The Sound and the Furry

by Spencer Quinn

  “What did he say, word for word, if you can,” Bernie said.

  “Word for word?” Lord squeezed his eyes shut real tight. “ ‘Bigmouth’—that’s what he called me, Bigmouth—‘you’ll have company soon but not for long.’ That’s as close as I can come.” Lord opened his eyes. “Didn’t know what to make of that. Sounded kind of like a bad fortune cookie.”

  Bernie smiled.

  “What’s funny?” said Lord.

  “Nothing,” Bernie told him. “What did this guy look like.”

  “He had a mask on! Aren’t you listenin’?”

  “Did he have a mask on his body, too?”

  “Mask on his . . . I get it. Like his build, that kind of thing?” Bernie nodded. “He was short, but real muscular.”

  “Fireplug type?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Anything you can tell me about his speech?”

  “Already gave it to you word for word.”

  “Did he have an accent, for example?”

  “Hell, yeah. You didn’t catch it when I did the word for word?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Hispanic,” Lord said. “There, that’s my whole goddamn story. Now get me out of this hellhole.”

  “No rush,” Bernie said. He got the gag back in Lord’s mouth and tied it tight. Lord’s reaction wasn’t of the pleasant kind, so let’s skip it.

  TWENTY-NINE

  We’ve been ambushed more often than I want to think about, me and Bernie, but here’s the fun part: sometimes we get to do a bit of ambushing ourselves! And this was turning out to be one of those times. First, we covered up our traces, at least in human terms, which meant Bernie had to re-board-up the back window, which he did, sort of, from the inside. “Just a precaution,” he said. “Ten to one he comes in by the front door.” Who was he talking about? I was considering taking a stab at that when I noticed the drumstick still lying, mostly submerged, in a pool of water. I’d already taken a pass on it, but why? Not a single good reason came to me. Soggy, but so what? I made a quick decision, always the best kind.

  Second, we hid out. Hiding out isn’t as easy as you might think, at least for me. In between cases, we’ve done a lot of work on my hiding-out skills. Hiding out means sitting still and quiet until it’s time to spring into action. Sounds easy, maybe, but I’ve had some problems with it in the past. The day, for example, when I’d ended up ambushing the flower delivery lady? “Room for improvement there, big guy,” Bernie had said while he was writing the check. Working on hiding-out skills meant sitting quietly until Bernie gave this special little nod. Then came a treat, a rawhide chew, maybe, or a Slim Jim, or even a burger, if we happened to have swung by Burger Heaven. Just between you and me, I actually got the hang of the hiding-out thing sometime back, but I’ve done what I could to keep the lessons going. Forget I mentioned that.

  Only two rooms upstairs, so we had to hide out in the bathroom with the toilet back-up issue. Bernie mopped up what he could using some old towels from under the sink. Then he sat on the edge of the tub. Even though sitting was the right procedure, I stood instead, sitting on those soaking towels seeming not too attractive. My paws have a way of taking care of themselves but cleaning up my fur takes work.

  Nighttime with the only window boarded up made for a black as black bathroom, and not much in the way of air. It was kind of nice, just me and Bernie together, not kicking back, exactly, but enjoying a quiet moment. Was Bernie enjoying it, too? I wasn’t sure on account of these faint gasping sounds he let out from time to time, but then I felt his hand giving me a little pat on the back and I knew. A little later I happened to find a thickish shred of fried chicken under my tongue. Did I have it pretty good or what?

  Time passed, no telling how much. I listened to what was available, such as Bernie breathing, a faint gurgling in the pipes, distant sirens. Then came the amped-down throb throb of an approaching motorcycle out front. Were motorcycles in the case? I had a feeling they might be. My ears went up and I almost took a step—might actually have taken a small one—toward the closed bathroom door. I sensed Bernie, already still, going stiller.

  The throb throb grew louder, then cut out. Silence . . . silence . . . squeak. A squeak, specifically the squeak hinges make unless you oil them, and then came what I expected—you start expecting things right when you’ve cleared all the cases we have at the Little Detective Agency—namely, the thud of a closing door; a heavy thud, on account of that big steel door at the front of the house, just where Bernie said whoever it was would be coming in. My heart got going a bit, the way it does when springing into action is in the near future.

  Footsteps sounded on the floor below, changed rhythm slightly, which happens when someone’s climbing stairs. This particular someone, a man, for sure—an easy one, men and women moving so differently—wasn’t worried about being heard, made no effort to be quiet, sounded strong and confident. I was feeling confident myself: ambushes tended to work out better with unsuspecting dudes like this.

  He reached our floor, walked right past the bathroom door. Was he wearing boots? I thought so. Were cowboy boots in the case? Maybe, although these didn’t sound like cowboy boots, which change a man’s stride a little in a way that’s hard to explain. I know it when I hear it: let’s leave it at that.

  A doorknob turned down the hall, and then came a few quieter footsteps: the man entering Lord’s room. He said something I couldn’t make out, but he must have thought it was funny because he laughed. I felt Bernie rise. Was he giving me the special nod meaning the hiding-out part was over and springing into action was about to begin? How to tell? I couldn’t see a thing. Bernie made a soft click click in his mouth. That settled it.

  He opened the door. We stepped into the hall, side by side and silent, the only light coming through the open doorway of the bedroom, weak and flickering but enough to glint on the .38 Special in Bernie’s hand. I could hear his heart beating, just like mine.

  The bedroom door was open. We looked in. A gas lantern rested beside the empty chair. A short and really wide dude, turned sideways to us, stood over Lord. He wore a mask over his eyes—a black mask like you see on Halloween, not my favorite holiday, lots of masked humans on the loose making me a bit nervous—and had a paper bag in his hand. There was a ham and cheese sandwich in the paper bag and also a dill pickle. Dill pickles don’t do anything for me, but ham is another matter. The soggy drumstick from downstairs seemed like a long time ago.

  “Hungry, amigo?” the masked man said.

  For a crazy moment, I thought he meant me! Then Lord made an annoyed sort of grunt. I took that to mean the sandwich was going to be his in some future time, but Bernie often said that no one can see the future for sure.

  The masked dude reached out to untie the ball gag. A movement like that is sometimes a good scent releaser. Now, for example, I picked up the smell of that aftershave I’d been smelling on this case, the one that comes in the square green bottle. Where you saw something or other can be not so easy to remember, but remembering where you smelled something? A different story, although maybe not to you, no offense. I’d sniffed out this aftershave scent twice so far, once on that little island where we’d found Ralph’s glasses, and again when—whoa!—when we’d had that meet-and-greet with Pyro, the visored biker right out front of this very house. I checked out the masked dude’s footwear: motorcycle boots. All of a sudden I was way ahead of the game: the masked dude was Pyro! Did I have the best job in the world or what?

  “Pyro?” Bernie said, speaking in a normal voice, like we were all buddies in this place, just having a get-together. “How about we leave the gag on for the moment, keep confusion to a minimum.”

  Or something like that. I was still stunned that Bernie knew it was Pyro, meaning he had nosed out that aftershave scent all on his own. But that was Bernie: just when you think he’s amazed you for the last time, he amazes you again.

  Meanwhile, Pyro had whipped around, seen us, started to reach into one
of his pockets and then frozen as Bernie raised the .38 Special. Lord, straining against his duct tape bonds and looking in our direction like he wanted us to do something real bad, went, “Frrrmmimm, frrrmm!”

  “Try to relax, Lord,” Bernie said. “We’ll get to you. First, Pyro needs to toss me that paper bag, nice and easy.”

  Pyro didn’t move.

  “He must think I wouldn’t just up and shoot him,” Bernie said, lowering his aim a little. “Say in his right knee, for starters.” He gave Pyro a friendly smile. “Need a second to think again?”

  I didn’t know how long a second was—pretty short, I thought, probably shorter than the time it took for Pyro to make up his mind. I could tell he was making up his mind from how his eyes shifted in those little mask eyeholes. Hard to explain why I found those eyeholes so bothersome, I just did. My teeth started getting a certain feeling. Pyro tossed the bag to Bernie.

  He turned out to be a real bad tosser, sending the bag so wide of the target that Bernie had to make a long reach. Except he didn’t: Bernie stood completely still, let the paper bag go right by, hit the wall, and land with the kind of soft thud you’d expect from a ham sandwich. What was up with all that? I had no clue, but things were looking up, and they’d been pretty high already, in my opinion.

  “Oops,” Bernie said.

  Pyro’s eyes went through some changes, hard to make out exactly on account of the combination of the low lantern light and those little eyeholes, but one thing for sure: Pyro hated Bernie. Anyone who hates Bernie has a real big problem with me, case closed.

  “Now,” Bernie said, “since it’s too early for Halloween, you’re going to take off that mask and drop it on the floor, nice and slow.”

  Pyro didn’t move. He was a tough guy. Maybe he didn’t know we ran up against tough guys just about every day in this job. After breaking rocks in the hot sun for a spell, they’re not as tough—a bit surprising, what with all that exercise.

  The barrel of the .38 Special tilted up. “At one time,” Bernie said, “I wasn’t a half-bad shot, maybe could have actually picked that mask right off your face without hardly doing any damage at all. Who’s feeling curious?”

  I was! I was! Pull the trigger, Bernie! You’re still a crack shot! You can do it!

  And, of course, Bernie could have done it, but before he got the chance, Pyro took off the mask—didn’t whip it off in a panic, although neither could you have called it nice and slow—and dropped it on the floor. We got our first good look at his face, a broad face with a strong jaw and chin, a squishy little nose, small and alert dark eyes.

  “Nice meeting you, Pyro,” Bernie said. “Now if you’ll just roll up your sleeves we’ll be all set.”

  Pyro blinked. “I can go?” he said.

  Lord squirmed in his chair. “Nnnrrrr!”

  “Go?” Bernie said. “My mistake. I just meant we’ll be all set when it comes to building a theory of the case.”

  Pyro shook his head. “Fuck you, hombre,” he said. “Gonna shoot my shirt off?” He laughed.

  And was still laughing when—but maybe I’d better back up here. Pyro was wearing a camo shirt, specifically the kind with button-down epaulets, and buttoned down in one of those epaulets he had a pack of cigarettes, the same kind Bernie had been smoking the last time he’d quit for the last time. Back to Pyro, still laughing, but his laughter got canceled right out by the crack of the .38 Special. CRACK! What a beautiful sound! The cigarette pack, the cigarettes, the epaulet with its button: all blown to smithereens, tiny tobacco shreds raining down on my fur. I didn’t mind. Meanwhile, Pyro was ripping off his shirt in a hurry. Hadn’t Bernie told him just to roll up the sleeves? Was Pyro’s messing up on the sleeve instructions a good reason to shoot him now? I went both ways on that.

  Bernie didn’t shoot Pyro. Instead, he said, “Move closer to the light.”

  Pyro moved closer to the light.

  “Hands up.”

  Pyro raised his hands. He was scared—I could smell it—but not as scared as some perps we’d had in this sort of setup, not nearly.

  “Lord?” Bernie said. “Can you make out that letter tattooed on Pyro’s right wrist?”

  Lord craned his head—I had an unpleasant encounter with a crane once, never having had much luck when it comes to birds, but no time to go into that now—peered at Pyro’s wrist and nodded.

  “What letter is it?” Bernie said.

  “Grrmmph,” said Lord.

  “Just to confirm,” Bernie said. “We’re talking about the first letter in queen?”

  Lord nodded again, this time much harder.

  “Ever heard of the Quieros, Lord?”

  Lord shook his head.

  “Pretty new to me, too,” Bernie said. “Care to fill us in, Pyro?”

  Pyro didn’t answer, but his eyes had plenty to say, all about hatred for Bernie.

  “What I don’t understand,” Bernie went on, as if Pyro had in fact made some reply and now it was his turn again, “is how the Quieros fit into this case. You guys are in the drug business. Why bother with a load of shrimp? No real money in that. Help me here, Pyro. Throw me a bone.”

  Whoa! Bernie had never asked for a bone once, not in the whole time we’d been together. I wanted a bone, too! Tell him to throw Chet a bone, too! That thought zoomed around and around in my mind, even though I knew perfectly well that Pyro had no bones on him—I don’t make mistakes on things like that.

  “. . . which brings us,” Bernie was saying, “to this empty chair. Who’s it for?”

  No answer from Pyro, just that hot darkness in his eyes.

  “Maybe you’re too far down the depth chart to even know,” Bernie said. “Boss keep you out of the loop?”

  A vein throbbed in Pyro’s neck. “I got no boss.”

  “Make you feel better to think that?” Bernie said.

  Pyro spat on the floor. Human spitting: a whole big subject of its own, and no time for it now. “Think you’re tough with that piece in your hand,” Pyro said.

  “Nah,” said Bernie. “I’m a softie.” Oh, Bernie. Have I mentioned what a joker he can be? “My whole goal here is making sure everybody gets out of this room in good health—including whoever’s coming to sit in this chair.” Bernie raised his eyebrows, like he’d had a sudden thought. “Oh, my—any chance it’s Ralph Boutette?”

  Some perps were pretty good at hiding what was inside. Pyro was one of them. His eyes barely shifted. His mouth hardly fell open at all. “Don’t understand you, hombre,” he said. “My English is bad.”

  “Don’t be self-critical,” Bernie said. “Your English is the best thing about you.” He gestured to the empty chair. “Take a load off, let’s get to know each other a bit.”

  Pyro looked at the chair like . . . like it was dangerous, kind of a puzzler to me, and shook his head.

  “Prefer to stand?” Bernie said. Probably a puzzler to him, too. We’re a lot alike in some ways, in case that hasn’t come up already.

  Pyro nodded.

  “Something about that chair troubling you?” Bernie said.

  Pyro stopped nodding.

  “Got any ID on you?” Bernie said.

  Pyro laughed that kind of laugh humans call laughing in your face. I’d never realized how bad human laughter—normally one of my favorite sounds—could be until that moment.

  “Don’t particularly care what your real name is,” Bernie said. “I’m just betting it’s not Pyro.”

  Angry eyes, yes, but not out of control: Pyro was watched Bernie carefully and his mind was working hard.

  “More of a nickname is my guess,” Bernie said.

  Where were we going with this? I had no clue, just trusted Bernie, always the right move.

  Still not looking away from Pyro, not even once, Bernie said, “What’s the word pyro mean to you, Lord?”

  “Frrmpf,” said Lord. “Frrmpf mmrrcc.”

  “Fire maniac?” Bernie said. “Nice way of putting it. Lighting fires is Pyro’s voc
ation and avocation.”

  “Hrrh?” said Lord.

  “Meaning he has a thing for starting fires and he gets paid for it. Didn’t you wonder what the gas can was for?” Bernie made a slight chin movement in the direction of the gas can in the corner.

  Lord nodded.

  “Spell it out, Pyro. What’s the gas can for?”

  Pyro didn’t answer for what seemed like a long time. At last he nodded. “I want a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  Pyro made a gesture with his hands, still keeping them up but not quite as high. Bernie didn’t take his eyes off Pyro’s hands and neither did I—keeping track of perp hand movements being at the top of the list in our line of work—which was maybe why we were both late picking up on Pyro’s booted foot, swinging real fast and kicking the lantern right at Bernie.

  Pyro turned out to be aces at kicking lanterns. The lantern hit Bernie hard on his gun hand and the .38 Special went flying.

  “Gun!” Bernie yelled, meaning it was my job to grab the .38 Special and give it up for nobody except Bernie; can’t tell you how many Slim Jims I’ve gotten working on this particular trick. I sprang for the .38 Special, still clattering across the floor. Two other things happened at the same time. One was Pyro springing at Bernie. The other was the lantern going out.

  THIRTY

  Back in complete blackness again, but we had plenty of sound: thumping and grunting and smashing and smacking and whacking, a cry of pain—that last one coming from Pyro, goes without mentioning. Would I even know what a cry of pain from Bernie sounded like? I’d never heard it. The point was we had a knock-down drag-out fight going down, and if there’s a fight going down—visible or not—I want to be in on it, especially if Bernie’s involved. My problem was the .38 Special, at that moment gripped securely in my mouth. Bernie calling “Gun!” meant part one: get the gun; and part two: bring it to him. I was all set on part one, but part two was shaping up not as well. Maybe a bark or two would get his attention, but that meant dropping the gun, a no-no. Then came a fresh idea: how about just plain dropping the gun and diving right into the fight? I went back and forth on that one, back and forth, back and forth—and then found that I was actually racing back and forth across the floor, and soon around and around, faster and faster, bumping into this and that, possibly knocking over Lord in his chair—“GRRRMMPH!”—leaping high and by sheer good luck landing on Pyro’s back—“Chet! For God’s sake!”—or perhaps Bernie’s as it turned out, and then we were all—Pyro, Bernie, me—spinning in a sort of black tornado, and I was part of things, amigo, and still had the .38 Special in my mouth. Best of both worlds! Maybe even having my cake and—but let’s not go there.