Bernie shook his head. “Chet, me, him.”
“Has Beasley already turned you down?”
“I didn’t ask him.”
“Why not?”
“I’m guessing you have a file on him, too,” said Bernie. “Meaning you already know why not.”
Did I catch a tiny twitch at one corner of Deirdre’s mouth, like a smile was on the way? I wasn’t sure, but probably not, since no smile came.
“Too bad about Sheriff Gooden,” she said. “Maybe he’d have given you the okay. Weren’t you in the military together?”
Bernie nodded. “When’s he coming back to work?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“Beasley said he’s got a pesky gallbladder.”
“Pesky gallbladder?” Deirdre said. “It’s stage four pancreatic cancer. He has a few more weeks, if that.”
Bernie went quiet. Sometimes, not often, I get the feeling he’s far away even though he’s right here. I moved a little closer.
“But back to business,” Deirdre said. “Why do you want to meet with Florian Machado?”
Bernie was slow to answer, like he was waking up. He took a step or two, sat on the end of Deirdre’s bench. “We met Wendell Nero the night before the murder. He asked us to visit him the next morning but didn’t say why.”
“So?”
“So I’d like to know why.”
“And what does Florian Machado have to do with that?”
“Nothing,” Bernie said. “Unless his alibi is true.”
“He was innocently riding around on his ATV, went into the RV on a sudden larcenous impulse, saw the victim with his throat slit from ear to ear but kept from puking long enough to steal the wallet, which he’d never have even considered if he hadn’t been so upset by the gory sight,” Deirdre said. “That alibi?”
“Yeah,” Bernie said.
“Tell you what,” said Deirdre. “I was thinking of offering him a deal—no death penalty in exchange for a guilty plea. But for you I’ll take him to trial. Then if the jury buys his alibi, you’ll be able to question him at leisure.” She smiled at Bernie—just the teeth part, her eyes not joining in.
Bernie has a temper, way way down. I’ve seen it only once or twice, but now felt it waking inside him. Then I felt a sort of internal effort and he put it back to sleep. “What if there’s a small chance—ten percent, five, even one—that Florian’s telling the truth, at least on the most important part?” he said.
“I can live with uncertainty,” said Deirdre. “And I’ll bet you can, too. I’m not reopening the case.” She took a file from one of her bags. “Anything else?”
Their eyes met. Bernie’s were as hard as I’ve ever seen them, but hers were harder. I got a bad feeling about what was coming next, but I never learned what it might have been, because at that moment a woman came running up, a happy-looking woman with a tiny member of the nation within in her arms. In its tiny mouth was a tiny toy.
The happy-looking woman leaned forward and gave Deirdre a nice big kiss. “Hi, babe,” said Deirdre, smiling again, this time her eyes joining in and in a big way. But none of that was important. What mattered was the toy, suddenly slipping from the mouth of the tiny dude—or dudette, in this case—and rolling away on the grass. The dudette scrambled free of the happy-looking woman’s arms and chased after the toy. How cute! Would you look at those teensy-weensy legs, just churning away, although her forward progress was just about nothing. Because I’m the kind who believes in fair play, I waited till she was almost there, one or two teensy steps from that toy—a very interesting toy, it turned out, part lopsided ball and part chewy—before soaring right over her, snatching up the toy, barreling around a tree, leaping over a bench, charging onto a basketball court I hadn’t even noticed before, jumping right up to one of those hoops just as a basketball was on its way in, batting it away with a twist of my head—uh-oh, possibly a no-no called goaltending, but not to worry because by then I’d put a lot of distance between me and the court, in fact was zigzagging across the park, paws digging in, clods of earth flying, toy still securely in my grip, and—Bernie suddenly in sight! There he was, my Bernie, now on his feet in front of the bench, Deirdre and the other woman also standing, all of them with their eyes and mouths wide open. The tiny dudette was right where I’d last seen her, sort of bouncing up and down, mostly on her hind legs, barking the tiniest barks I’d ever heard. I dialed right down to a slow trot and for absolutely no reason at all dropped the toy—a very nice toy, by the way, with unusually pleasant mouth feel—right at the dudette’s feet. What furious little eyes she had! Just adorable. She snapped up the toy and hurried back to the bench, where Deirdre’s friend—if I’d gotten things right—scooped her up. Then they were all watching me.
I sat down, calm and professional, and watched them back. It got very quiet. I actually heard that deep desert train whistle again, now from even farther away.
Deirdre turned to Bernie. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said.
* * *
“First, Chet, a little detour.”
We were back on the road, Bernie behind the wheel, me in the shotgun seat, the sun low, the sky starting to get that fiery glow. In short, everything was great, except for one thing, namely that there was no sign of a detour, like a roadblock, guys in vests waving stop signs, cops lounging around and chewing gum. But if Bernie said we were taking a detour, then that was that. Actually, now that I looked around, a very nice detour, into a quiet hilly neighborhood that was new to me, the houses not big and fancy, and also kind of old, but nice at the same time. Were there other neighborhoods like this in the Valley? Not that I remembered, but don’t take that to the bank, especially not our bank where things were a bit awkward, as I may have already mentioned.
We turned into a circular drive, parked in front of a low but longish adobe building, and went inside. Right away I smelled some hospital-type smells, as well as the smells of old humans, but also lots of nice flower smells as well—which I almost always find quite relaxing. Was this a hospital? Someone’s home? There was a front desk, which made me think hospital, but it was quiet and peaceful, which made me think home.
“Oh my goodness,” said the woman behind the front desk, putting her hand to her chest, “that’s the biggest therapy dog I’ve ever seen.”
Bernie glanced at her name tag. “Well, Lois,” he said, “I wouldn’t exactly call Chet here a—”
“And I didn’t even expect you.” Lois took off her glasses and checked a screen. Some humans take their glasses off for screen checking and some put their glasses on. I still have a lot to learn about humans, but luckily enough I had plenty of time, unless I was missing something. “Weren’t you booked for tomorrow?”
“This is a private visit,” Bernie said. “We’re here to see Bo Gooden.”
“That’s nice.” Lois rose. “He hasn’t had a visitor in some time.”
“No?” Bernie said. “What about Cynthia?”
“Cynthia?” Lois opened a door and led us down a wide hall.
“His wife,” Bernie said.
Lois shook her head, then paused in front of a door and in a low voice said, “When did you last see him?”
“Been a year or two,” Bernie said.
“Be prepared.” She knocked on the door.
“Come on in,” said a man, his voice starting out pretty strong but trailing off into a whisper.
Lois opened the door. Inside was a nice little room, clean and tidy. A man in pajamas lay on top of the bed, head propped up on pillows. His bare feet were big and so were his hands, plus he had thick wrists. Bo Gooden, if that’s who we had here, must have been a big man at one time, although not now.
“Sheriff Gooden?” said Lois. “You’ve got visitors.”
He turned his head our way. His eyes were dull and lightless, and I smelled something strong and not good coming from inside him—not pee or poop or puke or any of that normal stuff—which actually doesn’t smell bad to me, int
eresting being the way to put it, always worth a sniff. This particular bad smell was something I’d smelled in a human or two before. It was the smell of a living thing inside them, a living thing that wasn’t them—a scary thought. Had I smelled something similar in a few members of the nation within? Uh-oh. My mind stopped right there. I have the kind of mind that looks out for me, at least most of the time.
“Bernie?” he said, his voice a soft sort of croak. He cleared his throat, making a horrible metallic sound that seemed to pain him, and tried again. “Bernie?”
“Hey,” said Bernie, moving toward the bed, me right beside him.
Behind us Lois said, “Can I get you anything, Sheriff?”
“Two,” said the sheriff. He took a breath and raised his voice a little. “Two bourbons. Doubles.”
“Ha ha,” said Lois. “Coming right up.” She went out and closed the door.
We stood beside the bed. “This is Chet,” Bernie said.
Those dull eyes shifted my way. “Heard about him,” the sheriff said. Then he looked at Bernie. Bernie sat on the edge of the bed and took the sheriff’s hand. Nothing else happened. They just stayed like that.
After what seemed like a long time, the sheriff said, “I dream of ocean waves, big ones.”
“Yeah?” said Bernie.
“Not just at night. Always.”
Bernie nodded. “I got a boat.”
“You did?” A tiny glimmer of light flickered in the sheriff’s eyes. “What kind?”
“A wreck.”
“Of course.”
Bernie laughed. Bo’s lips, cracked and dry, turned up at the edges.
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“Go on,” Bo said. “I’ve got all day. Maybe.”
“Well,” Bernie said, “it actually started up in your jurisdiction.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been dealing with—” Bo broke off and began to cough, coughs that went on and on, forced him into a sitting position, Bernie supporting his back. There was a bit of blood, not much. Bernie dabbed it up with a corner of the sheet, filled a water glass from a bedside carafe, held it for Bo to drink. He took a few sips and sank back on the pillow.
“Just the thought of Beasley,” Bo said. “That’s all it took.”
Bernie laughed again. Then he told a big long story all about Beasley, Wendell, Florian, Deirdre Dubois, and lots of other stuff that sounded familiar, but I got caught up in the lovely sound of his voice all by itself with no … what would you call it? Meaning? Yes, no meaning attached. That suited me fine. Without a lot of thought—or even any—I circled the bed, climbed up on the other side and lay down. Bernie glanced at me but kept on with the nice, even flow of his story, whatever it was. Bo’s other hand, the one not holding Bernie, touched my shoulder.
“… and that’s where we are,” Bernie said.
“The usual,” Bo said. “Nowhere and everywhere. ’Course, I know Florian.”
“Yeah?”
“Comes from a whole long line, just like him. Pussycats at heart, each and every one.”
“Meaning?” Bernie said.
I was totally with him on that. Hadn’t pussycats come up already in this case? I got the feeling we were in trouble.
“Meaning it’s real hard for me to imagine Florian cutting anybody’s throat,” Bo said. “Big soft lazy dumb—you know the type, Bernie.”
Bernie nodded. Bo’s eyes closed. Then they opened.
“One more thing,” he said. “Fixing up the boat?”
“Yeah.”
Bo’s eyes closed again. His chest rose and fell, just tiny movements.
“Book me on the maiden voyage,” he said.
Bernie gazed down at him. Bo’s eyes stayed closed. “Sounds like a plan,” Bernie said.
Then came a longish period of doing nothing. Finally there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Bernie said quietly.
Lois entered, carrying a tray with two glasses of bourbon on it, bourbon one of the smells I know best of all. Bernie rose, slipped his hand out from Bo’s.
“Thanks,” he said. “Maybe later.”
Lois shook her head. “He’ll sleep right through till morning now. You don’t have to leave, but there’s no real point.”
Bernie nodded. He took one last look at Bo and then said, “C’mon, Chet. Let’s go, big guy.”
I stayed where I was, Bo’s hand on my shoulder.
“Chet?”
I really didn’t want to go. I was okay like this for now.
Bernie looked surprised. “I think he wants to stay.”
“Not unheard of,” Lois said. “I’m on overnight—I’ll keep an eye out. Why don’t you come back and get him at breakfast time?”
Breakfast time. Perfect. Something to look forward to. Bernie and the woman went out, closing the door behind them. Bo’s chest kept on rising and falling the tiniest bit.
Nine
You can look at the moon but you can’t look at the sun. What’s up with that? Has Bernie ever talked about it? Not that I remember. Maybe he’ll get to it one day. Until then I’ll forget the whole issue completely.
Right now, lying beside Bo in his tidy room in this big house or small hospital or whatever it was, I was watching the moon through the window. It was one of those sliver moons, shaped sort of like a sideways human smile. And what was up with that, by the way, the moon changing shape all the time? Whoa! That was something Bernie actually had talked about. He’d explained the whole thing to Charlie on one of those every-second weekends when we had him all to ourselves. We’d been playing miniature golf, never an easy outing for me but I’d been on my best behavior, unfortunately not quite good enough, which eventually resulted in … well, no point in dwelling on that whole—what would you call it? Uproar? Good enough. But before any of that, Bernie had suddenly said, “Ever wonder why the moon changes shape?” And Charlie had said, “I’m lining up a putt, Dad.” Charlie drew back his putter, eyes locked on the ball—“and not just the ball,” as Bernie always said, “but the exact spot on the ball you want to hit”—swung even and firm like he was supposed to and knocked that green-and-yellow-striped ball right under the little windmill, through the whale’s mouth and out its tail, over London Bridge and down Main Street, straight into the hole.
“Dad! Mark that on the scorecard! Charlie: One!”
Bernie marked the scorecard and then launched into the whole thing about the moon, good timing on account of the backup at the next hole, Dracula’s Dinner Party. “Know what an orbit is, Charlie?” Bernie had said. “A kind of gum,” said Charlie. And then we were off on the whole thing about the moon changing shape, which I’ll just briefly sum up for you as … as …
Before I could get my moon thoughts in exactly the right order, I felt Bo’s hand move on my shoulder. I turned slightly and looked at him. He looked at me and smiled. Bo was lying on his side now, so his smile was just like that sideways sliver of moon up in the sky.
“Chet,” he said. “A fine name.”
How nice of him! Bo was a fine name, too, in my opinion. It was good to be lying here quietly, both of us with our fine names. His chest rose and fell, rose, stopped, fell, stopped, rose.
“Come to carry me across, haven’t you?” Bo said. “Lucky all my life, and it’s holding right to the end.”
Carrying Bo? Was that in the cards? I’ve carried Charlie lots of times, and some of his pals, but never a full-grown man. I studied Bo. A full-grown man, yes, although kind of shrunken, here in the moonlight. If I had to carry him I could. We were good to go.
“We good to go, Chet?” Bo said.
Wow! We were thinking the same thoughts. I was liking Bo a whole lot. Too bad we hadn’t met earlier, but we could still—what was the expression? Make up for lost time? Yes, that was it. Bo and I were going to make up for lost time. I leaned forward a bit and gave his face a gentle lick.
“I’m all set.” His eyes shone with moonlight. Then they didn’t. His chest fell.
Inside Bo got very relaxed, as relaxed as he could be. Poor Bo. He needed his rest. I could feel his weight through the mattress, but Bo himself didn’t seem to be around anymore. Hard to explain. I rose, climbed onto the floor, and crawled under the bed.
* * *
The sideways sliding moon moved across the sky. I watched it through the window, a lazy moon in no rush. After a while a shadow fell across the window and the moon disappeared. Then the window made a few clicking sounds. This was turning into a bit of a strange night. Where was Bernie, again? The window slid open. A man climbed into the room.
Whoa! A man was climbing into the room? That made this a B and E! Someone was trying to pull a B and E on me, Chet, a law enforcement professional. That was outrageous. And rage is a big part of outrageous, don’t kid yourself. I was starting to get pretty angry as I squirmed out from under the bed and got my back paws under me.
This man—his hair silvery in the moonlight, his face in shadow—came forward. He had some sort of gun in his hand. A dart gun? Yes. A dart gun against me? Think again. I sprang at this B and E dude. At the same moment the gun made a soft thwap and the dart shot out, spinning through the moonlight and hitting me in the neck. Good luck with that, buddy boy. I didn’t feel a thing.
* * *
A woman said: “Repeat your instructions.”
A man said: “Aw, come on. Again?”
The woman said: “Something wrong with your hearing?”
They seemed to be arguing about something. Also they both had unpleasant voices. Although I’ve liked just about every human I’ve ever met, even most of the perps and gangbangers, I got the feeling I wouldn’t like these two. So therefore I hoped I’d never meet them. Hey! Had I just handled another so-therefore? That was Bernie’s department.
Bernie?
Bernie!
I opened my eyes. They seemed to have been closed. I had vague memories of this and that. Now I seemed to be on the move. Had my eyes closed again? I got them back open and pronto. How sleepy I was! But not too sleepy to notice that I was in the back seat of a car. A silvery-haired man was driving and a dark-haired woman was in the passenger seat. Also this was one of those cars where the front and back were separated by a chain-link screen or cage, like in a squad car. But this didn’t smell like a squad car and those two humans weren’t cops. When you’ve been in the business as long as I have, you just know these things. My eyes closed.
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