What was that?
A very soft crunch, coming from somewhere on the slope across the road. I straightened up, sat very still, just at the edge of the boulder. Bernie crouched behind me, his hands on my shoulders, his head over mine.
“Can’t see a goddamn thing,” he said very softly.
Crunch. And another, and some more. But quiet crunches, the kind made by someone who knows how to move in the dark, even when the footing’s tricky. Then a man-shaped shadow—a big man-shaped shadow—separated itself from the greater shadow of the slope and came down onto the road.
A man, for sure. He approached what was left of the pickup, walked slowly around it, went closer. He seemed to make movements with one of his legs. Poking his foot into the wreckage? I thought so. Then he started around the pickup again, this time in a larger circle. He was coming our way when the clouds parted and the moon appeared, brighter than I’d ever seen it. The moonlight turned the shadow-man into a real man, a very big man with a trim beard, kind of handsome except for the cauliflower ear. It was Mason Venatti. He had a short, stubby sort of rifle slung over one shoulder, and was looking down the road.
Bernie stepped away from me, raised the .38 Special. “Mason! Hands up!”
Mason whipped around toward us. He did not put his hands up. Instead—so quick for such a big man—he threw himself on the ground, rolled, twisted, and started firing.
THUNK THUNK THUNK, THUNK THUNK THUNK.
Oh, no. Automatic fire. I knew automatic fire from K-9 school, something you never wanted to deal with. Bernie, too, hit the ground, also twisted around, and seemed to kick at me with his legs, as though to shove me back behind the boulder. What a crazy idea!
THUNK THUNK, THUNK THUNK.
“Ewph.” Bernie made a little sound. Was he hit? I got ready to charge across the road and—
“Chet! No!”
THUNK THUNK, THUNK—
And then Bernie, on his knees, got off his first shot. CRACK!
Mason cried out, put a hand to his chest, slumped backwards, the machine gun falling onto the road. I heard him breathing—hard breathing, like he’d just run a race—and perhaps a soft gurgle.
Bernie rose and walked slowly toward him, the .38 Special pointed right at Mason’s head. I walked with him, side by side. When we reached Mason, Bernie kicked the machine gun away. I sat on it, the only idea I had at that moment.
Bernie gazed down at Mason. Mason gazed up at him. His hands, still clutching his chest, were soaked with blood, like they were getting a coat of molten silver. He opened his mouth. Blood leaked out, but not a lot, not like what was pouring from his chest. He tried to spit it away, couldn’t get his lips to work. But he could talk.
“You’re fucking doomed,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
“Wrong,” said Bernie. “It’s chin music. I was slow on the uptake, that’s all.”
Mason hated that remark. I could see it in his eyes. A moment later there was nothing. I’d caught last looks in the eyes of a number of men—I’m a pro, don’t forget—last looks full of pain, or fear, or even peace, but this one, hatred, was a first.
* * *
We examined Bernie’s leg in the moonlight. There seemed to be a chunk missing from the side of the thigh.
“Just a scratch,” Bernie said.
Whew! Was I glad to hear that or what? Bernie got out the first-aid kit, patched himself up, a patch that bled through so he did it again, way better this time. He found a fresh pair of jeans under my seat and we hit the road.
The first milky light was poking into the sky when the phone buzzed.
“Hey, Bernie, Lou. Lost you back there. Everything okay?”
“Yup.”
“Got some info on that name, Mason Venatti. Bottom line—watch your step around him.”
“Yeah?”
“Former marine helo pilot, decorated many times, but ended up with a dishonorable discharge, involved in some sort of atrocity, although that’s not the word in the file. Killed a man in a barroom brawl outside of San Antonio two years ago, self-defense, according to the jury. Now doing some sort of contract work for Lobb and Edmonds. That’s a fancy pants law firm downtown, in case you don’t know.”
“Uh-huh,” Bernie said.
“Any idea why they’d want a type like that?”
“I’ll ask around.”
“You don’t want to mix it up with this guy,” Stine said.
“I hear you,” said Bernie.
Thirty
“Now,” said Bernie, “I’m going to do something stupid.” He glanced at me. “You’re thinking what’s new, huh?”
Me? Not really. In fact, I hadn’t been thinking at all, was instead just letting my mind have a nice quiet rest while I watched the sky turn brighter and brighter. But if Bernie wanted me to think what’s new, then that was that. I immediately thought to myself, “What’s new, Chetster?” Nothing came right away.
Meanwhile Bernie got on the phone.
“Hello?” said Suzie.
Humans all sound pretty much the same when the phone wakes them from a sound sleep: confused and not too happy about it.
“Uh, it’s me, Bernie.”
“I know.”
“Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No. I was up.” In the background a sleepy-sounding man said something I didn’t catch. I began to wonder whether this call was … not a stupid idea, no way Bernie could ever have a stupid idea, but perhaps not his best.
“I’d like to see you,” Bernie said.
There was a long pause. “What about?”
“Just briefly.”
Was just briefly a good answer to what about? I would have guessed not, but I was wrong. “We’re at Rancho Grande,” Suzie said, “in one of the casitas. Number seven, behind the peacock garden.”
Humans are not always easy to understand. I’d learned that over and over in my career and was now learning it again. Good things just keep happening to me.
* * *
I’m fine with peacocks up to the moment when they spread those huge fans or tails or whatever they were. And as we walked by a nice little garden behind Rancho Grande, wouldn’t you know it? The biggest peacock I’d ever seen strolled out from behind a flowering bush, turned his eyes on me—nasty and mean, no doubt about it—and did exactly what he shouldn’t have done. I’m the well-behaved type, but there’s only so much anyone can—
“Ch-et? Chet!”
We kept going, no problem whatsoever, with Bernie trailing closely behind me for some reason, and soon stood before a pretty pink casita. Bernie took a deep breath and knocked on the door. After some time when nothing happened, I smelled Suzie. At the same moment, Bernie raised his hand to knock. Suzie opened the door while his fist was still up in the air. Bernie jammed it in his pocket.
“Hi, Bernie,” said Suzie. She gave me a quick pat. Suzie looked great, her face kind of rosy even though she has the kind of skin that doesn’t really get rosy.
“Uh,” Bernie said, his gaze on her like … like it was beyond his control, locked on Suzie forever. “Sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“Disturbing you.” Bernie looked down. “So early.”
“You’re not disturbing me,” Suzie said. “What’s up?”
Jacques appeared behind Suzie, carrying a bicycle, the speedy-looking kind. “Morning everybody! Hi, Bernie. Hey, Chet!” He came outside, hopped on the bike and zoomed off. We all watched him till he was out of sight.
“Come on in,” Suzie said.
“That’s all right,” said Bernie. “I need to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you know a lawyer named Gudrun Burr?”
“At Lobb and Edmonds? We’ve met.”
“Did she mention me?”
“She did, in fact. It turns out she’s representing the suspect you brought in on some murder case. I hadn’t known that.”
“So you were meeting about somet
hing else?”
“Correct. She just happened to know about … you and me.” Suzie’s eyes narrowed. “Why would we be meeting about you?”
Bernie smiled a small smile. “Good point,” he said. “Can I ask what the subject was?”
“Sure,” said Suzie. “The story I mentioned—the one Jacques and I are working on, the one we’re hoping to use to launch the platform.”
“The endowment fund thing?”
“More or less,” Suzie said.
“What’s Gudrun Burr’s role?” Bernie said.
“She’s a troubleshooter—a very formidable troubleshooter according to a few people who’ve come in contact with her.”
“She’s troubleshooting for the endowment fund?” Bernie said.
“That’s not clear. But I really can’t get into the details.”
Bernie got an idea. I could see it on his face. “Or maybe she’s working for a Swiss company?”
Suzie gave Bernie a close look. “There are a number of Swiss—putatively Swiss—companies involved. Do you know something, Bernie? Where are you going with this?”
“I’m not sure,” Bernie said. “I could give a better answer if I knew who Gudrun’s working for. Can’t you trust me to keep a secret?”
Suzie reached out, as though to touch Bernie’s chest, but didn’t quite do it. Then she sighed. “Goes without saying,” she said. She thought for a moment or two and went on. “It’s not just Gudrun Burr—it’s Lobb and Edmonds in general, and a couple of other big firms, one in LA, one in Chicago. They represent the Veritan endowment fund.”
“One hundred billion dollars?”
“And rising all the time,” Suzie said. “But time is what they’ve got, even more than money. They think far into the future and their goals are colossal.”
“For example?” Bernie said.
“For example, there’s our story. Veritan is buying up lots of land in the state—and in New Mexico and parts of California as well—rural, urban, productive, non-productive, doesn’t matter. The only point of commonality is the price, always over market, often way over market. At least that’s what we have so far. The data isn’t easy to come by. There’s a screen of offshore entities that’s hard to penetrate, but the whole thing is very strange.”
“Is this what you were meeting about at the Veritan Club?”
“Exactly. Loudon DeBrusk is the CEO of the endowment fund. He doesn’t acknowledge the overseas companies—at the same time saying there’s nothing illegal about them, which is probably true. As for the rationale behind this sort of drunken-sailor spending spree, he says Veritan is simply buying into the future of America.”
“It’s patriotic?”
“He used that very word,” Suzie said. “But why pay more than the land is worth? He denied that was the case, despite the numbers—at least the ones Jacques and I have found—being clear. We just don’t get it.”
“Thank you,” Bernie said.
“For what?”
“This is a huge help.”
“How?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Bernie said. “But there is one more thing.” Bernie opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.
“Speak,” said Suzie.
Bernie looked down. He took a deep breath. “Did you … tell Gudrun…”
“Tell her what?”
“That—that the reason you and I … or the reason you no longer wanted to…” His head came up. “Oh, Christ, was because I loved—”
He gestured at me with his chin. What I was suddenly doing in this incomprehensible conversation was a complete mystery.
“—more than you,” Bernie went on.
Suzie put her hand to her chest. “What a foul thing to do!” she said. “Never!”
“Whew,” said Bernie. “That’s so good to know!” He turned to me. “Come on, Chet.”
“What?” said Suzie. “You’re leaving?”
I was surprised myself, although hitting the road is part of our business plan.
“Where are you going?” Suzie called after us.
“To get your wedding present,” Bernie called back.
* * *
We parked in front of a small adobe building I recognized. Bernie grabbed our piece of cardboard—very important evidence for reasons I hoped would someday be clear to me—and went to the front door, a glass door of the dark-tinted kind. Bernie tried the handle. Locked. He pressed a buzzer. A voice spoke from a little speaker, a man’s voice I recognized.
“Who’s there?”
“Chet and Bernie.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know who we are,” Bernie said. “Open up.”
“No can do. I’m rather busy right now.”
“Curse of the modern age.”
“Agreed. You’re welcome to call and schedule an appoint—”
SMASHEROO! Bernie kicked in the door. Not the glass part—that didn’t even break. His foot went right for the lock, which was proper technique for kicking in doors. We strolled inside.
And there was Hoskin Phipps, his smooth pinkish face turning red, his tortoiseshell glasses crooked on top of his head. He backed away, hands raised. “This is outrageous,” he said. “I’m calling the police.”
“In a few minutes,” Bernie said. He walked right up to Hoskin, raised his hand. Hoskin flinched, like Bernie was about to smack him one, but all Bernie did was take careful hold of the tortoiseshell glasses and place them on Hoskin’s nose. “First we’ve got something for you to look at.” Bernie turned to the nearest desk, swept everything off in a lovely crashing way, and set down our piece of cardboard. Then he made a little finger gesture for Hoskin to come closer. Hoskin came closer.
“Tell me what you see here,” Bernie said.
Hoskin glanced at Tildy’s drawing. “No idea.”
“Here’s a clue,” Bernie said. “This line represents ground level at Dollhouse Canyon.”
Hoskin took a more careful look this time. His eyes shifted, then shifted again.
“We’re waiting,” Bernie said.
Hoskin licked his lips, dry-looking lips, and his tongue looked dry as well. My own tongue felt nice and moist. I considered licking my muzzle, decided to put it off till later. It’s nice to have something to look forward to in this life.
“Where did you get this?” Hoskin said.
“Hoskin? Are you listening?”
Hoskin nodded.
“You’re not asking the questions. Got it?”
“You have no right to bully me,” Hoskin said.
Bernie hardly ever gets angry, but when he does it’s always a treat to see. He grabbed Hoskin by the front of his button-down shirt, lifted him right off the ground, and plunked him into a chair—not gently—and shoved the chair up to the desk, giving Hoskin a close-up view of Tildy’s drawing.
“I have a weak heart,” Hoskin said.
“I’ll say,” said Bernie. “Now let’s have it.”
Hoskin straightened out his shirt and pointed to the drawing. “This is the perched aquifer I told you about. But I don’t understand all this fuss.”
“Liar,” Bernie said, not raising his voice at all but at the same time sounding pretty scary. I was getting very good feelings about the case. Bernie rested his fingertip on the cardboard, down toward the bottom. “What’s this?”
Hoskin shrugged. “Perhaps some sort of speculative—”
Bernie smacked the back of Hoskin’s head, not very hard, although his glasses flew off and landed on the floor. I snapped them up and gnawed a bit on a tortoiseshell arm. It didn’t smell at all of tortoise, which was kind of disappointing. I let go of the glasses.
“It … it resembles an upwardly extruding formation,” said Hoskin.
“Meaning an aquifer?” Bernie said.
Hoskin nodded.
“A big one?”
“These terms are relative.”
“Compared to the other one.”
“Yes, bigger.”
“How
much bigger?”
“I haven’t determined that yet. All I—” Hoskin stopped himself.
Bernie looked down at him. Hoskin wouldn’t meet his gaze. “You got paid to produce an accurate hydrology report,” Bernie said. “You withheld crucial information. Why?”
“I don’t agree with your characterization,” Hoskin said.
“It’s all over,” Bernie said. “You may end up in jail. The time to eliminate your personal worst-case scenario is now.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about things if I were you,” Hoskin said.
“Because it’s Veritan on the other side?”
Hoskin didn’t answer.
“Why are they buying up so much land?” Bernie said. “And why are they paying so much for it?”
“You’re really not very bright, are you?” Hoskin said. “The goddamn land isn’t worth anything. Only the water has value.”
“They’re buying up all the water in the West?”
“Of course not. Just our fair share. The motive is totally altruistic. We’re on the side of conservation. This … this ownership will give us more power to do good. Sometimes the people need a little nudge.”
“Who elected you—who elected Veritan—to be the nudger?” Bernie said.
“That’s a rather naïve position to take,” said Hoskin. “If you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I do mind.” Bernie picked the tortoiseshell glasses off the floor and very slowly and carefully put them back on Hoskin’s face, getting them nice and straight, just right. It seemed to take forever. “Wendell Nero got nudged to death,” he said.
Hoskin went a bit teary. “Oh my god—I had nothing to do with that.”
“Who did?”
“It was her. Her and that thuggish sidekick.”
“You’re talking about Gudrun Burr and Mason Venatti?”
“They were only supposed to persuade Wendell, bribe him, perhaps, with threatening as the last option.”
“But he wasn’t the bribable type?”
Hoskin shook his head.
“And also not the kind who’s easily scared,” Bernie said.
“So it appears.”
Of Mutts and Men Page 25