Sometimes—not often, and in fact I can remember every single occasion—Bernie can look dangerous. So dangerous he comes close to scaring me. The fur on the back of my neck stands straight up, and then I’m dangerous, too. We’re a team, me and Bernie, a team you don’t want to mess with—a truth that was starting to dawn on the jowly-faced dude. I could tell from the way he blinked and suddenly began looking smaller.
Earl put the razor down carefully on the shelf in front of the mirror, beside his scissors and combs, and then turned to the jowly-faced dude and spoke quietly. “Is that any kind of question to ask a war hero?”
When humans get alarmed, their features all move higher, not a good look on the jowly types. “Um, I had no idea that … uh, and of course it would change the way, er—”
“Saved my life.” Earl’s voice rose. “And I wasn’t the only one, far from it. So there’s a whole bunch of guys like me who wouldn’t take kindly to Bernie here getting asked that type of question.”
The jowly-face dude swiveled the barber chair in Bernie’s direction. “Ah, Bernie—if you don’t mind me calling you that—if I’ve given any offense, that wasn’t my intention, and I’m a big supporter—thank you for your service, by the way!—of our wonderful mili—”
Bernie had already stopped looking dangerous. “We’re good,” he said. And then to Earl: “Can you spare a moment?”
Earl laid his hand on the jowly-faced dude’s shoulder. “Mind taking a little break?”
“Love to!” The jowly-faced dude rose, hustled outside, and sat on the bench, still wearing his smock, patches of shaving cream on his face.
Bernie and Earl looked at each other. “Get in the chair,” Earl said. “I’ll take care of that rat’s nest while we talk.”
Bernie sat in the chair. Earl got busy with the scissors, clip-clip-clipping in rapid, no-nonsense style.
“The name Mickey Rottoni mean anything to you?” Bernie said.
“Not Mickey specifically,” said Earl. “But I know some Rottonis. They run Rottoni Transport, trucking company over on Cain Boulevard. A tough bunch.”
“Oh?” Bernie said.
And they went back and forth about the Rottonis. As for me, I was stuck at rat’s nest. There was no rat’s nest to be seen anywhere in Cooler Heads. Plus there wasn’t the slightest suggestion of rat scent, of which there was usually plenty in South Pedroia and most parts of the Valley. Humans—no offense—are often in the dark about all the different critters they have for roommates. But there were no rat roomies here at Earl’s. I waited for some rattish clue to pop up in the conversation. It never did, so I busied myself with the rawhide chew. It’s a fine way of relaxing the mind, which you may not know, kind of like … like smoking a stogie, perhaps? Hey! What a thought! Was there a whole world of thoughts out there, just waiting to be found? Whoa! Another thought right there, and on the scary side. I shut the whole thing down.
* * *
I love riding in the Porsche, and nothing beats the shotgun seat, of course, but during our visit to Cooler Heads, I’d forgotten all about Griffie.
“Hey, there, little fella,” said Bernie as we got in the car. “Thanks for being patient.”
Excuse me? We were thanking Griffie? And Griffie was giving Bernie that adoring look again? This had to stop. I sat up tall in the shotgun seat and ignored them both. That was bound to get Bernie’s attention, after which we’d dump Griffie wherever we were dumping him and get on with our lives. There was no need for Griffie in this operation, no need for anyone else, for that matter. But especially not Griffie. I hope I’ve made that point. About Griffie, I mean. No Griffie. That’s all you need to know.
We drove into the old part of South Pedroia, the narrow streets lined with brick warehouses, lots of the windows boarded up. Bernie turned in to an alley lined with loading docks and parked behind a truck where a skinny, bare-chested man with a dolly was taking a cigarette break. Bernie and I got out. The sign on the brick wall showed a truck with a big grin on its face.
“You be good now,” Bernie said. Well, of course I was going to be … and then I realized Bernie wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at Griffie. This was intolerable. I barged—well, let’s not say barged, more like advanced urgently—through an open doorway in the brick wall and into some sort of office. A gum-chewing woman behind the counter looked down at me. I looked up at her. She wore cat’s-eye glasses. Do I have to even mention how I was in no mood for cat’s-eye glasses at that moment? Why wouldn’t the mere sight of cat’s-eye glasses be more than enough to get me leaping over that counter and—
“Chet? Getting a little ahead of me, big guy.”
And there was Bernie beside me. It’s hard not to get ahead of humans sometimes. But I made up my mind to try harder, and calmed right down even though I hadn’t realized I was un-calm. You can learn new things about yourself, maybe not necessarily a plus.
“Dog looks a mite aggressive,” the woman said.
“Oh, not Chet,” Bernie said, resting his hand on my back, not too hard, not too soft, just right. “He couldn’t be friendlier.”
“Uh-huh,” said the woman, snapping her gum, a sound I love. Right away, this woman was fine in my book. If I had a book, which I don’t, of course, but I knew quite a bit about books—their taste, for example. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” Bernie said. “We’re looking for Mickey Rottoni.”
Her face, not the particularly open type, I now noticed, closed up a little more. Humans are brainy. Maybe not all of them, and maybe not brainy in every way, but braininess is their thing, when you compare them to say, snakes. Scariness is snakes’ thing, if you see where I’m going with this, which I’m afraid I no longer do. I think it had something to do with how braininess shows in their eyes. Humans, I mean, not snakes. Yes, that was it—braininess in the eyes, and this woman had it big-time. Also, now that I was taking the time to actually look, there was some scariness, too, even—uh-oh—snakelike.
“No one here by that name,” she said and snapped her gum again. This time it didn’t have the same effect on me. I wandered over toward the window, not from fear—an impossibility as you’d know if you knew me—but just to make a little space between me and her.
Bernie smiled. “I was hoping someone here might help me reach out to him.”
“Someone here?” said the woman.
“I believe he’s a member of the family,” Bernie said. “The Rottonis—the owners of this business. Is the boss around?”
“You’re lookin’ at her,” the woman said. “I’m Sylvia Rottoni. And who are you?”
“Someone I’m sure Mickey would want to talk to,” said Bernie, handing her our card.
Sylvia Rottoni’s face, already closed, now hardened as well, but I’m a little unsure of what happened next, on account of getting distracted by events down in the alley. I had a very good view of the Porsche parked against the curb, with Griffie curled up on the shelf, the bungee cord clipped to his collar. An annoying sight, but not unexpected. The unexpected part was this big, shaved-headed dude who came strolling up like he was going to turn toward the office door, but instead noticed the car and stopped dead. He leaned closer, spotted Griffie, and sort of jolted, like he’d had one of those finger-in-light-socket incidents that follow light-bulbs-breaking-off incidents, which I’d witnessed perhaps too often.
The big, shaved-headed dude looked over at the skinny, bare-chested dude and said something. The skinny, bare-chested dude said something back and pointed at the door of the building. After that, the shaved-headed dude moved very quickly, whipping out a knife, slashing through the bungee cord, and grabbing Griffie. Then he jammed Griffie into his jacket pocket and hurried away, down the alley and out of sight. The skinny, bare-chested dude stood with his mouth open.
I … I was at a loss. At a loss? How strange! I’d never been at a loss, hadn’t even known what that was, until right now. On the one hand, as humans say, I had no need for Griffie whatsoever in my life
, so the shaved-headed dude had done me a solid and we were hunky-dory. On the other hand, the Porsche belonged to me and Bernie. Didn’t anything inside it also belong to me and Bernie? And who was in charge of security for everything without exception belonging to me and Bernie?
There’s a bark I have for getting everyone’s attention in no uncertain terms. It’s thrilling to have a sound like that come out of you—try it sometime. Sylvia Rottoni actually covered her ears, a very pleasing sight.
“Oh my god! Chet!” Bernie rushed over, began patting me here and there, like … like a vet in a hurry! As if … as if there was something wrong with me! Imagine my frustration! I rose up to my tallest height and placed my paws on the window, my breath clouding the glass.
Bernie glanced out. “I don’t—” He took another look and saw what there was to see—namely, an absence of Griffie.
And then we were on our way. Sylvia Rottoni picked up a phone as we zoomed out the door.
Five
“So stupid of me,” Bernie said, reaching into the Porsche, a remark that made no sense and therefore forgotten by me at once. “I should have assumed he could chew through anything, including…” Bernie unhooked what was left of the bungee cord from the gearshift and gave it a close look. “Hmm. Teeth didn’t do this, Chet, not even a set like his. Straight cut like that? Had to be done with…” He started walking down the alley, in the wrong direction if following Griffie was the plan. I steered him gently around, and we headed the other way.
“Smell something, huh?” Bernie said.
Hard to know how to handle that one. Always was the answer, but perhaps not helpful. I concentrated on my work, following a powerful stream of Griffie scent mixed with a trickle of male human scent of no particular distinction, other than a faint garlic aroma. Rick has it, too, in his breath but also coming off his feet, which I took to sniffing practically every day when I was living at his place after the saguaro case. “What the heck’s so interesting about my feet?” he’d said, completely baffled. There’s fun to be had in small ways.
But back to Bernie and me in the alley, moving at a good pace now, what with the trail being so easy-peasy. “Onto something, aren’t you, big guy?” he said. “I’ve heard that ferrets—especially the males—have a distinct odor, but I never picked it up from Griffie.”
I paused for a moment, not my body, which was busy working, but my mind. Bernie hadn’t picked up Griffie’s smell? That was a stunner. It would be like me … I couldn’t even think what. That’s how bad it was. I made up my mind that very instant to stick by Bernie’s side always and forever, and was just remembering that I had already made up my mind about that a long time ago when a powerful new smell entered the scent stream. This was a car smell, specifically the slightly smoky one they make when just starting up. Griffie, garlic man, and car-starting-up smells got mixed into a small sort of cone and then began flowing together down the alley. This car—with Griffie and the garlic guy in it, if you’re following along—came to the end of the alley and turned onto a busy street. I kept on going to the point where the scent stream finally got swallowed up in the mighty river of traffic smells, and even a little farther, in case we got lucky. But we did not. I sat down on the sidewalk.
“Good job,” Bernie said.
We turned around and went back down the alley. The skinny, bare-chested man with the dolly was taking another cigarette break, looking at us sideways. We stopped in front of him.
“Hi, there,” Bernie said.
“Uh-huh.”
Bernie pointed to the Porsche. “That’s our car.”
The man nodded.
“Did you happen to notice anyone taking an interest in it while we were gone?”
The man puffed a pretty little smoke ball into the air. I got a crazy urge to fetch it! Instead, I let it drift away and disappear. We were on the job, after all, and if you’re a pro, you behave like a pro. Better to know what the job is, of course, but not necessary. That’s what being a pro is all about. Hey! What a thought! All of a sudden, I understood my work like never before. When a breakthrough comes along, you want to move. Would jumping up on this bare-chested dude be good or bad? Perhaps bad, but it was real close.
The man’s eyes shifted toward the window of Sylvia Rottoni’s office. “Interest? Like—?”
“Like looking inside the car, for example. Reaching in, maybe. Possibly taking something.”
“Nope,” said the bare-chested man. “Don’t know nothin’ about any of that.”
Bernie took out his money clip. I loved the money clip, a skull-and-bones money clip with two angry red eyes. It was kind of new, won by Bernie off a dude name of Bruiser in an arm wrestling contest we stumbled on by accident at a meeting of Civil War reenactors, whatever those were, the whole thing very confusing, but the point was that skull! Those angry red eyes! Good things keep happening to us, me and Bernie.
Meanwhile, Bernie was sliding a bill out of the money clip, the bill with the narrow-faced guy on it. “This helps some folks think harder,” he said.
Did that mean eating it would help you think harder? Although there was nothing wrong with my own thinking, not that I knew of, I considered making a play for that bill myself. How could it hurt? But before I took the next step, the bare-chested dude’s eyes shifted to the window again, and he said, “Let’s go for a little walk.”
We walked down the alley, me on one side of the bare-chested dude and Bernie on the other, which is how we handle walks with strangers, especially strangers we meet on a case. Was this a case? A case means someone is paying. I searched my mind for who that could be, came up with zip.
We stopped in the shadow of a big dumpster. “Yeah,” said the bare-chested dude. “I saw, like, what you said.”
“Meaning?” said Bernie.
The bare-chested dude pointed back down the alley. “Looking in the car, reaching in, taking something, all that.”
“You saw someone do that?”
“Yup.” The bare-chested dude held out his hand.
Bernie ignored it. “Man or woman?” he said.
“Man, of course.”
“Why of course?” said Bernie.
“Huh? I don’t get ya.”
Sometimes in the middle of things, Bernie takes a deep breath. I’ve never been sure what it means, but he did it now. “Describe him.”
The bare-chested dude squeezed his eyes shut, not a good look on him. “Little black guy. Jeans and a T-shirt. Wore one of them do-rags. Red. Not the real bright kind, more like Alabama.”
“Alabama?”
“The Crimson Tide.” He opened his eyes. “Crimson. A crimson do-rag. That’s all I can tell you. But not too shabby, huh?” He held out his hand again.
“You’re sure it wasn’t a big white guy with a shaved head?”
“Course I’m sure. Think I can’t tell a big white guy from a little black guy?”
Bernie gazed down at him. “What’s your name?”
Usually people come up with their names pretty quick, but not always, in our business. This was one of those not-always times. “Rico,” said the bare-chested man.
“Any last name?”
Rico licked his lips. “Miller.”
“Rico Miller?” Bernie said.
“That’s right. Now I get my money or not?”
“First let’s hear exactly what the little black guy did.”
“Just like you said. He checked out the car. Then he took out a box cutter, I think it was, but it might have been a pocketknife, and he reached inside. I couldn’t see his hands, like for what he was doing, but when he straightened up, he was holding this little critter. I thought it was one of them stuffed toys until it wriggled around. Couldn’t tell you what it was, kind of like a giant squirrel. Then the guy walked thataway. All she wrote, man.” Rico held out his hand again.
“Anything you want to add or change?”
“About what?”
“Your story.”
Rico shook his head.
“That’s it, A to Z.”
Bernie handed him the money. Paying meant we were on a case. That was the good news. But us doing the paying: that was new. Had Bernie tweaked our business plan? I came close to … to doubting Bernie! Oh, how bad of me! I got myself back with the program and pronto. If Bernie thought the business plan needed tweaking, then that was that. I realized something for the very first time: we were going to be rich. My tail got going like nobody’s business. I almost missed the dude looking down from a rooftop across the alley, a broad-shouldered type in a tracksuit and one of those flat caps. Nothing interesting so far, but then a breeze blew his tracksuit jacket open, and I spotted a small holster on his belt. A bark came out of me, pretty much on its own.
“Chet? Some problem?”
Bernie glanced up at the rooftop. The broad-shouldered dude was gone. Packing iron and wearing a tracksuit didn’t exactly go together, but it didn’t not go together either. Not in these parts, amigo.
* * *
“Nothing in the universe,” Bernie said as we drove through Spaghetti Junction, where all the freeways meet, up and around, over and down, then back up and almost out and finally around and around and out, always the part where I get pukey, “can go faster than the speed of light.” He raised one finger. “But that doesn’t apply to the universe itself, as whole, if you see what I mean.”
I believed I came very close, might have reached full understanding had it not been for the pukeyness. Pukeyness can be a distraction, as you may or may not know. Meanwhile, Bernie tapped out something on his phone, and very soon came a ping. He glanced at the screen and popped the phone in the glove box. Sometimes there were Slim Jims in there, but not today. Would a Slim Jim make you more or less pukey? Had to be less, or otherwise life made no sense.
“So suppose,” Bernie went on, “you’d somehow gotten a toehold in a fold of the universe where you’d be moving faster than the speed of light. Therefore when you gazed into it—the universe is what I’m talking about—you’d be gazing back in time. You could solve every crime that had ever been! We could see where Mavis went after she drove away in the Kia. We could go further back and find out what she’s scared of. We could see where Griffie is. I wonder if a program could be designed that would simulate…” His voice faded away, a lucky break for me because something about the skin of the universe was about to make me barf all over the car. I stuck my head over the side, took some deep breaths, felt better. The next thing I knew, we were parking in front of Valley PD HQ, not the old one but the brand-new one we’d be paying for forever, Bernie said, meaning we’d have to ramp things up.
Tender Is the Bite Page 4