The Sound and the Furry

by Spencer Quinn

  Click.

  Bernie looked at me. “Know what I think?” I waited to hear, ears cocked way up high. “It was a car theft job gone wrong, with a second dude around somewhere, maybe getting scared off when I came outside.”

  Second dude? Could I have missed that?

  Bernie smiled at me. “I’d bet the house you sniffed out a second dude that night, could clear this all up in a second.”

  Bet the house? But I hadn’t smelled a second dude, not a whiff. I barked at Bernie, a bark of the sharp and loud attention-getting kind. Losing the house was out of the question.

  Bernie laughed. “I’m right, huh?” I barked again. He laughed some more. I barked some more. He gave me a pat. “That’s enough, big guy. Let’s get to work.” I tried to hit the brakes on the barking thing, maybe didn’t quite get it done. “Ch—et?”

  We hopped out of the car. I gave myself a good shake, not the long kind that goes from head to tail and back again—no time for that if we were on the job—but enough to clear my mind. The feeling of a clear mind? One of my favorites. And it’s a feeling I get just about every day! We climbed a couple of cement block steps and entered the vet’s trailer.

  There was a small room in front, the rest of the trailer walled off. Behind those walls all sorts of barking started up right away, plus some meowing. The person at the desk was the kind Bernie calls a no-nonsense woman—I knew that from the expression on her face: a square-shaped face that had been in lots of weather, a face you often saw on no-nonsense women. She looked at me, then Bernie, back at me, then raised her voice.

  “Knock it off.”

  The barking and meowing stopped at once. That was when I noticed the bird in the woman’s hands, a black-and-white bird with some orange here and there, although it was hard to be sure about the colors on account of the bird being covered practically from beak to tail with some oily stuff. It had small eyes the same color as the oily stuff, but they weren’t fierce the way birds’ eyes usually are. Instead, they looked dull and even . . . not happy. Not that birds ever seemed happy to me, but this particular bird was actually sad, no question about it, and even though birds are way down on my list, I got a sudden urge to give it a lick. How crazy was that! Especially with the bird being covered in all that gloop, which I didn’t want anywhere near my tongue.

  “You the vet?” Bernie said.

  “Uh-huh,” said the woman.

  “I’m Bernie Little, and this is Chet.”

  Her eyes shifted toward me. “Something wrong with him? We’re closed right now—I forgot to put up the sign.”

  “Nothing wrong with Chet,” Bernie said. “Is that a tern?”

  “Black skimmer,” said the vet, dabbing at a folded wing with a cotton ball.

  “Was there an oil spill?” Bernie said.

  The vet’s lips, already thin, got thinner. “Not that I’m aware of.” She picked up a fresh cotton ball, dipped it into some liquid, wiped off a blob of gloop. The vet had big strong hands, but her grip on the bird was kind of loose. Take off, bird. Fly away. I tried to make the bird get a move on with my mind, if that makes any sense. Not to the bird: it didn’t even twitch.

  “Is it going to be okay?” Bernie said.

  The vet had dark eyes, almost as dark as the bird’s, and now they turned fierce in a very birdlike way. “Almost certainly not. And if you’re not here for an emergency, we’re closed for business right now, like I said.”

  “I don’t know for a fact that it’s an emergency,” Bernie said. He laid our card on her desk. Her glance moved over to it.

  “You’re a detective?”

  “Hired by the Boutette family to find Ralph.”

  She looked quickly up at Bernie. “Did something happen to Ralph?”

  “He’s missing.”

  The vet opened her mouth to say something, but Bernie spoke first.

  “I know, I know—he’s a loner, kind of eccentric, goes off on his own. Everybody around here’s in a big hurry to mention all that. But I’ve been doing this for a long time. Ralph Boutette is missing.”

  “What do you—” the vet began, but at that moment two kids came in, one after the other and each of them holding a bird covered in gloop.

  “Doctor Ory?” said the bigger kid. “We were fishin’ and we found these.”

  “Are they dead?” the smaller kid said.

  The bigger kid turned on her. “Can’t be dead. Their eyes are open.”

  I love kids, but maybe there are things they don’t know. For example, I’m pretty sure from some of the cases we’ve worked that you can be dead with your eyes open; and these two birds were. The smell starts up right away and I could sniff it out, even with all that gloopiness in the air.

  Dr. Ory rose, holding out her bird toward Bernie.

  “Um,” said Bernie. “I’m not . . .” But he took the black skimmer in his cupped hands, real careful, like it was one of those Christmas tree ornaments that break so easily, even just from getting brushed by your tail on a run around the tree. Around and around and around and . . . Meanwhile, Dr. Ory had gone over to the kids and given their birds a quick look. She took a couple of baggies from her pocket and put a bird in each, sealing up the baggies tight.

  “But their eyes are open,” the bigger kid said.

  The smaller kid started to cry. I went over and sat beside her, and was still way taller. I crouched down a bit: it was all I could think of to do. She turned my way and her eyes got big. The crying stopped, at least the sound part, if not the tears.

  “Where did you find them?” Dr. Ory said.

  The bigger kid’s lower lip trembled. “At the place where we go fishin’.”

  “By the old tour dock?”

  The kid nodded, getting his lower lip under control.

  “You did good, kids,” she said. “Wash up over at the sink and go on home.”

  The kids did what she’d told them. After they’d gone, she turned to Bernie, hands out for the black skimmer. Bernie shook his head; his eyes had that hard look now. When I see that I get my paws under me, all set for just about anything.

  Doctor Ory put the black skimmer in a baggie. “Afraid I’ll have to cut this short,” she said.

  “Heading over to the old tour dock?” Bernie said.

  Doctor Ory glanced at Bernie in a new kind of way. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “We’re coming,” Bernie said. There was a pause. When humans don’t like an idea, they get a look on their faces like they’ve just tasted something not too good. Dr. Ory got that look now. “Unless you’ve got some objection,” Bernie added.

  “Suit yourself,” said Doctor Ory.

  FOURTEEN

  Dr. Ory drove a very small but new-looking car that made hardly any sound at all. A car with no vroom vroom? Not my kind of ride, baby. We followed her down the street that bordered the bayou, around a bend and out of town. The clouds got darker and so did the bayou. It disappeared behind a wall of growing things—so much green around here, not so easy to get used to—and then slipped back into view again, kind of like a very long and wide silvery snake; a thought I wished I hadn’t had. Dr. Ory pulled up to an old falling-down shack. We parked beside her.

  “They used to take swamp tours out of here,” she said over her shoulder, walking down toward the bayou. “Business went under a few hurricanes ago.”

  “A Boutette-owned business, by any chance?” Bernie said.

  Dr. Ory paused, then kept going. “Their timing could be better.”

  “Was Ralph involved in the business?”

  “I doubt it—Ralph’s an inventor.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Bernie said as we came to the remains of a dock, just a few rotting planks hanging over the water. “I haven’t been able to get a line on what he actually invents.”

  Dr. Ory gazed down into the water. It wasn’t as still as it had looked from a distance but lapped at the bayou bank in tiny waves and made sucking sounds at whatever was holding things up down under us. “T
his is the farthest upland point reached by the tide,” she said. “A good place to find things washing in from the Gulf.”

  “Like dead birds,” Bernie said.

  Dr. Ory nodded. We all scanned the water, except for me, since I already knew there were no dead things out there at the moment. I smelled rot to beat the band, whatever that might mean—would I ever forget that night at Blackheart’s Desert Roadhouse where the fans beat up some way-past-it old band because they refused to play their one hit? And in the fight it turned out the singer’s long hair was actually a wig and he was bald underneath? That was when we took off, and took off fast. But where was I? Rot? Yes, I smelled rot and . . . and also there was that strange scent again, froggy, toady, snaky, with the peppery poopiness mixed in.

  “Don’t see anything,” Dr. Ory said.

  “I’ve got binoculars in the car,” Bernie said, and went to fetch them.

  That left me alone with Dr. Ory on the dock. Why hadn’t I gone with Bernie, like I normally would—especially when there was fetching involved? I had no idea. There was of course the fact that she had a biscuit in the front pocket of her jeans, but aside from that, I had no idea.

  Dr. Ory turned to me. “Hey, Chet,” she said. “One hell of a looker, aren’t you?”

  Dr. Ory: a gem. And if not a gem—not in Suzie’s class, for example—I liked her just fine.

  She smiled, the strange sort of wavery smile you see from humans who don’t do a lot of it. “That’s some tail wag you’ve got there.”

  My tail was—? Yes, no doubt about it. I tried to tame it down a bit, but my tail sort of has a mind of its own, as I’d learned in the past and was now learning again in the now, where I actually don’t end up doing my best learning. When did I do my best learning? I tried to think.

  “A real champ, I can see that,” Dr. Ory. How nice of her! Any chance that a real champ would be getting a biscuit any time soon? She stopped smiling. “It’s your buddy I’m iffy about.”

  What was this? She was iffy about Bernie? How could that be? My tail went still, actually began to droop before I took command.

  Bernie returned with the binoculars. He held them to his eyes, scanned the bayou. “Nope,” he said. “No birds.” Then he went still. “But there’s a boat coming out of the swamp up there.”

  “Let me see,” said Dr. Ory.

  Bernie handed her the binoculars. She peered down the bayou. Me, too. I saw a bright green boat in the distance, with a single small figure standing in the—what was the word Bernie had taught me? Bow? Kind of like—bow wow! I knew I would never forget again.

  “What the hell’s he doing out there?” Dr. Ory said.

  “Who?” said Bernie.

  “Somebody from Green Oil. That’s their shade of green—it’s on all their crap.” She started jumping up and down, calling and waving. No way anyone on the boat could hear her—I could barely pick up the sound of the green boat’s engine myself—but the small figure seemed to turn our way. Then the green boat started moving in our direction.

  “Do they have platforms out in the Gulf?” Bernie said.

  Dr. Ory nodded. “The newest one’s not twenty miles from here.”

  The green boat—a bigger boat than I’d thought, with a steering wheel console set up in the middle and a covered sort of cabin in the bow—slowed down as it approached, came to a stop, gently rocking, about one long leap from the dock. The driver was one of those dudes with gray hair—cut real short in his case—who otherwise didn’t look old at all. He wore a bright green T-shirt with short sleeves that made it easy to see his big arm muscles, and also a pair of wraparound shades, the kind where you see yourself in them. I saw myself, plus Bernie and Dr. Ory. I don’t like shades to begin with, and those mirrored ones are the worst.

  “What were you doing out there?” Dr. Ory said, her face set in a hard look.

  “Hey, you’re the vet,” the man said, no hardness at all in his voice. “I came by and introduced myself a few months back. Wes Derrick, VP Environmental Security.”

  “I remember,” said Dr. Ory.

  Wes Derrick turned to Bernie and smiled in a good-pally way. Bernie didn’t say anything.

  “This is Bernie,” Dr. Ory said.

  “Nice meeting you, Bernie,” said Wes. “That your dog?”

  “We’re more like partners,” Bernie said. Wes seemed to give Bernie an extra-long look. Hard to tell, what with those shades, and why would he be doing that? Bernie had told him the truth, pure and simple. Dr. Ory was also watching Bernie, but in a different way.

  “Good-looking pooch,” Wes said at last. “What’s his name?”

  “Chet.”

  Wes smiled. “Nice name.”

  He was right about that. Chet: It was me and I was it! Wow. What a thought! And now we were all getting along great. Was a ride in this bright-green boat a possibility? I didn’t see why not.

  “Sometimes I wish I had a dog,” Wes said.

  Kind of strange: didn’t he already have one? It sure smelled that way. In fact, I came very close to thinking it was a dog I knew, impossible since I was new here, had no buddies yet.

  “Probably doable,” Bernie was saying. “What’s environmental security?”

  “Job one, far as I’m concerned,” Wes said. “It’s all about making one hundred and ten percent sure that Green Oil is the very best global citizen around. Which is how come I’m out here now, matter of fact, in answer to your question, ma’am. We got a report of a possible AAW, and I check each and every one of those suckers out.”

  “What’s AAW?” Bernie said.

  “Adversely affected wildlife. In this case, we had an incoming about kids maybe finding a bird of some sort in not the best shape.”

  “Two bridled terns, both female,” said Dr. Ory. “Dead from exposure to toxic oils and tars. Plus I found another bird myself—black skimmer, male—now also dead.”

  “Can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear that,” Wes said. “And the fact that it appears to be an isolated incident with no underlying company involvement doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dr. Ory said.

  “Break it down for you,” Wes said. “Isolated incident means just the three AAWs.” He motioned down the bayou. “I’ve checked the whole stretch from Point Grief on up to right here and found zip. No more AAWs, no slicks, no tar balls, zip. No underlying company involvement means our monitoring systems out on the platforms are reporting negative across the board. Not one single solitary pumped ounce has gotten away from us.”

  “What about that new platform?” Dr. Ory said.

  “Number nine?” said Wes. “Same as all the others, reporting negative.” The bright green boat rose a bit, then settled back down. Ripples appeared on the surface and slowly vanished. Wes seemed to be watching them, although I couldn’t be sure on account of his shades. “Any reason you’re asking about number nine in particular? It’s not even operational yet.”

  “Why is it so close?” Dr. Ory said.

  Wes took off his shades, just like I’d been wanting him to. He had soft brown eyes. I’d been expecting something else, not sure why. Funny how the mind works.

  “Don’t know what to tell you, ma’am. That’s where the oil is. But the fact of number nine being the newest also makes it state of the art in terms of safety and all those good things.” He glanced at his watch. “Anything else I can help you with? I’m a touch overdue.”

  “What do you think happened to the three birds?” Bernie said.

  “Can’t say for sure,” Wes said. “But it’s the kind of thing that probably happened routinely long before there was an oil business, and will long after we’re getting all our power from cold fusion or whatever’s around the corner.”

  “Not following you,” Bernie said.

  Wes turned his soft brown gaze on Bernie. “Not local, are you?”

  “True.”

  “From out west somewhere?”

  “Right again.”
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  “I’m pretty good with accents, comes from a life spent in the oil patch. If you were from these parts, Bernie, you might know we get natural oil seeps out in the swamp sometimes. Not much of a stretch to imagine a bird or two diving down for a fish and getting all mucked up.”

  “So this was a natural event?” Bernie said.

  “Sums it up,” said Wes. “But, ma’am, you turn up anymore victims, you give me a call, anytime, night or day.” He pressed a button and the engine started up, rumbling real low. The bright green boat slid up to the dock. “Here’s my card,” Wes said, handing it to Dr. Ory. He backed the boat away and started to turn it down the bayou. “Enjoy your visit, Bernie.” Wes waved and drove off, not real fast but with nice and steady power. I couldn’t take my eyes off the waves the boat made, spreading so evenly across the bayou. Boats: I was loving everything about them.

  Bernie and Dr. Ory seemed to be watching the waves, too, both of them real quiet. It was beautiful on the bayou. Maybe I could even get used to the air, so thick and heavy.

  “How about I buy you a drink?” Bernie said.

  “I could use one.”

  I’ve been in a lot of bars, comes with the territory, and seen bar-type things happen you wouldn’t believe so I won’t bother running through them. Rooster Red’s in St. Roch wasn’t the best or the worst. Hey! It wasn’t even the first Rooster Red’s I’d been in! That was in Dry Wells, a desert town about a day’s ride from the Valley, just the one visit and it had ended with—but I wasn’t going to mention things that you wouldn’t believe, so forget it. I learned it’s not so easy to get a toilet seat off from around the neck of one of those real-thick-necked bikers: let’s leave it at that.

  “What I actually wanted to talk to you about,” Bernie said, “was Napoleon.”

  “Ralph’s dog?” said Dr. Ory, putting down her beer. Bernie was drinking beer, too. Water for me, of course. We had a nice corner table in the back of the room, with a fan blowing in our faces and a view through a big window of rusted-out cars and a pile of old bricks. There’s all kinds of beauty in life.

  “I assumed you’d be his vet,” Bernie said.