Tender Is the Bite

by Spencer Quinn

  “These forces,” Bernie said and then chewed his food for a while. “They go dormant for weeks or months, even years, and then all of a sudden…” So this was about the sign? I was leaning yes. He took another bite. “Propagation of the species … no denying the power, but still—” He turned to me. “But are we just puppets? And are the strings our emotions?”

  I didn’t like the sound of this at all. I changed my mind about the sign, and now leaned no.

  He went back to gazing out the window. “On the other hand, is that whole approach—call it cerebral or scientific—a dead end? She’s flesh and blood, and our time’s not infinite.”

  She? Who would that be? As for the sign—out of the picture for sure.

  “So why not pull the trigger, huh, big guy? Or … or has it already been pulled?”

  This was a bit of a surprise, but maybe gunplay was exactly what we needed right now. I gazed at Bernie: always the smartest human in the room, and he was mine. Were we headed outside to grab the .38 Special out of the glove box? Or was this about the single-shot .410 in the safe behind the waterfall painting in the office? I never found out, because at that moment, someone knocked on the door, a man, to be specific, telling man knocks from women knocks being one of the easiest parts of my job. By this time, I was actually at the door, letting whatever man was on the other side know that I was mad at myself for not hearing his approach and being there before the knock—which was the right way of doing things—and that I was going to take it out on him in no uncertain terms! Or would that be a no-no from Bernie’s point of view? I hadn’t made up my mind about that before Bernie came up behind me and opened the door. My mind had stopped paying attention in any case. It had become a sort of bright flashing light, sending me a message: CAT! CAT! CAT!

  A man stood on our doorstep. He was maybe a bit younger than Bernie, had slicked-back hair, and wore a suit, tie, and a blue shirt with a white collar. Did any of that matter? He smelled of cat. What else did you need to know? A surprising number of people smell of cat, by the way, and there are also those who smell of cat and of my kind at the same time. What sense does that make? But never mind that now. I waited for Bernie to say, “Not today,” and close the door in his face.

  That didn’t happen. Instead, the man smiled a very white-toothed smile and said, “Bernie Little?”

  “Correct,” said Bernie.

  “Nice to meet you. My name’s Scott Kyle.”

  “In that order?” Bernie said.

  I didn’t get that, and neither did Scott Kyle, unless he was looking confused for some other reason. He blinked and went on, “And this must be Chet. He’s, uh, bigger than I imagined. Aren’t you, fella?”

  Scott Kyle raised his hand like he was going to pat me and then changed his mind. So far, he was making a poor impression. I’m actually capable of closing the door by myself and have done it on several occasions. Why not now? I couldn’t think of one good reason.

  “Does he always accompany you on assignments?” Scott Kyle said.

  “We’re a team,” Bernie said.

  “I hear you,” said Scott Kyle, a good thing because what Bernie had just said was very important. “Is he good on planes?”

  “Why?”

  “Because the job I have for you involves travel.”

  “What kind of job?”

  Scott Kyle looked past us, into the house. “May I come in?”

  That was a tough one. Did a job mean money changed hands? I used to think that, but lately, there’d been a job or two where it didn’t. Such as this whole complicated thing that had begun with Mavis! It sure felt like a job, but was anyone paying? When was the last time I’d even laid eyes on any green? I couldn’t remember.

  Bernie stepped aside to let Scott Kyle in. A tough call but the right one, in my opinion, although I held my ground, forcing Scott Kyle to move around me. Hard to explain why. It just felt correct.

  We went down the hall and into the office. We have a very nice office with waterfall paintings on the walls—one of which hides the safe with the single-shot .410 waiting inside—and an elephant-pattern rug on the floor. Once, we’d worked a case involving an elephant name of Peanut. She’d never been in the office, but ever since that case, our elephant-pattern rug smells of her. What’s that all about? And here’s another puzzle—not a single person who’s been in the office, not Charlie or Suzie or any client, has ever mentioned the elephant smell. Don’t humans talk about missing the elephant in the room? But they still don’t get it!

  I like when Bernie sits behind the desk, because that means business, but he hardly ever does. Instead, he sat on the couch, Scott Kyle taking the visitor chair in front of the desk, and me sitting in the open doorway in case Scott made a break for it. Unlikely with a potential client, but I’d seen it happen, the lady involved hurling a stiletto-heeled shoe at Bernie, probably not a concern today.

  “I work for McGregor,” Scott said.

  “Who’s he?” said Bernie.

  “McGregor Worldwide Business Consulting?” said Scott. “Surely you’ve heard of us?”

  “It’s unavoidable,” said Bernie.

  Scott laughed one of those nervous little laughs you hear from time to time. I’ve begun to think they mean the laugher is off-balance. Getting the other guy off-balance is important in boxing. Bernie mentions it whenever he gives Charlie a boxing lesson, those boxing lessons being a little secret by the way, between me, Charlie, and Bernie.

  But not on any account including Leda. When was Bernie going to teach Charlie that sweet uppercut? I couldn’t wait. In fact, I very badly wanted to see that uppercut this very minute! Do it, Bernie! Do it! Do it on this cat-stinking dude with the two-color shirt!

  But Bernie did not.

  “I work in the energy department,” Scott said. “East European division. Ever been to Ukraine?”

  “No.”

  “Vast potential, and not just in energy. We partner with some very smart and motivated folks over there. They face a big challenge, of course, too obvious to name, but that makes them the little guy, and you have a reputation of looking out for the little guy.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that,” Bernie said.

  “You’re pulling my leg,” said Scott.

  Whoa. Nothing like that was going on, and besides, it’s out of the question in boxing. You get leg-pulling in mixed martial arts, of course, although Bernie’s not a fan and therefore neither am I. But all in all, if the uppercut was off the table, I’d settle for a leg pull or two.

  Scott rubbed his hands together. Sometimes that means a human is starting over. “Uh, well, very, um, self-effacing of you. Commendable even, in these self-promoting times. But I should correct myself a bit. When I say little guys, I’m only talking about their relationship to the bear. In terms of financial wherewithal, the top ones can compete on a global basis. And among the top ones, maybe at the pinnacle, is the particular client who’s interested in you.”

  Oh no. I don’t mean the money part, which I was pretty sure Scott was talking about. I mean the bear. I’d dealt with bears once in my career—specifically, a mama bear whose cubs I’d been playing with in the nicest way when she happened on the scene. With many things in life—Slim Jims, for example—once is not enough, not even close. But with bears, it was too much. I glanced over at the waterfall painting that hid the safe. We were going to need the .410.

  Bernie stayed on the couch, perhaps planning to get the .410 a little later. And why not? We had time, wherever this Ukraine place happened to be. Bernie’s very sensible. A lot of people seem to miss that.

  “Who’s the client?” he said.

  “These people have their own ways of doing business,” Scott said. “Folkways, if you will.”

  “You’re not telling me the name of the client?” said Bernie.

  “Not at this juncture,” Scott said. “My brief is to gauge your level of interest.”

  “Interest in what?”

  “Why, the assignment we�
�ve been discussing.”

  “What we’ve been discussing is too nebulous to be called an assignment.”

  Nebulous? Whatever that was, I’d never heard it before, not from Bernie or anyone else. A moment comes along in every case when you know you’re going to win. This was one of those moments.

  “I take your point,” Scott said. “You can say, how do we judge another culture, but that won’t get us anywhere in practical terms. Would it help if I mentioned the fee?”

  “Give it a whirl,” Bernie said.

  Scott’s lips turned up on one side like a smile was on the way, but down on the other like it wasn’t. Was he off-balance again? It hit me for the first time that Bernie could box with words! Who’s got it better than me?

  Scott took out his phone, tapped it once or twice, read from the screen. “One hundred K on signing the employment contract, twenty-five K per week for three months. Should your services no longer be required before that period is up, you will still be paid for three months’ work, and in the event of a satisfactory performance, there will be a one hundred K bonus at the end.”

  Was that a lot? A little? Somewhere in between? I was completely lost. Bernie gazed at Scott. What was he thinking? I had no idea. The silence went on and on, and at last, Scott spoke.

  “Naturally, this is an opening position, subject to any negotiation initiated by you.”

  I understood none of that, and perhaps Bernie didn’t either, because he continued gazing—although no longer at Scott Kyle but simply into the distance—and remained silent.

  And now Scott did smile. “I hadn’t been led to believe you were such a hard bargainer.”

  Bernie a hard bargainer? So good to hear! In all this time, I hadn’t realized that. I felt better about everything.

  Meanwhile, Bernie had turned to him. “By who?”

  “Various sources,” Scott said. “We like to keep the names confidential for the protection of all involved.”

  “Sure thing,” said Bernie. “But we’d need the name of the person we’d be working for.”

  “I’m not authorized to reveal that information,” Scott said. “But in effect, it would be me.”

  “Do you see the contradiction between those two statements, Scott?”

  Scott’s eyes shifted. Then he looked at Bernie in a whole new way. It reminded me of the look I’ve seen in the eyes of a perp or two when we finally slap on the cuffs.

  “I think you should speak to Olek.” Scott did something on his phone. “He can be here in twenty minutes.”

  “Who’s Olek?” said Bernie.

  “He’ll explain.” Scott rose. “A pleasure meeting you, Bernie. I’ll show myself out.”

  I followed him to the front door, of course, goes without mentioning, followed him nice and close. He glanced back in an uneasy way.

  “Maybe I should have brought you a treat.”

  “It never hurts,” Bernie called from the office.

  Eleven

  From the side window in our front hall, I’ve got a good view of the side window in the Parsonses’ front hall. Iggy was there now, doing nothing much, mostly just letting his amazingly long tongue hang out. After a while he noticed me, went yip-yip-yip, and disappeared.

  Bernie came into the front hall. “Anything going on, big guy?”

  The obvious answer was no. The unobvious answer was yes, and that happened to be the right one. I knew Iggy.

  Bernie turned his gaze toward the sign on the Parsonses’ lawn. “The Parsonses are for Erlanger. Heydrich is for Wray. Is there any more we need to know?” He shook his head. “That must sound pretty simpleminded.”

  Which made no sense at all, unless a simple mind was the best kind, and Bernie had the best kind of mind, no discussion. When it comes to minds, the name Einstein gets thrown around, but you’d be smarter to bet on Bernie. Can this Einstein dude shoot spinning dimes out of the air? How’s his uppercut? Do sweet uppercuts happen all by themselves in a—what would you call it? Mindless? Yes, exactly! In a mindless way? No way, amigo. Bernie clobbers Einstein in a first-round knockout. Case closed.

  “Instinctively, I’ve just stayed away from politics, but is that…”

  He wandered off down the hall and into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Iggy had returned to the side window. He stood there, no longer letting his tongue hang out. Instead, he now had a sandwich, specifically a peanut butter and jam sandwich, very clear from the reddish-brown smears on his face. I’m not at all a fan of peanut butter, which sticks to the roof of my mouth in a very unpleasant way, and I have no interest in peanut butter sandwiches. But I wanted that particular one, Iggy’s peanut butter sandwich. I wanted it very badly.

  Iggy seemed in no hurry to actually eat the sandwich. Instead, he was content to simply stand in the window with the sandwich in his mouth and his odd, crooked eyes on me.

  “Chet? What’s all that barking? Someone at the door?”

  Barking? I heard no barking. And if there was barking, it had nothing to do with any—

  Knock, knock.

  Oh no! Someone at the door and I’d missed it again? What a wretched day I was having! Was it all Iggy’s fault? No. I knew better than that. But how come—

  Bernie came into the hall. “Good boy, Chet.” He gave me a nice pat. “You’re the best.”

  My tail shot straight up in the air, almost taking me with it. Across the way, Mr. Parsons had stumped up behind Iggy, and Iggy, so busy showing me the peanut butter sandwich, hadn’t noticed. Mr. Parsons leaned down in his slow, creaky way … and grabbed the sandwich! The look on Iggy’s face! What a moment! I was on top of the world!

  Bernie opened the door. On the other side stood a big guy in a tracksuit and white sneaks. He had short blond hair, broad shoulders, and a crooked nose that reminded me of Bernie’s, except it wasn’t beautiful, and held a flat cap with short brim at his side.

  “Olek?” Bernie said.

  “Olek Bondarenko, at your service.” They shook hands. Is it worth mentioning that Olek’s hand might have been slightly larger than Bernie’s? I think not. Much more important was this feeling that I knew Olek from somewhere. If I smelled a human, even just once, or heard one of them speak, then they’re in my head forever. Olek’s smell was standard human male mixed with a hint of a reddish soup I’d come across on … on a case involving fake rabbis! Had I been thinking about that case not so long ago? A case, by the way, that I hadn’t understood from beginning to end. Had Olek been involved? His voice was new to me, but the smell? I wasn’t sure. The case of the fake rabbis had a way of spreading confusion in my mind.

  “Many thanks for seeing me on short of notice,” Olek said. “Please to enter?”

  “Sure,” said Bernie, stepping aside.

  But instead of coming in, Olek first turned to a long black car parked in the driveway and snapped his fingers. Finger snapping is an interesting human subject that maybe we can get back to later. Right now, Olek’s finger snap brought the driver—a really enormous guy, also in a tracksuit—jogging up our driveway with a bottle gift wrapped in black and gold. He handed it to Olek.

  “Anything in addition?” the driver said.

  “That’s all, Vanko,” said Olek.

  Vanko jogged back to the car. We went inside, me last, standard MO with a stranger in the house.

  “How fine a house,” Olek said, looking around. “I am always amazed at the building quality of even the middle-class American home.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Bernie said.

  “And perhaps for our little talk, there is outdoor seating area?”

  “If you don’t mind the heat.”

  “Mind?” said Olek. “Don’t Ukrainians grow up cold to the bones? We are lovers of the heat.”

  * * *

  Not long after that, we were out back on the patio. Beyond the patio lies the canyon where we take walks, me and Bernie, and chase after javelinas, Bernie not involved in that part except for that one time with the javelina and the car keys, too complicated t
o go into now. At the back of the patio stands a very tall gate not leapable by any member of the nation within. What’s that expression? In theory? Something like that. Not leapable in theory. And in the middle of the patio sits the swan fountain, now silent and waterless.

  Olek walked slowly around the fountain. “Beautiful,” he said, reaching out and stroking the swan’s neck.

  “Uh, thanks,” said Bernie.

  “It is reminding me of my sister when we were kids. She danced in Lebedyne Ozero.”

  “Swan Lake?” Bernie said.

  Olek turned to him in surprise. “You speak Ukrainian?”

  “I just guessed.”

  Olek laughed. “Just guessed! That is confirming you are the man for the job.”

  “What exactly is the job?”

  “That we will get to.” Olek set the gift-wrapped bottle on the table. “Would glasses be possible?”

  “Sure.” Bernie went into the house.

  Olek sat at the table. He looked at me. I looked at him. “What is the cost of a dog like you?” he said.

  I had no idea, didn’t even understand the question. But in that moment of not understanding, I remembered the name of the reddish soup that I was smelling off Olek, first encountered by me in the fake rabbis case. Borscht! That was it. Then came the obvious question. Was Olek a rabbi imposter? He didn’t look like the other rabbi imposters, not at all, but he smelled like them. I was actually wondering about the wisdom of grabbing him by the pant leg then and there when Bernie returned with a couple of glasses and sat down.

  “Here is a gift for you,” Olek said and began tearing the wrapping off the bottle. Didn’t the gift-getter usually do that? Maybe not, and besides, I had the feeling that Olek wasn’t from the Valley, perhaps came from a place where things were different.

  “Best Ukrainian vodka,” Olek said. “The water is coming from a magical spring in an island in the Dnieper.”

  “Magical?” said Bernie.

  Olek poured vodka—which up until now I’d only seen women drink—into the glasses. “Do you think marketing is only in America?”