish moment and said, “Smile.” After that came a click, and next he was showing the picture he’d taken to Birdie. “He’s one photogenic dog,” Pardo said.

  “Thanks,” said Birdie. She put the camera back on the desk, and the tour continued, meaning pretty soon we came to the end, 19 Gentilly Lane not being what you’d call a mansion—like the Richelieus’ place, for example.

  “Here’s the side door,” Birdie said.

  “Got time to show me the yard?”

  “Sure.”

  We went outside. It was almost dark now, except for a dull reddish band down at the very bottom of one part of the sky. Birdie switched on the outside light and we walked around to the backyard.

  “Here’s the picnic table, Mr. Pardo.” Birdie said.

  “It’s Vin.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “No problem.” Pardo flashed a quick smile, but his ey
es were on the breezeway, specifically the door to Grammy’s part of the house.

  “And here’s the carport,” Birdie said, switching on the carport lights. Under the carport roof, a few outboard motors rested on a wooden stand. “Grammy fixes these up.” Birdie picked up a screwdriver that had fallen to the cement floor and placed it on the stand. “She’s teaching me.”

  Pardo shot her a glance. “You enjoy that sort of thing? Working on engines?”

  “Well,” said Birdie, “I’m just learning.” She moved on. “And this is the breezeway and here’s the door to take us back into the kitchen.” She looked up at Pardo, waiting for him to say something. The breeze flowed through the breezeway, which was what breezeways were all about—it had taken me some time to nail that down—and brought his smell to me: limey aftershave, yes, but also plenty of human sweat, the sharp and nervous kind. At the same time, I could also make out the scent, faint now, but not gone, of snake. Snake under the breezeway. So much to keep track of when you’re in charge of security. But a job’s a job. Doing it right is what counts. What was the right thing to do about that snake? I waited for an idea to come.

  “What about the other half?” Pardo said.

  “Grammy’s side?” said Birdie.

  “While we’re at it.”

  Birdie seemed to think about that. Then she shrugged, opened Grammy’s door, switched on the lights.

  “Grammy’s living room. And this is her kitchen, just a little one—Grammy hardly ever eats here.”

  Pardo nodded. “Old people don’t eat much.”

  “It’s not that,” Birdie said. “We all eat together, in the big kitchen.” Birdie led us down the hall. The light threw shadows along the wall: a small one, a big one, and a four-legged one. The four-legged one was a real tough customer. If you looked carefully, you could see the tufted bits of shadow where the fur on the back of his neck was sticking up.