Frenchie lowered his voice some more. “How about I get you three grand by tonight?”
Bernie got a look in his eyes like he was going to smile. His smile is one of the best things going. I gave his face all my attention, but no smile came. “Sure, Frenchie,” he said. “You do that.”
Our place is on Mesquite Road. We’ve got the canyon in back, open country all the way to the airport in one direction and up to the Rio Arroyo Bridge in the other, and long ago, Bernie says, when his great-grandfather owned this whole stretch of the Valley it was all like that, nice and empty, but now houses lined both sides of the canyon and were even starting to creep down the sides in some places. Bernie has this dream—I know because once after he had a few drinks he told me about it—that one day we’d wake up and it would be the old way again. I checked first thing every morning for a long time after that, but now I often forget.
As we pulled into the driveway, Iggy started up inside the Parsonses’ house next door. Yip yip yip. Yip yip yip. That was Iggy, a yipper through and through. Iggy’s been my best pal for almost longer than I can remember—and sometimes actually longer, if that makes any sense—but he doesn’t come out to play anymore, partly on account of some sort of electric fence problem and partly on account of the Parsonses being so old now, what with Mrs. Parsons in the hospital and Mr. Parsons on a walker. I could see Iggy standing in the side window, front paws against the glass and his weird stubby tail going crazy down below. I barked at him, a low rumbly bark that couldn’t have been friendlier. That seemed to get Iggy going, not my intention at all. His yipping rose higher and higher in a way that hurt me deep in my ears. I barked louder, sending a message. It did no good.
“Chet!” Bernie said. “What the hell? Get in the house.”
Me? This was on me? How come? I went inside, not realizing at first that my own tail was down, practically dragging on the floor in the front hall. I got it up, pronto, nice and high. Bernie always says never let them see you something or other, it might come to me later, but the point is: tail up.
We had drinks in the kitchen, bourbon for Bernie, water for me. As he filled the bowl at the sink, he clinked his glass against it and said, “Cheers.” He took the check out of his front pants pocket, looked at it for a moment or two, and then—oh, no, tucked it away in the chest pocket of his shirt, just when I thought we had everything under control.
Bernie sat down at the computer. I went for a little roam around the house, ended up in Charlie’s room. His mattress was bare. Charlie is Bernie’s kid, and we don’t see him much, Charlie now living with Leda, Bernie’s ex-wife and her new husband, Malcolm, up in High Chaparral Estates, probably the fanciest neighborhood in the Valley. I hopped on the mattress and sniffed around, Charlie’s scent—a bit like Bernie’s, but without the funky part—real easy to pick up. I had a notion to lie down even though I wasn’t tired, but then I heard the clink of Bernie adding more ice cubes to his drink, or possibly pouring another, and I went back to the kitchen.
Yes, a brand-new drink topped up pretty high. Bernie turned to me.
“Did a search for Ralph Boutette,” he said. “And guess what?”
I waited.
“No hits.”
Bernie sipped his bourbon. I went over to my water bowl, lapped up a sip or two of my own.
“See what this means?”
I did not. And even if I had, I was much more interested in the sound of a car approaching on our street. Was it slowing down as it neared the house? Yes. That made it even more interesting. I glanced at Bernie to see if he found it interesting, too, but he showed no sign he heard a thing. Human ears: a puzzler. Sometimes they’re so small—take Suzie’s ears, for example, Suzie being Bernie’s girlfriend, but she’d taken a job far away and now Bernie’s sleeps were restless—that it’s not fair to expect them to do much hearing, although Bernie’s ears aren’t like that, not even close, so what’s the story?
“With missing people,” he said, “you get hits. Police department hits, reward hits, newspaper hits.”
He rose, dropped more ice cubes into his glass, and tossed me one, which I caught in midair and crunched up in no time. Nothing like an ice cube to make your teeth tingle. My insides, still hot from the day even though we had the A/C on—never blasting, which was one of our things, at least Bernie’s—started cooling down nicely. I had no complaints, in fact, felt tip-top.
“So therefore?” Bernie said.
I went still. The way we have the work divided up here at the Little Detective Agency, Bernie handles the so therefores, and what comes next is always important. But in the stillness I heard a car door close with a soft thump out on the street, and then came footsteps on our stone path, footsteps with a little click-click that meant high heels. I forgot about whatever I’d been waiting for and trotted to the front door. Leda often wore high heels, Suzie almost never. Other than that, I had no ideas.
Knock knock. Leda’s was much quicker than this one, Suzie’s more solid. I barked.
“Chet?” Bernie called.
Knock knock.
“Someone at the door?”
Oh, Bernie. I barked again. What else could I do?
He came into the hall: flip-flops, shorts, T-shirt, drink in hand.
Knock knock.
Bernie heard it this time. He put down the drink, smoothed his hair, opened the door.
Bernie’s always the smartest human in the room, but the woman standing on the step was the kind of woman who could make it a close call. Not because of her brain so much, more on account of her shape, her little dress, the look in her eyes, the makeup around them. And the smell, a dead giveaway—although there was nothing dead about it—but maybe just to me. In a contest between the human sense of hearing and the human sense of smell there are only losers, no offense. But the point is a certain kind of woman has a bad influence on Bernie’s braininess.
“Bernie Little?” she said.
I left out the voice.
“Um, yeah.”
She became aware of me, a little late in the game in my opinion. “I’m not that comfortable around dogs,” she said.
“You can be totally comfortable with Chet,” Bernie said.
“He’s so big.”
“But very gentle.”
She gazed at me, a narrowed, making-up-the-mind look in her eye. That just happens to be a look that bothers me, no telling why. I barked—not the low rumbly friendly kind, or the angry kind, or the kind where I’m warning you once and for all; this was just the hi-it’s-me kind, but in a big way.
She jumped back. “Oh my God. Is he going to bite me?”
“Never. That wouldn’t happen. He never bites. Cool it, big guy, for Christ sake.”
Christ came up a lot, but I’d never met him; something to look forward to, maybe. I cooled it. At the same time: never bites? What was with that? There were dudes—true, not many and always the worst kind—now breaking rocks in the hot sun who knew different.
“How—how can I help you?” Bernie said.
“My name’s Vannah,” she said. “Vannah Boutette. I’m Frenchie’s wife.”
“Frenchie has a wife like—” Bernie cut himself off; why, I didn’t know. I’m always interested in what he has to say.
“Yes?” Vannah said. “Go on.”
“Uh, nothing,” Bernie said. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bernie.”
“We’ve already gotten past that,” Vannah said. “Aren’t you supposed to be smart? I’ve got three grand in cash which I’d like to give you without getting my goddamn arm bit off, if possible.”
Bernie glanced at her arm. A nicely shaped female human arm, perhaps, but not much there to sink your teeth into.
“Come in,” said Bernie.
THREE
Vannah Boutette crossed her legs, uncrossed them, crossed them again. Bernie’s gaze went to the ceiling, the floor, back to her legs. We were in the office, just down the hall from the kitchen, Bernie at the desk, Vannah on the couch, me on the r
ug, a comfortable, nubbly rug with a circus elephant pattern. I was fond of the pattern, had once gotten to know a circus elephant named Peanut quite well, but no time for that now.
“You work out of your home?” Vannah said.
“Any problem with that?” Bernie said.
“Why would I have problem with that? I work out of my place, too.”
“Yeah? What line of, uh . . .”
“Let’s call it importing,” Vannah said.
“What kind of goods?”
“Good goods, bad goods, everything in between.” Vannah glanced around the room, taking in the hat stand with Bernie’s baseball cap collection—he’d pitched for Army before throwing out his arm, and even so could still fling the tennis ball a country mile, whatever that might be—the basket of kids’ blocks lying in one corner—the room was meant for a little sister or brother that never came along—and the waterfall pictures on the walls. Humans get an oh-my look on their face when they’re impressed. I wasn’t seeing it on Vannah’s. What if she knew that the biggest waterfall picture hid the safe, and that in the safe were Bernie’s grandfather’s watch, our most valuable possession, plus the .38 Special? We hadn’t had any gunplay in way too long.
“You get eight hundred a day plus expenses?” Vannah said.
“Yup.”
“What if I said seven?”
“Try it.”
“Seven.”
“Nice meeting you.”
Vannah laughed. “Frenchie mentioned your sense of humor. He thinks the world of you.”
“He does?”
“Which is why you’re his first choice for finding Ralph.”
“You know Ralph?”
“Why wouldn’t I know Ralph? He’s my brother-in-law.”
Bernie nodded. He’s a great nodder, has different nods with different meanings. This one could have meant anything.
“He was best man at the wedding,” Vannah went on. “Frenchie’s and mine.”
“Where did you two tie the knot?”
“I hate that expression.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t you? It’s so negative. Why not say shackled together and be done with it?”
“I see your point.”
“Married yourself?” Vannah said.
“Not at present.”
“All the better.”
Bernie looked at her, tilting his head how he does when he’s seeing someone in a whole new way. The last person he’d used the head tilt on was Truffles Siminoni—a B-and-E type specializing in high-end restaurants—who’d immediately thrown up his hands—I love when they do that!—and said, “All right, you got me.”
Did Bernie hope Vannah Boutette was about to cop to something? Would I soon be grabbing her by the pant leg, not so easy since she wasn’t wearing pants? How was I going to do that, exactly? I realized my tongue was hanging out maybe a bit too much, and possibly drooling; I curled it back up in my mouth and sat up straight, a professional through and through.
“Frenchie and I got married at his mom’s place in St. Roch,” Vannah said, which didn’t sound criminal to me, or even at all interesting.
But Bernie’s eyebrows went up. Have I mentioned his eyebrows? Nice and thick and expressive, with a language all their own. Bernie was interested, no doubt about it. So, therefore, I was interested. Whoa! Had I just done a “so therefore”? My very first? Chet the Jet!
“St. Roch?” Bernie said.
“Down in bayou country,” Vannah said. “That’s where they’re all from, the Boutettes. I didn’t see the point of a church wedding. Been there, done that. More than once.”
“Understood,” Bernie said. “There’s no right way of doing it.”
“You can say that again.”
But Bernie did not. Instead, he said, “I meant no single one right, um—”
“Whatever,” said Vannah. “Here’s a picture of Ralph.” She rose, crossed over to the desk, took a photo from her purse—I caught a glimpse of a roly-poly glasses-wearing dude—and laid it in front of Bernie.
“Except for the, uh, shape, he doesn’t look much like Frenchie,” Bernie said.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said. Which Bernie could have done, no problem, but he kept his mouth shut. “Ralph turned out different from the others in just about every way.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s an inventor, I guess you’d say.”
Inventor? A new one on me. I knew investor, especially of the golf-course subdivision type: we’ve sent one of those up to Northern State Correctional, me and Bernie. That was as far as I could take it, maybe farther.
“What has he invented?” Bernie said.
“Gizmos,” said Vannah.
“Like?”
“Things. He gets them patented and sells the patents.”
“I’m a little lost,” Bernie said. Which made two of us: don’t forget we’re a lot alike in some ways, me and Bernie.
“What’s your problem?” She gazed down at him.
He gazed up at her. “I ran a quick online search, came up with no hits for Ralph Boutette. That makes no sense if he’s got patents.”
Vannah blinked. “You think I’m making this up?”
“I don’t think anything,” Bernie said, which was one of my very favorites of all his lines; no one was funnier than Bernie. Him not thinking anything! “I’m just trying to figure this out.”
Vannah glanced around, looked at me. “Maybe the patents are in his company name?”
“Which is?”
“Not sure, exactly,” she said. “But something with Napoleon in it.”
“Napoleon?”
“Ralph’s dog.”
“What sort of dog?”
“Huh? Does it matter? A horrible little dog, pug, maybe.”
“Horrible in what way?”
“Hell, every way. And the dog’s missing, too, come to think of it. One day they weren’t on the houseboat anymore, just vanished off the face of the earth.”
“Ralph lives on a houseboat?” Bernie said, turning to the keyboard and tapping away.
“Lives, works, everything.”
“Here we go,” said Bernie, eyeing the screen. “Napoleon Industrial Products, twenty-two hits.”
“See?” said Vannah.
“Through a glass, darkly,” said Bernie.
“Huh?” said Vannah. I was sort of with her on that, but not really. I’d never cross over on Bernie.
“Nothing,” Bernie said. “What’s the name of the houseboat?”
“Little Jazz.”
Bernie put his hands on the desk, leaned back. “Little Jazz?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Named after Roy Eldridge?”
Vannah shrugged. “Never heard of him, but the Boutettes know a ton of people down in bayou country, so anything’s possible.”
Was I following this right? Vannah didn’t know Roy Eldridge? His trumpet did things to my ears, the best kind of things, especially when he played on “If You Were Mine” with Billie Holiday, which we blast in the Porsche just about every single day.
“Tell you what,” Bernie said. “We’ll take the case.”
Because Vannah didn’t know Roy Eldridge? Bernie was full of surprises, just one of the lovable things about him.
“Yeah?” said Vannah. She was surprised, too, no doubt about it.
“Yeah,” Bernie said.
Vannah opened her purse again, handed Bernie a fat roll. Not the fattest in my experience, but it was always nice to see a fat roll coming our way. “Count it,” she said.
“I trust you,” said Bernie.
“You do?”
“On the three grand being here,” he said.
For a moment, Vannah’s forehead wrinkled up, like she was going to get mad. Then she laughed. Bernie laughed, too. Then he started counting the money. Vannah laughed some more.
“Three grand on the nose,” Bernie said, although he didn’t put it anywhere nea
r his nose. “This money clean?”
Interesting question. I actually picked up a whiff of shrimp coming off those bills. Had Bernie done the same? That would have been a shocker. Bernie had a nice-size nose for a human, but it didn’t do much, as I’d learned many times. But why had he just brought noses into the conversation? I got the feeling I wasn’t quite in the picture. It didn’t bother me at all!
“Do you care?” Vannah said.
“Yeah,” Bernie said.
“Then it’s clean.”
Bernie stuffed the roll in his—oh, no—chest pocket, somehow dislodging the lawyer’s check already in there. The check wafted down under the desk and out of sight.
“Okay,” Bernie said, leaning back in a relaxed sort of way, “tell me everything you know about Ralph’s disappearance, starting with how you heard about it.”
Vannah returned to the couch, maybe crossing, uncrossing and recrossing her legs again. I’m pretty sure that happened but not totally, on account of how worried I was about that check. I moved over to the desk, a desk with sides that came fairly close to the floor, meaning I had to crouch down on my belly and wriggle forward to squeeze underneath. Even just getting my head under wasn’t that easy. I had to push up with the muscles at the back of my neck, actually sort of lifting the whole desk somewhat off the floor, just to get started.
“. . . last week,” Vannah was saying. “Sometimes he takes his Zodiac up into the bayous so the boys went looking.”
The Sound and the Furry Page 2
