“Who’s that?” said Haskell.
Twenty
Soon after that, we were pulling into our own driveway on Mesquite Road. Out of all the places we might have gone, we turned up at home! Who’s luckier than me? Nobody, amigo! We headed for the door, and right away Iggy’s yip-yip-yip started up. And there he was, standing at the floor-to-ceiling window in the Parsons’s entrance hall, his stubby tail a blur, like it too was yip-yip-yipping, only even faster! This was all just Iggy’s way of saying hi. I was about to say hi right back atcha when I got hit by a strange thought, not me at all, that maybe Iggy wasn’t saying hi, was in fact saying get me out of here, you blockhead. I was trying to wrap my mind around that when suddenly we had more action in the window. First, old Mr. Parsons appeared, clumping slowly toward Iggy on his walker. Second, Iggy noticed him. The way Iggy’s eyes are set meant he didn’t have to turn the slightest bit to see behind him, a big advantage he had over Mr. Parsons. And finally Iggy lowered his head and snapped up something off the floor. It looked a lot like a string of … what do you call those things? Pearls? I caught only a glimpse before Iggy darted out of sight.
Mr. Parsons reached the window, lips moving. His voice had never been strong since I’d known him, but now it was even weaker. Still, I could hear him through the glass: “Iggy, come, for god’s sake. She loves that one.”
“Is he asking us something?” Bernie said.
Meanwhile Iggy did not appear. I headed for the Parsons’s door, Bernie following. Clump, clump, clump on the other side, and then the door opened. Mr. Parsons looked out. He wore a shirt and tie, and over that a bathrobe.
“Good to see you, Bernie,” he said, an odd whisper in his voice. “We’re so glad you’re back safe from the hospital, me and Edna. She prayed for you.” Mr. Parsons smiled a shy smile, an unusual sight, in my experience, on such an old face. “Edna believes in the power of prayer.”
“Thank her for me,” Bernie said.
“That I will,” said Mr. Parsons. “She’s in the hospital herself—slight infection at the site of the procedure, the second one—but she’ll be home real soon.”
“Happy to hear that. Is there anything that needs doing in the meantime?”
“Well, Bernie, I hate to impose, but—”
At that moment, things speeded up big-time. Iggy came flying down the hall—his weirdly big paws hardly touching down and a pearl necklace somehow around his neck, like he was wearing it—and zipped right between Mr. Parsons’s legs, out the door and away into the wild blue—
But no. When Iggy was already in the wild blue yonder, at least in his own mind, Bernie reached out with his amazing quickness and grabbed the little guy by the collar. Iggy kept on running in that over-the-top way of his, but now held in Bernie’s arms, not too tight, he got nowhere. Bernie handed the necklace to Mr. Parsons, no harm done, everything good.
Except for the fact of Iggy being in Bernie’s arms. Some things must be stopped at once. Which is why I did what I did. You would have done the same. No need to go into the details, a good thing since they’re not totally clear in my mind. Is it possible that I myself wore the pearls at one stage? Hard to believe. Forget I even mentioned it.
When it was all over, with me, Bernie, pearls, and Mr. Parsons outside the closed door and Iggy on the inside, Mr. Parsons wiped away his tears, not the unhappy kind, and said, “Almost forgot—did that fellow get in touch with you?”
“What fellow was this?” Bernie said.
“Great big fellow, like an NFL lineman, but wearing coat and tie.” Mr. Parsons paused, reached up an unsteady hand, felt the knot of his own tie, and frowned. “Possibly a real estate agent—he took loads of pictures.”
“Of the house?”
“Yesterday, this was. He knocked on the front door, walked all around. Pretty sure I heard him knock on the side door, too, and maybe the back gate.”
Bernie gazed down the street.
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Parsons. “You’re not thinking of selling?”
“Never.”
* * *
We entered our house, but not in the usual way. This was much more careful. We went slowly from room to room, me because that was how Bernie was doing it, and Bernie for reasons of his own. Everything smelled, sounded, and looked just fine to me. In the office, Bernie took down the waterfall painting—we have a bunch of waterfall paintings, what you might call a collection—and spun the dial on the safe hidden behind it. Out came the .38 Special, a lovely sight. Any perp with a brain would have surrendered right then, but none appeared, which proved … something important. It might come to me later.
* * *
We went for a nice spin, first on the freeway, then on two-lane blacktop, the sun on my side of the car, and sliding slowly down the sky. As for the car, it smelled its very best, now with the .38 Special in the glove compartment. Open country with no traffic, an occasional farm or ranch, distant horses and sheep, a mailbox or two. I tried giving Bernie a look that said, Take a potshot at one of those mailboxes. But that was something we never did anymore. Hardly ever.
On a hilltop not too far away, a bunch of tall antennas appeared, with a blimp floating overhead, meaning we were close to the border. Around the next bend stood a roadblock, with dusty white SUVs, speed bumps, Border Patrol dudes in green. We bumped to a stop and one of the Border Patrol dudes came over.
“US cit—” he said. And then, “Bernie?”
“Fritzie?” said Bernie.
What was this? Fritzie Bortz? A terrible motorcycle driver with lots of crashes on his record, but that wasn’t the point. The point was Fritzie rode for the highway patrol. So how come he was dressed in Border Patrol gear? Was he pretending to be in the Border Patrol when in fact he was really … a perp? Maybe a crazy idea, but why else would Fritzie be doing this? I noticed he had a gun, still in the holster, although for how long? I watched his hands. First sign of movement, even a twitch—and good night, baby!
Fritzie’s hands, kind of pudgy, hung at his sides, motionless, almost like … like they were napping. What a strange thought! But then came another: Bernie’s hands never looked like they were napping, even when he was napping. At that moment I knew that even though I was doing a very good job of understanding the world around me, I wasn’t quite done.
“You’re alive, huh, Bernie?” Fritzie was saying.
“Unless I’ve gone to a kind of disappointing heaven where you’re with the Border Patrol,” said Bernie.
“You can say that again.”
“Which part?”
Fritzie glanced around, lowered his voice. “The disappointing part. Highway Patrol canned me. Can you believe it?”
“You had another wreck?”
“I wouldn’t even call it that,” Fritzie said. “Those kids were all back at school the very next week!”
“You hit a school bus?”
“The other way around, Bernie. But the powers that be—you know how these things work—used it as an excuse. It’s all politics.” He glanced around again. “These people are nice, but it’s not the same. I miss the open road. I’m meant to roam the land, ride the range—like the old-time cowpokes. It’s in the blood.”
“It is? Aren’t you from Cincinnati?”
“Long, long ago, in terms of my development.”
Bernie gestured at the surrounding country. “Plenty of open range around here.”
“Not the same,” said Fritzie. “We’re either cooped up in one of these ginormous trucks or we’re tramping around the middle of nowhere on foot. I hate being on foot. And would you believe it? Sometimes they run. Who runs when it’s a hundred and ten?”
Bernie got a look in his eye like he was about to say something real interesting, but before he could a car pulled up behind us. Fritzie held up his hand in the stop sign, even though the car was stopped already. Then he glanced my way.
“Chet’s looking good,” he said.
“Also a lover of the open road,” said Bernie.
/> “Maybe we could trade places, him and me,” said Fritzie. “You guys headed for Mexico?”
Bernie shook his head. “Stopping in Tesabe.”
“What for? It’s a pit.”
“You might be able to help,” Bernie said. “Know any Tesabe old-timers?”
“You could try the bartender at the Hilltop Cantina,” said Fritzie. “But it’s never open.”
We drove away, not nearly fast enough. Fritzie was making a play for the shotgun seat? Good luck, buddy boy.
* * *
I’d been down on the border before—and across several times, including a night that began with some interesting she-barking in an alley back of our motel room where Bernie was sleeping—the window partly open, although far from all the way—and ended with … uh-oh, am I … what’s the word? Rambling? Back to border towns, of which I’d seen a few, but not Tesabe. That was all I wanted to mention. Funny how the mind works sometimes, or at least mine. Yours may be different. Maybe you don’t understand about the power of certain things, she-barking, for example. When I hear it, I—But there I go again! Who’s at the controls, my mind or me? My mind needs to get one thing straight. Either it—
“Chet? What’s all that barking?”
Barking? I listened, picked up a possible distant echo of possible barking. It didn’t sound at all like me. Meanwhile we rolled into Tesabe, a border town I’d never visited, just in case that point hasn’t been made already.
Tesabe looked to be very small, with just one paved street and a few dirt roads running off it. We rode up a steep, curving hill, not seeing a single human, member of the nation within, or even a chicken, and this was the kind of place where you’d expect a chicken or two. I didn’t even hear any buzzing flies. They called this a border town?
At the top of the hill stood a gas station and a small pink adobe building. Adobe has a nice smell, in case you aren’t aware, a bit like being in a pottery studio, an experience I’d once had—if very briefly—with Bernie and Suzie. Suzie! I missed her.
We parked. I hopped right out. Bernie opened his door and then paused. “Eliza and me—that could work,” he said. “But…” After a long silence, he went on: “With Suzie there was still this trace of young passion between us—not just me, but both of us.” He took a deep breath. “There’s no substitute for magic. Does that make any sense?”
Not to me. I was getting a little restless. Finally Bernie snapped out of it and finished climbing out of the car. We went inside the pink adobe building.
A bar of course, which I’d known while we were still in the car. Booze has a smell that travels a long way, and so does human piss. Those are the two building blocks of all bar aromas, from the fanciest bar to the crummiest. This particular bar wasn’t the crummiest I’d been in, although definitely on the crummy side. And also very small: two scarred-looking wooden tables, a bar with enough room for maybe one carload of humans as long as they weren’t Bernie’s size, and a single dusty window. Also no customers. A man in a cowboy hat stood behind the bar, his back to us, watching baseball on a tiny TV, no sound. Too bad: baseball sounds great, and the crack of bat on ball is off the charts.
“What’s the score?” Bernie said.
“Diamondbacks two, Dodgers one,” the man said, and turned to us. He had skin that reminded me of old leather and a huge, pure white mustache that curled way up on both cheeks. His hair was also pure white, and reached his shoulders. What else? He wore a red shirt and a bolo tie. In short, there was lots to look at with this guy, all good.
“You’re a fan?” he said.
“Love the game,” Bernie said.
“They say it’s too slow.”
“I know.”
“But—” The old man wagged his finger, twisted and bent. Right away, my tail got a funny feeling, like always when finger-wagging starts up. “—they’re wrong,” he went on. “Everything else is too fast. You follow?”
“I do,” Bernie said.
“Good,” said the old man. “Something to drink?”
“Beer,” said Bernie.
“Bottle or draft?”
“Draft if you have it.”
“I have ale from the new brewery in Guaymas.”
“Sounds good. Didn’t know that was for sale up here.”
“Only at the Hilltop Cantina,” said the old man. “Nowhere else in the land.”
The old man filled a glass for Bernie and set it on the bar. “Is the dog thirsty?”
“You never know,” Bernie said.
The old man went to the sink behind the bar, filled a bowl, handed it to Bernie. Bernie set it on the floor beside me. I didn’t even look at it. You never know? What was that supposed to mean?
The old man leaned over the bar. He smelled a bit like mesquite; also the water had that stony well water smell. Had I ever been in a better bar?
“This is one beautiful dog,” he said.
There, the answer, and so quick in coming: this was the best bar, bar none. I got a bit confused. Bar none? Where had that come from? What did it mean? I turned and lapped up all the water in the bowl.
“His ears don’t match,” the old man said.
“Nope.”
“But why should they?”
A new angle on the subject of my ears, and a brilliant one. They were no problem for him, maybe even a bonus.
“His name’s Chet,” Bernie was saying. “I’m Bernie.”
The old man nodded a serious sort of nod. “Hernando,” he said.
Bernie laid some money on the bar. “And one for you.”
“Thanks.”
Hernando poured himself a beer. They raised their glasses. Bernie took a sip. Hernando polished off half of his. Some excited movement started up on the TV. They both watched till things went still again, never a long wait in baseball.
“Did you play?” Bernie said.
Hernando nodded.
“How far did you get?”
“Generales de Durango.”
“That’s Triple A.”
“Yes,” said Hernando. “And you?”
“Nothing like that,” Bernie said. “Played a bit in college.”
What was that? Bernie’d been a star at West Point, would have gone pro except for blowing out his arm. On her last visit, the Thanksgiving with the wishbone incident, Bernie’s mom—if you ever run into her, be prepared—said, “Bernard”—which is what she, and only she, calls him—“when will you learn to toot your own horn?” On the way back from dropping her off at the airport, Bernie had leaned on the horn like crazy.
Bernie drank more beer. “Very tasty. But I’m no expert.”
“No,” said Hernando. “You don’t look like a big drinker to me.”
“I got the big part out of my system.”
“That’s the secret,” Hernando said. They touched glasses.
“Been here long?” Bernie said.
“Here meaning…?”
“Tesabe.”
“All my life.”
“Maybe you can help us.”
“Who is us?”
“Me and Chet.”
Hernando peered down at me. “I had that once—us, with a dog and me.” He turned to the mirrored wall behind the bottles, picked up a framed photo, held it up. Here was a much younger version of Hernando—I could tell from the mustache, the same as now except for being black instead of white—and a big and real toothy member of the nation within standing beside him.
“What was his name?” Bernie said.
“Diablo. We hunted boar together all over Sonora. Sometimes I never even got to pull the trigger, if you understand what I mean.”
“He must have been something,” Bernie said.
“My best friend,” said Hernando. “How can I help you?”
“We’re interested in a woman who lived here years ago,” Bernie said. “Maybe you knew her.”
“The name?”
“Rosita Flores.”
Hernando didn’t move or actually do anything a
t all, just somehow stopped looking friendly.
“How much are you paying?” he said.
“There’s a going rate?” said Bernie.
Hernando met Bernie’s gaze and held it. “What’s so important about Rosita Flores? She was a very nice lady but she’s been dead for a long time.”
“What did the others tell you?” Bernie said.
“Others?”
“The ones who paid the going rate.”
“There was only one.”
“Clint Swann?” Bernie said.
“Clint, yes,” said Hernando. “The surname he kept to himself. Like you.”
Twenty-one
“Little,” Bernie said. He handed Hernando our card.
Hernando glanced at it. “You’re a private eye?”
Bernie nodded.
Hernando took a closer look. “With these flowers?”
For a moment, Bernie’s face had an expression you might call—whoa! I came real close to “hangdog,” a strange word I would never have anything to do with. But then I could see him having a thought, and what was more, a thought he liked a lot. “Ever heard of deadly nightshade?” he said.
“Yeah, but I never seen it,” Hernando said. He tapped the card. “That’s deadly nightshade?”
Bernie nodded one of his nods. I’d seen this one many times in many situations, and come to believe it meant nothing.
“Clever,” said Hernando. “Not like your friend Clint—he was furtivo, as they’d say on the other side.”
“There’s no friendship between me and Clint.”
“You’re working for him?”
“No.”
Hernando made a little wave with the card. “But you’re working for someone.”
“The name is confidential.”
“And there we have the problem, Mr. Little. You want but you won’t give.”
“I said I’d pay the going rate.”
“I didn’t take his money.”
“You gave him information for free?”
“I did.”
“So therefore the going rate is zero?”
A so-therefore? Bernie’s in charge of so-therefores at the Little Detective Agency. It’s a mysterious area. You never know what to expect after a so-therefore. I waited and waited, and all at once Hernando threw back his head and laughed and laughed. It turned out that lots of his teeth were missing, poor guy.
Heart of Barkness Page 17