And things went downhill from there. Was there a point when Tommy Trauble challenged Bernie to an arm-wrestling contest? Something Bernie would never consider, not with an older gentleman. But one thing led to another, until finally the ER doc said the break was nice and clean and Tommy would have that cast off his arm in no time.
Meanwhile Bernie was saying, “Don’t see why I have to sell anything to you.” One good thing about that: his mom couldn’t hear it. “You’re Florian’s lawyer. You should be welcoming any new evidence in his favor.”
“Evidence?” said Gudrun. “I haven’t heard any yet. And you’re just about the last person who’d want to find any. Unless you’re a saint, in which case you’d be in some other line of work.” She tilted her head slightly to one side and her eyes opened a little wider. “Are you a saint, Bernie?”
“Only in an upside-down world,” he said.
Whoa! Saints were very good, if I was understanding things right, maybe the best. Which is Bernie! So therefore—yes, again!—the world was upside down. This had to be very important, but for some reason I wasn’t surprised.
Meanwhile, in the smelling part of life—a huge part, as I hope you realize by now—we had some changes. The female excitement aroma had gotten stronger, and the male excitement aroma had gotten weaker. What was that all about? I had no idea. But the female excitement aroma was coming in waves, all the way to me at the door, and flowing around Bernie en route. Was he aware of these things? I had no idea about that either, but I did notice that the male excitement aroma was back on the scene, and getting stronger.
Gudrun reached for a mug on her desk, took a sip. Tea with lemon, if you’re interested. “I’m going to do my job, Bernie, which is to act in my client’s best interest.”
“Meaning you’re taking the deal?” Bernie said.
“He’s taking the deal. I’m acting on his wishes.” Gudrun rose. “Will there be anything else?”
Thirteen
We drove up to our place on Mesquite Road. What was this? Someone at the door? My muscles all bunched up, getting me ready to do who knows what—and then I saw who this someone was, namely Eliza. She had an envelope in her hand and was stooping down, maybe to slide it under the door, but she heard us coming and turned.
“Well,” Bernie said to me as we got out of the car, “on a day with some not-so-good surprises, this is a nice one.”
We walked up to the house. Not-so-good surprises? I tried to think of one and got the feeling I actually came close. I love that feeling!
Eliza stood on the doorstep, putting her at eye level with Bernie. Was she the forceful type? She had force in her, for sure, but not like Gudrun. Some humans are more complicated than others. Are the really forceful types less complicated? I was in over my head.
Bernie smiled. Had he ever looked more handsome? Not to my way of thinking. And Eliza looked good, too, her hair so glossy and always smelling of fresh rain, even though we hadn’t had rain in the longest time. So we were off to a promising start, and soon we’d be inside, whipping up snacks and chillin’—exactly what I was in the mood for, although I hadn’t realized it. The only slight possible hitch was that Eliza wasn’t smiling back, and in fact might not have been in the mood for snacks and chillin’. I suddenly remembered the last time I’d seen her—looking in from outside the patio, where Mindy Jo had been showing Bernie some of her tattoos—and I began losing the urge to chill. Although not for snacks—that takes some major upset.
“I apologize for barging in,” Eliza said.
“We’re not even inside yet,” Bernie said. Possibly a joke but Eliza didn’t get it, and the truth is neither did I. “But, uh, you don’t need an invitation.”
“That’s arguable,” Eliza said.
“It is?” said Bernie, rocking back slightly.
“But I’m not here to argue,” Eliza went on. “More to explain. And when I saw you weren’t in I just wrote what I wanted to say.” She handed him the envelope. “I’m actually better at clarifying my thoughts if I put them in writing.”
Bernie held the envelope in both hands even though it weighed almost nothing. I myself am a hundred-plus pounder, in case I haven’t gotten that in yet.
“Whatever it is, just tell me,” he said.
Now Eliza did smile, a very brief smile, possibly happy in a small, here-and-gone way. “Come on, Bernie. I went to a lot of trouble.”
Bernie opened the envelope, unfolded the single sheet of paper that was inside and began reading, his eyes going back and forth, back and forth, at first quickly, then slower, and finally stopping. He looked up. Their eyes met.
“I’m not afraid of living life alone,” she said.
That was a stunner. Right then I realized that Eliza was the bravest person I’d ever met. Outside of Bernie, of course.
“I know,” Bernie said. “But this is so … so quick. And based on a misinterpretation of—”
“I’ve allowed for that,” Eliza said. “Maybe I’m making a mistake. But I don’t think so. You came along too late—let’s leave it at that.”
“But—”
She leaned forward, gave Bernie a quick kiss on the cheek. “Bye, Bernie. I’ll see you around.”
Eliza walked away. Watching how she moved, how she held her head, I saw that, yes, she had force. She crossed the street, got in her car, drove off. Should I mention that she seemed to have some trouble fastening the seat belt?
* * *
Inside the house Bernie did some pacing. He had Eliza’s letter in his hand and he read bits of it from time to time. Like “maybe what I saw on the patio was perfectly innocent, but even if it wasn’t you have every right—we had no formal arrangement of any…” Or “… too set in my ways? But the truth is my work is all about managing uncertainty, and in life-and-death situations to put it too dramatically, so I’m not big on uncertainty in my personal life, not anymore…” And “… yes, a cliché, but was the starting point me the rescuer and you the invalid? And now the invalid is gone, thank god, and yet…”
By then I’d drunk every drop of water from my bowl and licked it dry. Bernie read that last part—the part about an invalid, whatever that was, once more. He looked at me and said, “So the healthy me is worse than…?”
Was this about the saguaro case? I didn’t want to think about the saguaro case ever again. I went over to the counter. There’s a bread board on the counter where Bernie sometimes slices bread. Right now the only bread on it was the end piece of what I believe is called rye. I’m not a fan of rye—or of any kind of bread, really—but I rose up, snatched that stub of rye off the bread board, and gulped it down. Actually not bad! Maybe I’d rethink my whole position on bread, but right now Bernie was going to say I’d done a no-no and then I’d feel bad for a while, probably not very long.
Instead he surprised me. “Right you are, Chet. Let’s get to work.”
* * *
Bernie has lots of pals from his Army days. He’d pitched for Army, in case you didn’t know, until his arm blew out, but even with that blown-out arm he can still throw a tennis ball a country mile, much farther than a city mile, as you’re aware if you’ve ever spent time in both places. But most of the pals aren’t from the baseball part of his Army career. They’re from the war part, which was where Bernie got his leg wound. You wouldn’t even know he had a leg wound unless you saw him wearing shorts, which he doesn’t, or maybe at the end of a real long day, tracking perps on foot way out in the desert, for example, when he might limp just the tiniest bit. The wound happened out in the desert—not our desert, if I’d understood things right—on a day when Bernie must have done something good, because whenever we run into guys who were there, they come over and pound Bernie on the back and say “Hey!” and things like that.
Thurgood was one of those guys. Thurgood’s name wasn’t really Thurgood, just what all the rest of them called him, on account of something to do with his job in the Army, but that was as far as I could take it, except that maybe hi
s old job was why he was our go-to person for everything legal. But why? Legal meant about the law, unless I was missing something, and since me and Bernie were the law, why would we need a go-to person? But I don’t ask myself questions like that. Now Thurgood owned a bar called All Rise on a corner in the Mission section of town, where the oldest houses stood. He was shaking a cocktail shaker behind the bar when we walked in.
“Hey!” he said, putting down the shaker and coming around the bar.
“Um,” said a man sitting with an empty glass, possibly waiting for what was in the shaker.
Thurgood didn’t seem to hear. He sort of hugged Bernie and pounded him on the back. Sort of hugged him on account of Thurgood having just the one arm, and he was using it to do the pounding.
“Looking good, Bernie. Had some of us worried.”
“That’s all over,” Bernie said. “Not looking too bad yourself.”
“Lost ten pounds,” Thurgood said. “Got to fit into my tux by March.”
“Oh?”
“Trina’s wedding.”
“She’s old enough to get married?”
“That’s what I said. She told me to stay in my lane.”
“Um,” said the man with the empty glass.
Thurgood turned to him. “Haven’t forgotten you,” he said. Thurgood had a deep, rumbly voice and a face that went with it, if that makes any sense.
“No rush,” the man with the empty glass said quickly.
“I’ll just say hi to my buddy Chet.” Thurgood leaned down and gave me a nice scratch between the ears, hitting the sweet spot perfectly. “Is he still growing?”
“Not possible.”
“What a specimen!” Thurgood said. “Who would be the human equivalent?”
“No idea,” Bernie said.
“Hercules,” said the man with the empty glass.
Not long after that, his glass was full—on the house, if I’d been following things right—and he’d moved down the bar to check out a ball game on TV.
“What’ll it be, Bernie?” Thurgood said.
“Whatever you want for yourself,” said Bernie. “I’ll have the same.” He laid a bill on the bar.
“Your money’s no good here,” Thurgood said.
“It’s not mine,” said Bernie. “It’s the bank’s.”
Possibly a joke, since Thurgood laughed, a deep, booming laugh I felt through the floorboards. A joke, but if so, I didn’t get it. Also, who was Hercules? A perp? How could that be, if he was like me? I, Chet, was the chaser of perps! So I could never be a perp. I’d be chasing my own tail, for god’s sake. Uh-oh. Had that happened? And more than once? Why would I ever do that? It makes no sense. Yet even at that very moment of knowing it made no sense, I was seized by a powerful urge to—
“Ch—et?”
Me? Something about me? Why on earth? Here I was, peacefully sitting up nice and tall, or I would be, any second. There! Done! A total pro, ready, alert, still. You wouldn’t have noticed me.
“How about we try this new drink I’m inventing?” Thurgood said. He poured a deep-golden liquid into two small glasses. I smelled bourbon, plus other liquids I didn’t know the names of.
They clinked glasses and sipped. The expressions on their faces changed, becoming pretty much identical, although Bernie and Thurgood didn’t look much alike. But whoa! Their smells weren’t that far apart. How interesting!
“What do you think?” Thurgood said. “A keeper?”
“Wow,” said Bernie. “What’s in it?”
“Basically an old-fashioned but with a secret ingredient of my own.” Thurgood glanced at me over the bar. “Let’s call it the Chetster.”
Something about me had just gone by? Perhaps I’d latch on to it some other time. They clinked glasses and sipped again.
“So what’s on your mind?” Thurgood said.
“Ever hear of a lawyer named Gudrun Burr?” Bernie said.
“Affirmative.”
“Know her?”
“Met her once or twice, wouldn’t say I know her.”
“Give me the basics.”
“Partner at Lobb and Edmunds, most prestigious firm in the Valley—in the state, for that matter. Rhodes scholar, summa at Veritan—their admission rate was four point three percent this year—first in her class at Veritan Law, Ivy League all the way.”
“All the right credentials,” Bernie said.
Thurgood nodded. “But very good, despite that,” he said.
Bernie smiled.
“Divorced, no kids, lives for work,” Thurgood went on. “This personal or professional?”
“Professional. She’s defending a murder suspect we brought in.”
“Yeah?”
“Why the surprise?”
“She doesn’t do criminal work, far as I know,” Thurgood said. “Her specialty is on some cutting-edge of private capital M and A structuring.”
“The cutting part applies, but that’s all,” Bernie said. “She’s acting for the PDS.”
“Maybe she’s got political ambitions,” said Thurgood. “Wouldn’t be the first of her type.”
The guy watching the ball game smacked the bar and said, “Chin music!”
Bernie turned toward him and got all thoughtful. Thurgood refilled their glasses.
Fourteen
“Do you ever get the feeling,” Bernie said, as we drove away from All Rise, across the Rio Vista Bridge and out of the Mission, “that we’re chasing our own tails?”
I sat in the shotgun seat, very still, eyes straight ahead and therefore helping with the driving, as usual, but inside I was shocked. Chasing my own tail? Yes, I’d had that feeling—and so recently—and not just the feeling but I’d been doing it for real. We’re a lot alike in some ways, me and Bernie, but one way we’re not alike involves tails, namely me having one and Bernie not. Was it possible he actually thought he did have a tail? But how could he? He puts on pants every day. Surely he’d notice that not once had he ever had to check whether a tail of some kind was properly tucked in. So how could he have that feeling? It would be like me … like me having the … having the …
I was still trying to find the end of that thought when Bernie said, “And when that happens, there’s just one thing to do. We’ll have to start from scratch.”
Now I shifted position, turning so I could keep a close eye on him. What was the right way to handle this? Wait for Bernie to take the lead on the scratching front or start first to show him I was on board, a team player? I went back and forth, back and forth, back—
“What’s up, big guy? Not fleas again?”
Fleas? What was he talking about? No way I had fleas. You can’t miss them taking those teeny-tiny bites out of you and it was not happening. And hadn’t I just recently finished up on a round of the drops?
“Have we got any of those drops left?”
Bernie flipped open the glove box, rooted around inside, came up with the little bottle of drops.
“Here we—”
The little bottle of drops somehow came into contact with one of my back paws, which seemed to be busily having a go at the fur on my neck. And for the first time I could recall in my whole life, one of my front paws was in action at the same time, taking on a sudden and terrible itch on the side of my nose. Chet the Jet! Wow! But the important part of all this was the back paw knocking the bottle of drops from Bernie’s hand—totally by accident—and out the open window. A woman on the street shook her fist and yelled, “No littering!”
We stopped at a red light. Bernie looked at me. I ramped down the scratching to just about zilch and looked at him, a look that said, If we’re starting from scratch, then start, Bernie. What’s the holdup?
But he did not start scratching. Instead he said, “Sometimes I don’t understand you.”
Well, right back at ya. Which didn’t change how I felt about him, not the slightest bit. And just to show him, I put my paw on his leg and pressed down firmly, so he’d know how much I cared. We shot throu
gh the intersection, the light luckily turning green at that moment, or just about to.
* * *
Not long after that, we were zooming along the West Valley freeway, two best buddies headed out of the Valley and onto a two-laner that seemed familiar. Soon we came to a fork in the road, also familiar, with a paved road leading one way and a dirt track the other. We took the dirt track, like we pretty much always do, soon passing a huge red rock and looping down into Dollhouse Canyon. I knew Dollhouse Canyon very well, of course, the box canyon with Wendell Nero’s white RV at the end. But when we got there, I saw it was gone. For a second or two I was puzzled. And then I remembered: the RV was at the shed! With Itsy Bitsy Litzenberger! And all those wives of Wendell’s! Chet the Jet, in the picture but good.
Bernie parked near some tread marks in the dirt. I was about to hop out when I remembered the jumping cholla from before and hopped out on Bernie’s side instead. Was I ahead of the game or what? I got a real good feeling about this case. Then it hit me that we’d already solved it, bringing in the perp, Florian Machado, now sporting an orange jumpsuit, which I’d seen with my own eyes. So why wouldn’t I feel good about the case? But here was a crazy thing: I was starting to feel less good.
For a little while we walked over the ground where the RV had been. There was nothing to see. Bernie sniffed the air a few times. I’d seen that before. Soon he might say, “Smell anything, big guy?”
And I did. I smelled all kinds of things, of course, including water, a distant sort of water. Was there a dry riverbed somewhere near, one of those dry riverbeds with a tiny pool of water or two, usually in the shade of a creosote bush, or sometimes a cottonwood tree? I didn’t think so, hard to explain why. It felt … bigger than that.
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