“Most welcome,” said Bernie. “The problem was we had a thief in the house. A quick-handed type.”
Lotty looked past us, scanned the club real quick.
“But we caught him, Chet and I,” Bernie went on.
“Chet?” said Lotty.
“This is Chet.”
Lotty looked at me. “Your dog?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Or the other way around?”
Bernie laughed. Then he reached out to give her the money and Lotty reached out to take it, but before she could Clint was suddenly with us, just in time to snatch the C-note away. A quick hand, with big rings on the soft, white fingers.
“I’ll take care of that,” he said. He and Lotty locked eyes for a moment. “Just so’s we keep the books in order. Don’t want any screwups, do we, Lotty?” He emptied out the tip jar.
After what seemed like a long pause, Lotty said, “Heaven forbid.”
Clint gave her a great big smile and squeezed her hand. A little on the hard side, that squeeze: it left a red mark.
Clint turned to Bernie. “Much obliged, sir,” he said. “I’m Clint Swann, Lotty’s manager.”
“Bernie Little,” Bernie said. They shook hands. “And this is Chet.”
“Yeah? Dogs are allowed in here?”
“Why not?”
Clint shrugged. “Good point. Ain’t talkin’ Carnegie Hall.”
“Dogs are allowed at Carnegie Hall,” Bernie said.
Lotty and Clint gave him a look, close looks but very different. They were both seeing Bernie in a new way, but not the same new way, if that makes sense. I liked Lotty’s new way better. Clint seemed to be taking longer to appreciate Bernie’s good side, which was the only side he had. A fun evening, all in all, if a bit confusing at the end.
* * *
“I wonder,” Bernie said the next morning, “why she doesn’t sing ‘How You Hung the Moon’ anymore.” Or something like that—hard to hear humans clearly when they’re brushing their teeth. Janie the groomer does the brushing when it comes to my teeth. “Love those choppers of yours, Chet,” she always says. I hadn’t seen Janie in way too long. Was that why, not long after Bernie had finished brushing his teeth and laid the toothbrush beside the sink, I suddenly found myself in possession of it?
I trotted into the kitchen. Bernie was pouring coffee. “Hey, big guy, what have you got there?” He came over, grabbed one end of the toothbrush. Maybe not grabbed—it was gentler than that. I did this head-shaking-while-backing-away combo I like, and Bernie got a stronger grip on the toothbrush. Which was exactly what I wanted! If you’re going to play in this life, then play! And is there anything more fun than playing a brand-new game? This one was called Who Gets the Toothbrush. A very promising game! I shook and backed, shook and backed—and don’t forget my tail, wagging the whole time, so in fact I shook, backed, and wagged, shook, backed, and wagged, sort of dragging Bernie across the floor, meaning it was actually a case of shake, back, wag, and drag! Wow! The fun we were having!
“For god’s sake, Chet, give me the damn—”
The phone rang. Bernie picked it up. “Hello? When did—”
And a whole complicated conversation started up, possibly Shermie on the other end. I went over to the back door of the kitchen. No doorknob on the kitchen door: it had one of those lever things that humans thumb. No thumb necessary, by the way. In fact, this was the very first door I’d ever gotten the hang of. Now I opened it and strolled out to the patio, always a nice cool spot, especially if our swan fountain—left behind by Leda after the divorce—was turned on, which it was not. But I wasn’t interested in the patio today. Instead I seemed to be drawn beyond it, to the lawn. Once it had been grassy, but we’d changed over to a desert-style lawn—all about ocotillo, spiny plants, stones, and dirt—on account of the aquifer, one of Bernie’s biggest worries, and that made it mine, too. I’d actually laid eyes on the aquifer, a muddy puddle down at the bottom of a construction site. If that was it, we were in big trouble. But the truth was that most of the time I forgot to worry about it.
Like, now, out in the backyard: there I was worry-free, feeling pretty close to tip-top. I went over to the fence that separates us from Iggy’s side and got right to digging a nice little hole. And what was this? Iggy’s yip yip yip? Had to be. No one else had a yip yip yip like that, so high-pitched and hard on the ears. That yip yip yip meant he heard me digging from inside his house, and wanted badly to do some digging, too. Tough luck for Iggy! This hole was mine. I put more energy into the dig, extra-noisy kind of energy. The yip yip yipping grew louder. There were so many pleasures in life! I ended up digging a much deeper hole than I’d had in mind, although what had I had in mind? I couldn’t recall, and in fact almost asked myself why was I doing this? But not quite. Instead I dropped in the toothbrush, pawed all the dirt back in, and smoothed it over real nice, like a very good boy. Then I trotted over to the patio and licked up some scummy water from the bottom of the fountain. Fresh water’s my preference but I don’t mind mixing it up every now and then. Bernie’s a bourbon drinker but I’ve seen him down a scotch or two. We’re a lot alike in some ways, don’t forget.
I was giving myself a good shake when Bernie appeared in the kitchen doorway. He gave me a look. I gave him a look back.
“What the hell’s with Iggy?”
A tough one. Iggy was one of a kind. Maybe Bernie had forgotten that during all that hospital time. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”
I beat him to the car. Iggy’s yip yip yipping followed us down the street.
* * *
Riding shotgun in the Porsche? Can’t beat it. Were we headed someplace special or just out for a spin? They were both just as great! My tail tried to do some wagging but couldn’t. After a while I realized I was sitting on it, and squeezed over, just being considerate. We swerved, not quite all the way across the road.
“Hey,” Bernie said, “a little space, big guy.”
Right. I knew that. Perhaps it had come up before. The problem was we didn’t have quite enough room for me, a wagging tail, and Bernie. Did that mean one of us had to go? I tried to figure out how that would work.
“Chet?”
I squeezed over the other way, back to sitting on my tail. No tail likes that but what could it do? I’m a hundred-plus pounder, as I may have mentioned before. But now came a strange thought: Did my tail weigh something? If so, what? So, actually two thoughts. Beyond those two thoughts I sensed lots of others, stretching on and on like distant mountains. All at once I knew one thing for absolute sure: I did not want to visit those mountains.
Bernie glanced over. “Something on your mind?”
Nothing, nada, zip. Maybe not at that precise moment, but as soon as possible.
“Having some deep thoughts these days, aren’t you?”
Absolutely not. What a suggestion!
We pulled into Nixon’s Championship Autobody. That was a bit of a surprise. The car was driving perfectly. I can always tell from the sound it makes, a sort of deep purring, like a very big … oh, no. I’d come close to going somewhere I did not want to go. I loved the Porsche, but how could I go on loving it if it reminded me of … of something I won’t mention. Maybe all this would go away and I’d be back to normal. I’ve always been a real good forgetter, probably one of the reasons for our success. If you forget about the finances. Which I always do.
I hopped out of the car—one of my very best hops, long and soaring—and felt totally free. Free of all bad things. Free as a bird. A freedom birds don’t appreciate, by the way. Check out their angry little eyes next time you’ve got a moment.
Five
Nixon was watching one of his guys spray-paint a laughing woman on the side of a panel truck.
“Needs to be more buxom, Zoltan,” he said.
Zoltan raised his visor. “Book-some, boss? Um, like in a book?”
“Book? What do I know about goddamn books? Tits, Zoltan. Ass. Tits
and ass, not necessarily in that order. What makes the world go round.”
Zoltan lowered his visor, raised the spray can. “Tits,” he muttered to himself. “Ass.”
“And don’t be too … what’s the word?”
“Subtle,” Bernie said as we came up to them.
Nixon turned quickly to him, blinked, then nodded. “Yup,” he said. “You do good work, Zoltan, but sometimes you get too subtle. You’re in America now.”
“Yes, boss,” said Zoltan. “I love America.” And he began enlarging this and that.
* * *
“Ride okay?” Nixon said.
“Like new,” Bernie said. “New used, is maybe how to put it.”
“New used is what we do,” Nixon said. “So what’s up?”
“Just had a call from Shermie Shouldice,” Bernie said. “He was watching a car for us out at the Crowbar in West Corona.”
Nixon nodded. “We picked it up.”
“So he said.”
“Ten-year-old Civic,” Nixon said. “Minus the steering wheel.”
“That’s the one,” Bernie said.
Nixon shot him a quick look. “Shermie keeping his nose clean?”
Interesting question. Interesting dudes ask interesting questions, in my experience, and Nixon was an interesting dude. A perp, at one time, as I may have mentioned, sent up that waterless river by us, but now we were pals, plus he always carried the scents of two different women. That part’s not so uncommon, now that I think of it. As for why he wanted to know about Shermie’s nose, I had no clue. A human thing I always enjoy—well, more like a human male thing, since I can’t recall seeing any females doing it—is the snot rocket, but I didn’t recall Shermie launching one. That was all I could bring to the table.
“Probably,” Bernie said. “Within limits.”
“Is he one of those guys who doesn’t know his own strength?” Nixon said.
“Among other things.”
“True you once knocked him out with one punch?”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
Exaggeration? Was that a way of saying absolutely true? That sweet uppercut of Bernie’s—you could hear it in the air! And then Shermie’s eyes had rolled up and his body had slumped down, already in dreamland. I wanted to see that uppercut again, like this very second. Any reason at the moment to use it on Nixon? He didn’t seem to have done anything wrong but would he mind, seeing as how I wanted it so badly? I was wondering about that when Bernie said, “Where’s the car?”
Nixon led us into one of the service bays. I kept my eyes on his chin the whole time, not sure why. He gestured toward the yellow car, same one from last night in the Crowbar lot. “Bent the whole damn column,” he said.
“When’s he coming to pick it up?” Bernie said.
“Who are you talking about?”
“The owner,” Bernie said. “Young-looking guy, fuzzy-faced. Maybe not the owner, but he was driving it last night.”
“First I heard of him,” Nixon said.
Bernie’s eyes shifted slightly. I knew that one: a sign that his mighty brain was firing up. I could feel his thoughts in the air. “Who called you?”
“To come get the car?”
“Exactly.”
“You were out there last night?”
“Yup.”
“How was the show?”
“Interesting. Who called you?”
Nixon was silent for a few moments. Now his thoughts, too, were in the air, much smaller and slower than Bernie’s. “Can’t see no harm in tellin’ you. Confidentially, of course.”
Bernie nodded. He has many nods. This one was one of my favorites, friendly but saying nothing. No one ever seemed to realize that.
“Lotty,” Nixon said. “Lotty Pilgrim called it in.”
* * *
Back in the car, Bernie picked up the phone like he was going to make a call, but it rang first.
“Bernie?” It was a woman, a woman I knew, namely Dr. Bethea. Here’s something you might not know about me: I’m good with voices. Once I hear a voice, I never forget it. Although … how could you … how could you be sure? For a moment I was almost … lost! Lost in my own head. Oh, how horrible would that be? How would you ever sniff your way out?
The moment passed. I’ve had a lot of good luck in this life, starting with the day I met Bernie. Would you believe it was the same day I flunked out of K-9 school? On the very last test, namely leaping? When leaping was my very best thing? How had it happened? My memory was dim on that. Perhaps a cat had been involved. But not the point of the story, which was all about meeting Bernie.
Right now, he was saying, “Oh, hi, Doc.”
Was it a good time to give him a nice friendly lick? Had we been through something about nice friendly licks while the car was moving, maybe even recently? If so, were they good or bad?
“Please—not ‘Doc,’” said the doc.
“Oh, um,” Bernie said. “It’s Eliza, right?”
“It is,” said the doc. “How are you doing?”
“Medically?”
The doc laughed. She had a very nice laugh, deeper than her speaking voice. “That, too, of course.”
“Medically, good,” Bernie said. “Non-medically also good.”
“Nice to hear.”
“And you?” Bernie said.
“Same and same,” said the doc. “A cousin of mine knows you.”
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“Cleon Maxwell.”
What was this? Cleon Maxwell? Our Cleon Maxwell, owner of Max’s Memphis Ribs, best restaurant in the whole Valley, in my opinion. I noticed my paws seemed to be up on the dashboard, and got them back down on the seat, pronto. There are right ways and wrong ways when it comes to riding shotgun. I’m on the side of right.
“… not actually blood cousins,” the doc was saying. “His grammy and my grammy were best friends from childhood, back in Tennessee. But Cleon’s just like family. He’s a huge fan.”
“Of you?”
“No, of you,” the doc said. Then she laughed that lovely laugh again. “And an even huger fan of Chet.”
Bernie laughed, too. For a few moments they were laughing together. That was nice, although don’t ask me to explain why. I decided to think of the doc as Eliza instead of the doc. Don’t ask me to explain that one either, but if you guessed it had something to do with Max’s Secret Special Sauce you might be on the right track.
“So it was a small step from there to the idea of lunch, the three of us.”
“Uh, the three of us?”
“You, Chet, me.”
“At Max’s Memphis Ribs?”
“The very place.”
“Oh,” Bernie said. He looked at me, as though for some sort of … advice? Could that have been it? Was he asking for my advice about lunch at Max’s? Not possible. Who needed advice on something like that?
“But no pressure, Bernie,” she said, her voice sounding as upbeat as before. “It was just an idea.”
Bernie nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “An idea. And … and a good one. When would be…”
“Tomorrow at noon?”
Bernie looked at me again, took a deep breath. “See you then.” Of course we would. Why all the fuss? Best ribs in town versus anything else? This was what humans call a no-brainer. I’ve aced more than one no-brainer in my time. Just sayin’.
* * *
“Hey, Rick.”
Rick Torres’s voice came through the speakers. “You sound good. Feet up? Downing a cold one?”
“Actually sort of working on something. Can you run a plate?”
“Landed a gig already?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Of the paying variety?”
“What other kind is there?”
Rick laughed. A slightly unpleasant laugh, possibly of the type called knowing. But knowing what? I thought of the C-note, first put in the tip jar by Bernie, then taken by the dart player, after that taken back by us and ending up in the
hand of Clint Swann, Lotty’s … manager, was it? I wasn’t clear on that. Not important. The important thing was the gig. Paying or not? You tell me.
Meanwhile Bernie was squinting at the numbers on his hand, the ink somewhat blurry. “New Mexico plate, looks like three—no, more like two—seven four—”
“New Mexico I can’t do in our system. Take me twenty minutes or so. Meet up at Donut Heaven?”
Donut Heaven? From time to time heaven comes up in conversation, always sounding like a nice place. But here in the Valley just about everyone knew that the very best heaven was Donut Heaven. We’re blessed, whatever that might mean, exactly.
* * *
Ever bitten into a cruller?
“Yikes!” said Rick Torres, yanking away his hand. We were in the lot at Donut Heaven, Rick in his cruiser, us in the Porsche, parked cop-style, driver’s-side door to driver’s-side door, meaning I wasn’t really that close to Rick when he said, “Got an extra cruller here. Any chance Chet might—”
What came next was kind of a blur, and when things got back to normal there I was in the shotgun seat, peacefully polishing off a cruller. That first bite is magic and all the others—one or possibly two if it’s a real big cruller—are just as good.
Rick unfolded a sheet of paper. “Car’s registered to a Rita Krebs, age nineteen, 929 Old Gila Road, Phantom Springs, New Mexico.” He handed the sheet to Bernie.
“I owe you,” Bernie said.
“No owing, brother,” said Rick.
There was a little silence while the two of them didn’t quite look at each other. Was it possible they were brothers? I was just finding that out now? Bernie had never once in all our time together mentioned a brother. How could—
“What’s he barking about?” Rick said.
“No idea,” said Bernie. “Chet—cool it.”
Barking? Something about barking? I listened my hardest, heard barking, but very distant, surely not within human hearing range. She-barking, as a matter of fact. My mind wandered to other things.
* * *
Heart of Barkness Page 4