Politics? A new one on me. Was politics the glaring and hammering or the yip-yip-yipping? Or possibly all at once? Glaring, hammering, yip-yip-yipping? Politics sounded alarming. I hurried into the kitchen and lapped up all the water in my bowl. Bernie refilled it and cracked open a beer. He sat down and put his feet up. I lay down and stretched my feet out. We spend a lot of very happy time like that.
The phone rang. The phone at our place is usually on speaker, but I can hear the other end perfectly well even if it’s not. My hearing’s not like yours, no offense.
“Hello, Bernie,” said Mr. Parsons. “Hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all. How are you and Mrs. Parsons doing?”
“Neither hospitalized at the moment,” said Mr. Parsons. “Doesn’t get much better than that.”
Mr. Parsons laughed. So did Bernie. I missed the funny part, but I don’t worry about things like that.
“Anything I can do for you?” Bernie said.
“In a way,” said Mr. Parsons. “And no pressure, but you may have noticed our sign. It’s for Les Erlanger. He’s running for Senate, and Mrs. Parsons and I are supporting him. We happen to have an extra sign.”
The look on Bernie’s face—a lovely after-laughing look—changed to no expression at all. “I’ll bear that in mind,” Bernie said.
“Much obliged,” said Mr. Parsons.
They said goodbye. Right away, the phone rang again.
“Mr. Little? Heydrich, here. Your neighbor.”
“Yes?”
“Do you have any political affiliation, Mr. Little?”
“Not that I discuss at random.”
Silence. Bernie looked at me. His face changed again, started to look like it did when fun was in the air. I popped right up.
“I’m supporting Senator Wray in the election,” Heydrich said. “I have an extra sign you can have for free.”
“Is Wray charging for his signs?”
“Only the special three-color ones. Which happens to be what I want to give you for no cost.”
“The election’s a year away.”
“In one sense, possibly. But you may have noticed that in a big-picture sense we are in a permanent state of election.”
“That’s depressing.”
“Even more depressing is the prospect of an Erlanger victory in the coming battle.”
“We’ll be the DMZ,” Bernie told him.
“That does not exist,” said old man Heydrich. “If the sign is too … too vivid, perhaps you’d care to display the bumper sticker I left you.”
“Bumper sticker?”
“I happened to have one with me on my walk yesterday. I took the liberty of dropping it into your car.”
“Thanks,” Bernie said. “I’ll take the liberty of returning it to you.”
“Not necessary,” said Heydrich. “I have a big supply.”
Click.
We went out to the car. Bernie leaned in, fished around in the back, found the bumper sticker where Mavis had dropped it. Bernie read what was on it: “‘Wray’s OK!’” Back inside, he tossed it in the trash and downed a big slug of beer. “Is monarchy better?”
I couldn’t help him with that. The sun set at last, and things cooled down a bit. We went out to the back patio and sat by the swan fountain, all that Leda left behind after the divorce. We hardly ever ran the water anymore on account of the evaporation issue, whatever that was, but now Bernie turned it on, and we listened to the beautiful sounds, a sort of music with water as the instrument. Bernie had another beer. He kept the phone in his lap, kind of unusual, and glanced at it once or twice.
“I thought she’d be in touch.”
Oh? Who would that be? Leda? Not likely. We were more likely to hear from Charlie, Bernie and Leda’s kid, now with us only on some weekends and holidays, or even Malcolm, Leda’s new husband with the very long toes, who’d become sort of a pal. Then there was Suzie, at one time Bernie’s girlfriend and a likely caller, but now married to Jacques Smallian, busy with some start-up they were working on, and now unlikely. So who?
Bernie gazed at the writing on the base of his thumb, sipped his beer, gazed, sipped. At last, he picked up the phone.
“Rick?” he said.
“Gone for the day,” said Lieutenant Rick Torres, our buddy in Missing Persons.
“I’m a taxpayer,” Bernie said. “I pay your salary.”
“Now you tell me. All this time, I had no idea why the wolf was at the door.”
Oh no! Rick was a buddy. We had to do something and fast!
“Can you run a plate for me?” Bernie read the writing on his thumb.
Running a plate? On a wolf case? I was lost.
A short silence on Rick’s end and then: “Maroon Kia registered to Johnnie Lee Goetz, 1429E Aztec Creek Road, Agua Negra.”
“I owe you,” Bernie said.
“The tab is getting long,” said Rick.
“I can get you a three-color Senator Wray sign.”
“You know him?”
“Nope. You?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“Buy me a drink some time.”
“You got it.”
Bernie hung up. “Not exactly” meant buying Rick a drink? But how would he get outside, what with the wolf? Before I could even start on any of that, Bernie rose in the quick way that meant we were on the move, which is when I’m at my best. Who’s luckier than me? There was some confusion at the door, but I ended up being first.
Two
“Johnnie Lee Goetz,” Bernie said. “But the name we have is Mavis. So therefore…”
We followed the last of the daylight on the Crosstown Freeway, housing developments going on and on, each one darkening as we passed by, like … like we were bringing the night. What a thought, although perhaps a little scary, so I hoped it wouldn’t come again. Meanwhile, I waited for Bernie to continue with the so-therefore, so-therefores being his department and me bringing other things to the table.
“None of this was here when I was a kid,” Bernie said.
Was that part of the so-therefore? So-therefores were pretty much always unpredictable in my experience.
We took an exit and soon went over a bridge. Down below was a dry riverbed. “Agua Negra,” Bernie said. “We used to come out and water-ski on weekends.” He pointed. “Where that strip mall is now was the boathouse. Gone. And so is the water.”
Uh-oh. The so-therefore was about water? I should have known. Water was a big problem in these parts. What could I do about it? I searched my mind and came up with only one idea, involving peeing out the window, something I’d actually never tried and might prove kind of tricky, what with the car moving and all. But I still wanted to help out, so I laid my paw on Bernie’s knee, just letting him know everything would be fine. At the same time, we happened to speed up—and big-time!—just surging like the message about things being fine had gotten through to the car. Wow! The car is a machine, of course—machine smells being some of the most obvious ones out there—but isn’t it sort of alive in a way that—
“Chet!”
Speed always gets Bernie excited. I’m the same way. He steered us back onto our side of the road and gave me a quick look. Hard to read, but at least it wasn’t gloomy anymore. Hey! Was speed the solution to the water problem? Well, well. Bringing the night and solving the water problem. I was on top of my game.
We turned onto a street lined on both sides with clusters of low, sand-colored buildings with tile roofs. “Condos, Chet. One day there’ll be condos nonstop from here to LA.” Was that good or bad? Maybe it would help if I knew what LA was, but I did not. The problem vanished from my mind. We pulled into a circular drive and parked at the end of one of the sand-colored clusters.
“1429E Aztec Creek Road,” Bernie said, “although there’s no Aztec Creek and never was.”
We went to the door and knocked, Bernie doing the actual knocking and me standing beside him, nice a
nd tall. Aside from the nice and tall part, you might have thought I was doing zip, but you would have been wrong. I don’t blame you because there was no seeing what I was up to—namely, sniffing up all the smells that came from the other side of the door. Not much in the way of cooking or food aromas of any kind, except for yogurt, always a disappointment, and lots of the usual cleaning product smells you always get in these situations, including dry cleaning smells, which never make me want to stick around. Mixed into that—and quickly unmixed by my nose into separate streams—was lots of the scent of two different women, one of whom I knew—Mavis, the ponytailed driver of the maroon Kia, the woman with the piney smell and the big blue eyes. When you get lots of someone’s scent at the door, you can be pretty sure they live there. But we haven’t even come to the main smell yet, overwhelming all the others, a certain strong musky-plus-pee odor that meant a male ferret was in the house. I’ve had some experience with ferrets, both the indoor kind and the outdoor kind, and every single one of them had to be taught a lesson. The fur on the back of my neck stood up, all on its own. I was good to go.
Bernie raised his hand to knock again. Was it possible he didn’t hear someone coming to open it—a woman, actually, not big, barefoot? I glanced at Bernie’s ears: not tiny for a human, not at all—and very nice looking, in my opinion—but was that all they were for? Just stuck on his head for beauty? I liked almost every human I’d ever met—even the perps and gangbangers—but I’d never want to trade places with any of them. Well, maybe Bernie. Because … because then I’d have me to hang out with! A rather confusing thought. I was still lost in it when the door opened.
A young woman looked out. Not Mavis, a fact I noticed only in passing. What caught my attention was the ferret on her shoulder. And I’d caught his attention, no doubt about that. He showed me his teeth first thing, just like every ferret I’d ever met. I showed him mine. You’d have done the same. His tiny eyes burned hot. Would playing a game of some sort get us off to a better start? For example, how about the grabbing-the-little-fella-by-his-collar—a velvet collar, by the way, velvet being a material I knew well from an incident with a tapestry, best forgotten—and-flipping-him-up-to-the-ceiling game? Who doesn’t like being flipped up to the ceiling? Although I don’t know personally on account of who could flip the likes of me that high, or anywhere at all? Ah, the likes of me! A hundred-plus pounder, by the way. Once, I’d flipped a bunny rabbit name of Ursula—true, not a ferret—so high that I’d had time to run over and catch her in midair and flip her up again! The look on her face! So when would be a good time to get things under way with my new ferret buddy? Now, maybe, like right away, this very—
I felt Bernie’s hand on my back, not heavy, just there. Perhaps a slight wait before the gaming portion of our visit was the way to go. The joy is in the anticipation, as a safecracker name of Sneaky Keats, now sporting an orange jumpsuit, had once explained to us.
“Hello?” said the young woman.
This young woman might have been a bit older than Mavis, or perhaps she just seemed that way because her face was harder. It was also tanned, as were her arms, strong arms, and her hands looked strong, too. She smelled of the desert, a smell I like very much. Her hair was long on one side and shaved on the other. You see that kind of look plenty in these parts, but Bernie’s still not used to it. He didn’t say or show anything, but I could feel a little shift inside him, like he missed a step. Don’t be surprised. We’re partners, after all.
“Uh, hi,” he said. “We’re looking for Johnnie Lee Goetz.”
The woman peered past us to the street, where nothing was going on. Then her gaze went to me and finally to Bernie. He smiled, just a quick, small, friendly smile.
“That’s me,” the woman said, her voice not unfriendly but not friendly either.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Bernie Little, and this is Chet.”
I happened to be watching her eyes—sort of greenish. Sometimes when perps have heard of us, their eyes shift when they realize we’re right there in front of them and the end is near. Johnnie Lee Goetz’s eyes did not shift, although I thought I felt something inside her go still. Before I could even try to make sense of that, the ferret, who’d been lying flat on her shoulder, sat up suddenly and squeaked. Did that mean the ferret was a perp and Johnnie Lee was not? Any reason that didn’t make sense? Not that I could see. In my mind, I got ready to do what had to be done.
“Griffie’s not comfortable around dogs,” the woman said. “Especially aggressive ones.”
“The cute little guy’s got nothing to worry about,” said Bernie. “Chet’s not aggressive, are you, big guy?”
“Then why is his mouth open like that? His teeth are huge.”
“That’s just his smile. Maybe ease up on it a bit, Chet.”
Ease up? On what exactly? Before I could figure that out, I realized I’d snagged my lip on one of my teeth. I got everything squared away and pronto. You’ve got to look the part in a job like mine.
“Better, Ms. Goetz?” Bernie said.
“Not really.”
Bernie laughed like Ms. Goetz had made a joke. She wasn’t joining in. “Okay to call you Johnnie Lee?” Bernie said.
Ms. Goetz shrugged.
“Well, Johnnie Lee—a great name, by the way,” Bernie said, “I was wondering if your car’s around. The maroon Kia.”
Despite how—what would you call it? Charming? Close enough. Despite how charming Bernie was being, Johnnie Lee was looking less friendly by the moment.
“I don’t have—” she began, then took another look at us and started over. “Who are you?”
“I told you that already.”
“Those were just names.”
Bernie handed her our card. She gave it a close look, actually seemed to spend quite a long time on it.
“You’re a private detective?”
Bernie nodded.
“Working for who?”
“We keep that between our clients and ourselves.”
What great news! That meant we had a client, exactly what we needed, what with the state of our finances. Don’t get me started on our warehouse packed with unsold Hawaiian pants, or our tin futures play, which came close to making us rich, except for a last-minute earthquake in Bolivia, or possibly an earthquake we were counting on but didn’t happen.
Johnnie Lee’s face turned up in a way that showed she was actually a bit of a tough customer. “Is it someone I’ve heard of?”
“Like who?” Bernie said.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe some household name?”
“Such as?” said Bernie.
“Fill in the blank.”
“We’ll try,” Bernie said, his voice quiet.
That got Johnnie Lee angry. It didn’t show, but I could smell it. Griffie was also getting angry—I could smell that, too. Johnnie Lee glanced down the street.
“Where’s your car?” said Bernie.
“It was stolen. Nice meeting you.” Johnnie Lee took a step back and slammed the door in our faces. Or almost. Bernie has very quick feet, which comes as a surprise to a lot of people, and he stuck his foot in the doorway just in time. But then—oh no—came a surprise on us. Griffie darted down and nipped Bernie’s ankle.
“Ow,” said Bernie, withdrawing his foot. The door closed all the way. Locks thunked into place.
And now I, Chet, was the angry one. A big part of my job was protecting Bernie from the Griffies of this world. I threw myself at the door, making the whole building shake in a very gratifying way, and was gathering myself to do it again when Bernie held up his hand. I didn’t stop, exactly. Let’s just call it a pause.
Bernie called through the door. “Open up. We’re not going to hurt you.”
No answer. Possibly Johnnie Lee knew that while there were no plans for hurting her—we’d never hurt a woman, me and Bernie—Griffie was a different story.
“When was it stolen?” Bernie called through the door. “Did you report it?”
No answer.
“Do you know a woman named Mavis?”
Silence.
“Is there any reason she’d be driving your car?”
More silence.
Bernie pulled up his pant leg, glanced down. There was a tiny drop or two of blood. Oh, what a disgrace! Biting ankles was what I did! Not Bernie’s, of course, but that wasn’t the point. This was the time to spring into—
Whoa. Bernie was turning away? We were leaving? At the very least, I had to bite Griffie’s ankle—or better yet, all his ankles—before we left. Any job worth doing was worth doing well. You heard that all the time, or at least once in a while. Growling started up in the night.
Bernie touched the top of my head and spoke quietly. “Let’s go, big guy.”
The day had taken a very bad turn. Growling followed us back to the car and all the way home.
“What am I going to do with you?” Bernie said.
At first, I had no idea. Then I thought of fetch. Soon Bernie and I were playing fetch with a nappy new tennis ball and feeling a lot better. I glanced around before we went inside, security on pretty much all of Mesquite Road being part of my job. No unusual sights, with the exception of a small spotlight on old man Heydrich’s lawn, aimed at his three-color sign.
Three
Bright and early the next morning—maybe a little too bright, a summertime thing in these parts—we drove down to Donut Heaven, the same Donut Heaven we’d been to yesterday. There are a number of Donut Heavens in the Valley, but this one, past the airport, was our favorite on account of Mrs. Borbon, the owner, who believed in doing things right, meaning that everything was better than at any of the other Donut Heavens, especially the sausage croissants. Normally, we order right away and start chowing down, but now we just sat in a back corner of the lot, Bernie checking out the comings and goings, and me being patient.
“All right, all right, knock it off,” Bernie said after what seemed like a very long time, perhaps talking to himself. “Kind of a long shot that she’d show up anyway.” I didn’t even bother wondering who he meant. Your interests shrink down to just one when you’re famished, as you probably know already.
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