“Did Fred mention her?”
Tina’s eyes got an inward look. “Once,” she said. “A song of hers came on the radio. This was in the car. Fred hit the off button. I mean hit. Which wasn’t him. There was no violence in Fred at all.”
“Did you ask him why he reacted that way?”
Tina nodded. “He said he hated her. I was surprised and said something like I didn’t realize he knew Lotty Pilgrim. Fred told me he didn’t know her, hadn’t even met her. But she was the cause of his moral failure.”
“‘Moral failure’?”
“Those exact words. Fred had a quote ‘episode of moral failure.’ He also said the punishment came with it, part and parcel.”
“The punishment was part and parcel of the failure?”
“Correct.”
“What was the moral failure?”
“Fred never told me. It’s not like we went over and over this subject. It came up in the beginning once or twice but … we lived our lives together, kind of in our own little universe. There’s no getting away from the clock in a May-December relationship.” Tina’s back stiffened and she looked Bernie in the eye. “Do you know the word mensch?”
“Yes,” Bernie said. I myself did not, and waited for an explanation. None came.
“Fred was a mensch.” Tina checked her watch. “Is there anything else? I’m back on in five minutes.”
“Just one thing,” Bernie said. “What was the punishment?”
“He fell under the power of an evil person,” said Tina. “Also a quote.”
“Who was the evil person?”
“He wouldn’t tell me—for my own protection, just as you guessed.” Tina rose.
“An evil person or an evil man?”
“Person,” Tina said. “Fred fell under the power of an evil person.”
Twenty-six
“We’ve never worked anything with a tail this long,” Bernie said as we drove out of town. “The farther back in time you go the more unreliable everything gets.” And he went on like that for a while, all about facts, memory, stuff like that, but I let it go by without even making an effort. Why? Because of the long tail. There was a long tail in this case? I searched my mind. The only tail I could come up with—besides my own, which had been a feature of all our cases—was Delilah’s. I suppose her little mouse playmate also had a tail, although I hadn’t noticed, but was the mouse still among us? Hard to say for sure. I tried to picture Delilah’s tail. More slinky than long, and kind of annoying in its movements and also in its stillness. But there were no other tails in the case, unless … unless ponytails counted! And who had a ponytail? Rita! I’d thought my way into a tangle and then thought my way right back out! Was that what being human was like? But just when I was feeling pretty good about myself, I remembered one more tail. Mingo’s! Oh, no. What if Mingo was the key to the whole case? We’d never be rid of him!
“What’s all that panting?”
I turned to Bernie. He was looking at me funny. Panting? I was unaware of any panting.
“Thirsty?”
Not at all. Actually yes. But no. Yes.
Out came my traveling bowl. I drank, making more slurping sounds than usual, just for fun.
“God in heaven,” Bernie said.
Not long after that, we were on a dirt track that seemed familiar, rounding a long curve. And there in the shadows of the cottonwoods by the not-completely-dry dry wash—the best sort of dry wash in my experience—stood the RV. No yellow car.
“No yellow car,” said Bernie.
Any remaining questions about why the Little Detective Agency is so successful, except for the finances part?
We parked in front of the RV. The RV door opened right away and Leticia came out. She wore big hoop earrings, silver and green, sparking off tiny rays of light. A happy sight, but Leticia wasn’t a happy person. You get a feel for human moods when you’re a member of the nation within.
“Are you alone out here?” Bernie said as we got out of the car. Too late, I realized I hadn’t hopped out. Was something wrong with Chet the Jet? Had Leticia’s mood somehow spread to me? I gave myself one of those shakes that mean business. Stray hairs and dust took flight, another happy sight, and so soon after the first one. We were in for a great day. There are signs in life. You just had to be on the lookout, and being on the lookout is what I do.
“… they went back to Phantom Springs,” Leticia was saying.
“But I—” Bernie began.
“I know what you wanted. This is better. Rita can take care of herself.”
“And take care of Jordan, too?”
“Better than I can,” Leticia said. “She’s a crack shot.”
“And what about you?”
“I’m a pretty fair shot myself.”
“You’re armed?”
Leticia reached behind her, into the waistband of her jeans, and pulled out a gun that looked a lot like ours. She kept it pointed at the ground. “I’m licensed,” she said, “if that’s where you’re going next.”
“It wasn’t,” Bernie said. “Next is Lotty. Is she a gun owner?”
“I’d be surprised, but I’m no expert on Lotty.”
“Who is?”
“Can’t help you there either,” Leticia said.
Bernie tilted his head slightly, like he was seeing Leticia from a new angle. “Do you hate her?”
“Not anymore,” Leticia said. “I’ve hardened to her inside, that’s all.”
Bernie took a step or two to one side and gazed down at the dry wash. A white bird sat on the water in the middle part, not much more than a puddle today. “I’ve seen Rosita’s butterfly collection,” he said.
“That’s kind of amazing,” Leticia said. “You went down to Tesabe?”
“We did,” said Bernie. “Flaco de Vargas has it. Remember him?”
“I just remember him taking me on a horse when I was little. I think he and Rosita broke up not long after that. He went away, maybe to Colorado.”
“Tell me about your dog.”
“Patsy?” she said. “I loved her. She got me through my whole childhood.”
Leticia glanced at me. I happened to be sort of sidling over toward the dry wash, with nothing definite in mind.
“I’ve been thinking about Patsy lately,” she said, “probably on account of Chet here.”
Patsy? Did I know a Patsy? I thought about that. Perhaps I’d think better if I got closer to the dry wash.
“… just a little gal,” Leticia went on, the sound of her voice fading a bit, but still very clear to me. “She wouldn’t let anyone near me without raising a din—not even people she otherwise knew and liked.”
“But wasn’t she Lotty’s dog?”
“Maybe at first. Lotty was a great one for leaving things behind.”
The water in the middle of the dry wash felt pleasant on my paws. The desert was in one of its very quiet moods. The bird, not facing my way, ruffled its feathers. What a lovely sound, like tiny breezes! Who would want to do anything to disturb that? I took another backward glance, saw that Leticia had moved closer to Bernie. They both seemed to be looking my way. I looked their way, one paw raised above the water, just a quiet dude lazing away a lazy day.
“What do you know about your father?” Bernie said.
“Not his identity, if that’s what you’re after,” said Leticia. “And how could it matter now?”
“Are you aware that Flaco de Vargas had an older brother? Hector was his name.”
Leticia turned and faced Bernie. “I don’t know about any brother. I hardly knew Flaco, as I already told you.”
“Familiar with the Hanging Moon trail?”
She shook her head. “Is that one of those rides at the inn?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t ride. Rich kids rode. That wasn’t us.”
“But you said Flaco took you on—”
Leticia’s voice rose. The sound frightened my bird. It spread its wings, surprisingly large.
Flap flap and my bird was in the air and gone. A watery splash or two landed on my head.
“I didn’t ride,” Leticia said. “Do you want it notarized? What’s the point of all this? Doesn’t she admit she killed Clint?”
“People confess to crimes they didn’t commit.”
“So I’ve seen on TV. But they always turn out to be dumb or addled or ignorant. Lotty’s none of those things.”
There’s an expression you sometimes see on Bernie’s face when he’s talking to someone real smart—not as smart as him, of course. Goes without mentioning. There’s another expression he gets when he’s starting not to like somebody. Right now both those expressions were sharing his face, if that makes any sense.
“If she killed him I need to prove it to myself,” Bernie said.
“Why should I get involved?”
“She’s your mother.”
“So what? Why did she have to come back here? We were doing just fine.”
“Maybe I can help you get back to that,” Bernie said. “Or even better. But first I have to know who your father was. Or is.”
That surprised her. “He could still be alive?”
“Did Lotty ever say otherwise?”
Leticia was silent for what seemed like a very long time. Up above, my bird was drifting around in big circles.
“All she ever told me—this was the day she brought me back to Rosita for the last time—was that my father wasn’t important. She’d made a bad mistake and gotten out of it—gotten us both out of it—as soon as she could.”
“What sort of mistake?”
“She didn’t say. But she’s sure as hell mistake prone, bad ones her specialty.”
* * *
Back in the car, Bernie said, “Was Hector the bad mistake? Hard to reconcile that with the way they worked together on ‘How You Hung the Moon.’ On the other hand…”
And he went on talking, only now just in his head, which I could feel but not hear. I curled up, got comfy, and fell into the rhythm of the road. Was this a good time for nodding off? I couldn’t see why not, and was almost in dreamland—the sound of beating dream wings already on its way—when Bernie said, “One thing for sure—I don’t like being hunted.”
We were being hunted? That got my attention. It was so wrong. I’d waited and waited for a hunting trip, but not one where we were being hunted. I barked my angry bark, so scary it even frightens me.
“Damn right,” Bernie said. “You could have been hurt.”
Oh? When was this? I waited for more, but none came. Bernie reached over and gave me a pat, eyes still on the road. A shadow seemed to pass over his face, leaving behind a hard look.
Not long after that we stopped at one of those big box stores in the middle of nowhere. Bernie says those big box stores mean it won’t be the middle of nowhere much longer, and he turns out to be right every time. But that’s Bernie. We went inside and bought a spade and a shovel. Was gardening in the plans? Gardening usually happened between cases, but I was pretty sure we were in the middle of one. That was as far as I could take it.
Back in the parking lot, we got spade, shovel, me, and Bernie all nicely arranged in the Porsche, a fun time that was over way too soon, although I did notice that the sun was quite a bit lower in the sky when we were done. Bernie fired up the engine.
“How about we do some hunting of our own?” he said.
At last!
* * *
Nighttime on the Hanging Moon trail, the two of us walking side by side, Bernie with the spade and the shovel over his shoulder. So: a lot going for us already. Plus we had the moon above, and no Mingo. In short, a perfect night. The only question was what kind of hunting went with spades and shovels. After some hard thought, I gave up. Then, after no thought at all, it hit me: the hunting of underground creatures went with spades and shovels! Worms, for example. And also—uh-oh—badgers. Badgers again, and so soon?
We came to the eucalyptus grove, all shadowy except for the tombstone, shining silver in the moonlight, actually the same silvery color as the moon. Like … like it was a piece of the moon that had fallen down. Whoa! Scared—and by my very own mind. If pieces of the moon were going to start raining down, we were in big trouble.
Bernie placed his free hand on the stone. “Well, El Cantate,” he said, “if it turns out that you’re in some way seeing this, then apologies in advance. And if not, how can it matter?”
That was pretty baffling. Who was he talking to? What was he talking about? I had no answers. This time I didn’t waste any effort in thought, just went straight to the no-effort method. Which I’m sure would have worked again, but before it could came something completely new: Bernie put down the spade and shovel, lowered his shoulder, pressed against the tombstone, and toppled it over!
Imagine my excitement! This was a first for the Little Detective Agency, and one of the most exciting firsts there’d ever been. When I’m excited I like to run—you’re probably the same, meaning you too would have been racing round and round that toppled-over tombstone, ears straight back from your own wind, dirt flying up from your paws, tongue flopping and flapping all over the …
Maybe not.
“Chet!”
I came to a quick stop. Bernie put his finger crosswise over his lips, a signal I knew very well. I’m a pro, don’t forget.
Bernie picked up the spade, drove the tip into the ground where the stone had stood. Did that mean the hunt had started? Worms, was it? Badgers? It didn’t matter. If the hunt was on then I was part of it—a very large part, since digging was involved. I got myself right next to Bernie and started in.
“Chet? I don’t…”
Something, something. Bernie has a special voice for when he doesn’t really mean it, a voice he uses a lot with me and possibly never with anyone else. I dug and dug to my heart’s content, digging alongside Bernie, the two of us turning out to be a primo digging team, dirt flying out of a hole that got deeper and fast.
Bernie, almost up to his waist, suddenly went still. He had a frown on his face, dark lines appearing on his moonlit forehead. I went still, too, just from the sight of him.
“This is way too easy,” he said. “Like … like the earth’s already been dug up. And not long ago.”
He looked at me. I looked at him. How could too easy be a bad thing? That was my takeaway. But then: Why that frown? Humans—even the best of the best, meaning Bernie—can be hard to understand.
Bernie switched to the shovel. He got back to work, but slower now. I did the same, except at my usual pace. How do you dig slowly? I couldn’t figure that out. Soon we came to a very hard layer of earth. Broken up boards, split and rotting, lay all over the place.
“It’s like someone knew we’d be coming,” Bernie said. He stooped and started sifting through the remains of those boards. Was he looking for something underneath? All I saw was that hard, dark earth. Much more interesting was a smell I picked up, wafting in from above.
I climbed out of the hole and followed that smell into the trees. There in the shadows stood one of those jeeps they use for desert tours—not a subject you want to raise when Bernie’s around—the kind with the raised-up body and a hardtop roof. The passenger door was open and on the driver’s seat lay what I’d been smelling, namely a thick and juicy steak. A raw steak, which is my preference. I also prefer rare, medium, and well-done. Digging is the kind of work that stirs up the appetite. I hopped into the jeep and—
And the passenger door closed behind me with a thunk, quiet but firm.
Twenty-seven
So much to take in all at once, and none of it good. The weirdest thing—not the worst, oh no, far from it—was that even though I knew the steak was right there beside me on the driver’s seat I could no longer smell it. There was only one scent in the air: hair gel. That had to be important but I couldn’t think why.
Had it really happened, the door thunking shut behind me and locking me inside this jeep? Or could it have been a bad dream? But
how? I wasn’t even sleepy.
I love riding in cars, but being locked up in one made it no different than a cage, and I hate being caged more than anything. I rose up and pawed at the passenger-door window, the driver’s-side window, the windshield. And got nowhere. What about door handles? We’d done so much work on door handles, me and Bernie, although never car door handles. I tried the passenger door handle but it was impossible, flush with the door panel. That failure, after all the work we’d done, got me feeling kind of crazy, and I rose up again and pawed my very wildest at the passenger-side window, so crazy and so wild that I almost didn’t notice the figure moving through the trees, a very large human figure, walking a man-type walk and carrying himself in a man-type way. As he stepped into the clearing, the moon shone on his face: the hair-gel dude. A huge man but he was moving in a silent and sneaky way that actually reminded me of a cat.
Meanwhile Bernie was standing in the hole, almost up to his shoulders, and busy with the shovel. And now for the very worst thing: Bernie had his back to the hair-gel dude and couldn’t see him coming. The hair-gel dude reached the edge of the hole. The spade lay at his feet. He bent down, picked it up, hefted it in his hands.
Bernie! Bernie! Bernie! My own voice shouted at me inside. But only inside. What good would that do? Chet! Get a grip!
And then I barked, barked like I’d never barked before, a savage howling bark that scared even me. Two things happened at once. The hair-gel dude swung the spade at Bernie’s head, swung it with terrible speed and force. And Bernie turned in my direction, not quickly at all.
He saw, so late, what there was to see. Moonlight shone in his eyes, brighter than the moon itself. Bernie ducked, the speediest duck I’d ever seen. Ducks themselves are far from speedy, so what they’ve got to do with ducking is a puzzler, definitely for some other time.
The spade flashed over Bernie’s head—so close it ruffled his hair—and shot from the hair-gel dude’s grip, flying off into the night. The hair-gel dude himself lost his balance, and in that moment Bernie grabbed one of his legs and yanked him down into the hole.
Heart of Barkness Page 22