Tender Is the Bite

by Spencer Quinn

  “You didn’t blow up that mine, maybe not knowing Mickey was there?”

  “Hell no. Where are you getting this bullshit?”

  “Didn’t I already tell you to never mind that?” Sylvia said. “I know the whole story, except for the most important part. Is he alive?”

  Bernie shook his head.

  “Then where’s his body?” Sylvia said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then how do you know he’s dead?”

  “I saw the body with my own eyes.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  Bernie’s phone lay on the table. He tapped at it, then shoved it toward her. Sylvia leaned down and gazed at the screen. For just a moment, I thought I saw how she’d look as a real old lady. Then she drew herself up and said, “Photos can be messed with.”

  Bernie shrugged.

  Sylvia reddened. She glared at Bernie and then turned away. Her voice amped way down. “I want the body. The family wants the body.”

  “Why?” said Bernie.

  “How can you ask that? He needs a proper burial. Mickey was an asshole, but he was our asshole.”

  Bernie nodded like that made sense. “I think he was living in that mine, at least part-time. Why would he be doing that?”

  “No idea,” said Sylvia.

  “Was he afraid of someone?”

  “Wouldn’t have been the first time.”

  “Any idea who?” said Bernie.

  Sylvia shook her head.

  “What do you know about EZ AZ Desert Tours?”

  “A dinky little outfit,” said Sylvia. “We shipped them some ATVs a few years ago. Mickey drove the truck—he was still working part-time for us back then. Turned out, the real business was drugs. The couple that ran it got locked up, and the wife’s father took over. Supposed to be legit now. I hear they added mini golf.”

  “Was Mickey involved in the drug running?”

  “I’d be surprised. Lone wolves don’t do well in the drug business.” Sylvia pointed her finger at Bernie. “So what’s it gonna be, yes or no?”

  “Not following you,” Bernie said.

  “No? I thought it was clear. Are you going to find him for us?”

  “You want to hire us to find the body?”

  “And whoever killed him,” Sylvia said, now cracking her gum. I love that sound, but coupled with the fact she still had the gun pointed at Bernie, it made me a little uneasy. “What’s your price?”

  “Before we go there, who told you about the mine, the explosion, all that?”

  “I got my sources.”

  “We’ll need the name.”

  “I don’t blab.” Sylvia cracked her gum again.

  “How about I give you the name, and then we move on?”

  “Try it.”

  “Von Ellis.”

  Sylvia nodded a tiny nod.

  “How well do you know him?” Bernie said.

  “Maybe not well enough.” Sylvia lowered the gun, gestured with her chin at the bottle. “What you got there?”

  * * *

  Sometimes my mind gets a bit tired. Not my body—my body is another story, can go on and on forever. But the mind can get overworked, and when that happens, the body lies down. Too bad the mind can’t just lie down on its own and let the body keep keepin’ on. In short, my mind needed to put its feet up, so my body lay down by the swan fountain on the patio, the soft splashing sounds just perfect for the mood I was in. I had a not-very-nice thought. Please, Bernie, forget about the evaporation effect, whatever it was.

  Sylvia, sitting at the table opposite Bernie, tapped the vodka bottle with the tip of her fingernail, a long, gleaming fingernail with a long white part at the end, also gleaming.

  “What’s this writing?”

  “Cyrillic.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  “Where’s it from?”

  “Ukraine.”

  “Don’t know anything about the place.”

  “Me, either.”

  “But it’s the best damn vodka I ever tasted,” Sylvia said. She picked up her glass and took a sip that turned into a gulp.

  “Keep the bottle.”

  “Gonna bill me for it?”

  Bernie laughed.

  “What’s funny? You think I haven’t been billed for shit like that?”

  “But you caught it every time,” Bernie said. “We charge three fifty a day plus expenses—which actually can include drinks in certain cases, but not this one—with a thousand-dollar retainer.”

  Sylvia whipped out a credit card and flicked it to Bernie, a move I’d never seen from a client before. I knew right then she was good for the money, not true of all our clients. Bernie caught the card no problem of course, his hand folding softly around it. He went into the house for the little credit card machine.

  Sylvia looked my way. “Gonna find him for me, Chet? I’m counting on you.”

  I’d do my very best to find whoever it was, but meanwhile, didn’t we have a problem? How could Sylvia be the client? Wasn’t there a client already—namely, Olek? Who was paying us big green to go surfing in San Diego, or possibly somewhere else, the name forgotten? We’d never had two clients at once before. How could that work? Bernie and I would have to split—whoa. I didn’t want to go there. So I didn’t. Some problems can be solved without moving a muscle.

  Bernie came back with the credit card machine. “What can you tell us about Johnnie Lee Goetz?” he said.

  Great question. For one thing, I remembered her—nice young lady with her head half-shaved. Hadn’t we first met Griffie at her place? Chet the Jet—in the picture. I stretched full out, got more comfortable. My eyelids started in on heavy plans of their own.

  “Not a whole lot,” Sylvia said. “Apparently, she’s good with horses. Works for a trainer up in hill country. Horses was how they met, her and Mickey. He likes—he liked—to bet the ponies, one of his many vices.”

  Horses? Ponies? Normally an unsettling subject, but now they were shrinking, shrinking … and gone.

  Thirteen

  The Arroyo Seco is always dry, but now it wasn’t, and instead had turned into a lovely little stream of bubbling blue water. I drifted down this lovely little stream with my nose just above the surface and my paws not moving at all. Had I ever felt more relaxed? The stream ended in a cloud of white haze. I couldn’t see it, although I knew it was there, white haze and nothing but white haze waiting at the end of the stream, a very far way off, so I wouldn’t reach it for ages.

  After not very long, I began to notice that my stream was speeding up. At first, that was kind of fun—who’s not a fan of speed?—but the water kept flowing faster and faster and faster, way beyond the border of pleasantness, so I twisted around and started swimming the other way. Swimming is just running in the water, so if you’re a good runner, you’re good swimmer—and, of course, they don’t call me Chet the Jet for nothing. I swam and swam, my legs really getting into it, churning through the water so fast that—

  But no. I was getting nowhere. This stream, lovely at the beginning, turned out to be nasty and also much stronger than me. It had a mind of its own, and the only thought in that mind was, Sweep Chet away. In a situation like that, you don’t go gently, at least not me. I swam and swam and fought and fought and—

  “Chet? Bad dream, big guy?”

  I opened my eyes, kept swimming for an instant—and there was Bernie, looking down at me, his eyes worried. I went still. We were out on the patio, the swan fountain quietly splashing nearby. The sun was lower in the sky now, and Bernie had changed from shorts and a T-shirt to into a work outfit, meaning jeans and a T-shirt. I jumped right up. A bad dream? How embarrassing! I’d worried Bernie for no reason. I hurried over to the fountain, slurped up lots of water—even had the crazy thought of drinking the whole fountain dry. But why? No answer came. I stopped what I was doing and glanced around. Where was Sylvia Rottoni? I felt the smallest bit out of the
picture, not a good feeling at all. Now would be a good time to sit on Bernie’s feet. I turned and saw he was headed into the house. I bounded forward and beat him through the doorway.

  “Chet? Whoa!”

  One thing about Bernie—he has excellent balance for a human, so no surprise he managed to stay on his feet, or just about.

  * * *

  There was a bowl of kibble with—oh, how nice—some crumbled biscuit treat mixed in, waiting for me in the kitchen. Can you go from feeling no hunger to being out of your mind with it in no time flat? Oh, but yes! Try it sometime!

  “Are you even tasting that?”

  What a question! I was tasting like you wouldn’t believe. Maybe this was one of Bernie’s jokes, but glancing over to check the look on his face was not a possibility. Meanwhile, I could hear him tapping at his phone.

  “Olek? Bernie Little, here.”

  Olek’s voice came over the speaker. “At your service, Bernie, my friend.” He laughed. “On my screen at this very minute is Weather.com. Temperature in Kauai eighty-two Fahrenheit, light breeze, not a cloud in the whole of the sky. And tomorrow is the same!”

  “Uh,” Bernie said. “A beautiful place, I’m sure, and you can’t beat the climate. But it will have to wait, at least for us.”

  “Explain, please?”

  “We’re not taking the job,” Bernie said. “It’s a great offer, and I appreciate it, but no.”

  “No? No? What are you—” Olek paused, amped down the volume. “Is this about money? Did I not make clear that our offer was not hard line? We are flexible, Bernie. Name me a figure.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bernie said. “The timing’s wrong.”

  There was a long pause. Then Olek again said, “Explain, please?” His voice had grown even softer, but somehow more clear.

  “I can’t fit it into the schedule right now.”

  “What is this schedule? Other work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of the private investigation kind?”

  “Correct.”

  Another pause, this one not as long. “It is a case?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do not ask the details, only does it pay like our offering?”

  “Not even close.”

  I paused over my bowl, not quite done. Was I hearing right? Was it possible that we were walking away from a stack of cold hard cash that Olek was paying us for a job that was all about surfing? For the sake of some other job about which I knew nothing—except that it paid a lot less? I snapped up the last of my dinner, kind of taking it out on the kibble, if that makes any sense, and I believe it does.

  “Not even close?” said Olek. “Who would turn down a lot of money for a lot less of money, I ask myself. And the only answer I can think is a man of honor who has already agreed to the small job. Is that our situation, my friend?”

  “Roughly,” said Bernie. “But it has nothing to do with honor. It’s just how we work.”

  “Very good. I clap my hands. At the same time, why not make happy all the players?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We, Romanovych Energy, will hire the private investigator of your best recommendation to take over the duties of this other case. Making you free, Bernie, to accept our offer in good … what is the word?”

  “Conscience.”

  “Yes. I am liking that American saying. We have something of the same, although different in the end. When all is done and said, isn’t that the final truth?”

  “We are different in the end?”

  “Ha ha. That is such a Ukrainian thought. Do you have Ukrainian blood, Bernie?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “So American to not know. I am Ukrainian through and through.”

  “Have you taken a DNA test?”

  Now came another pause, this the longest. “What is your suggestion?” From the sound of his voice, I could almost think Olek wasn’t liking Bernie so much anymore, but that was impossible. Bernie was Bernie, and once you liked him—as I was sure Olek had up to now—you liked him forever.

  “Just jerking your chain,” Bernie said.

  “I wear no chain.”

  “No, of course not, sorry. And I appreciate your suggestion on hiring another investigator. But it just isn’t going to work.”

  “This other case,” Olek said. “For sure it came first? I am meaning first in time.”

  Bernie glanced my way. My bowl totally cleaned out, I was licking my muzzle and pretty much involved in only that when I saw Bernie was biting his lip. That hardly ever happens, and I’ve never understood it. Does it mean he has to say something that isn’t quite tr—no, I couldn’t go there. Bernie is straight up, 24-7, which is an enormous number, way out of my league.

  He took a breath. “Yes,” he said.

  “Then,” said Olek, “why no mention of this first case when we are speaking before?”

  Bernie’s mouth opened, but whatever he was about to say stayed unsaid because the phone went click at the other end. A strange picture popped up in my mind, a picture of a man on a rooftop. His face was about to come into view, but before it could, Bernie said, “Let’s roll, big guy.”

  Poof!

  * * *

  Sometimes when we’re on the road and Bernie’s thinking his hardest, his hands take care of the driving all by themselves. Like right now, as we headed out of town and up into hill country. Hill country air is softer than Valley air and full of country smells. My nose handled them, while the rest of me concentrated on Bernie’s hands. This may sound odd, but they were like two tiny Bernies, each with a tiny mind. Don’t get me wrong—Bernie’s hands are big as far as men’s hands go, big and beautiful if you’re an admirer of a bent finger or two, or a swollen knuckle, and I am. And his mind is big and beautiful, too. But back to the minds in his hands, which work as a team, a two-person team just like … like me and Bernie! I felt myself at the edge of an enormous thought, but it bumped up against another almost-thought, kind of waiting in line, specifically the thought about the man on the rooftop, and then—oh no!

  Poof! Again.

  Bernie glanced at me. “You’re in a funny mood.”

  I was? First I’d heard of it. But if Bernie said I was in a funny mood, then that was that. I began to think of funny-mood activities, and was still waiting for the first one to come along, when Bernie said, “Two missing women and one missing body, Chet. Yes, it forms a triangle, and I see that, but what kind of triangle? Isosceles? Equilateral? Oblique? You might think it doesn’t matter, except crime is born in relationships, so it helps to picture their geometry.”

  Me? Think geometry didn’t matter? Of course it mattered, if that was Bernie’s take. Geometry mattered more than anything, and whenever we ran into it, I’d be ready. I pawed at my leather seat, but in a hidden, quiet way, not to bother anybody.

  There are lots of ranches in hill country. They all have long dirt driveways and gates with tall side posts and cool crossbars over the top. The crossbar over the gate we drove through was all about a giant rearing horse with six-guns in its two front hooves and a fat cigar in its mouth. Any chance of pulling a U-ee, Bernie? That was my only thought. But no U-ee got pulled. “Billy Baez’s Bucking Bronco Ranch,” Bernie said, and drove straight on. “We may be dealing with a horse or two,” he added as we passed a small ranch house and followed the driveway to a big barn at the end. “Just so you know. In case of … well, just so you know.”

  Oh, I knew, all right. The air was full of horsey smells, somewhat like cattle, actually, but grassier and way more nervous. Horses are prima donnas, each and every one, always moments away from a panic attack. That makes it so tempting to … to … I kept that bad thought to myself.

  A dusty pickup stood by the barn. We parked beside it and walked around to the other side of the barn, which looked out on a racetrack, a lot like the racetrack in town where we’d once bet—not the house but pretty much everything else—on a sure thing name of Prince Theodore, who’d come
in last by so much, arriving all by himself at the finish, that I got the feeling he actually thought he’d won. But he had not, as was very clear the next day when we went to Mr. Singh’s place and pawned Bernie’s grandfather’s watch, our most valuable possession.

  On the near side of the track, a cigar-smoking dude leaned against the rail, stopwatch in hand. On the far side a black horse with a brown mane was galloping toward the turn, a bare-chested jockey in the saddle and leaning forward, his face almost touching the horse’s neck. Horses, at least some of them, can run. There’s good in everyone. That’s one of my core beliefs. But can I just squeeze in the fact that I can gallop, too, amigo? We just don’t give it that fancy name.

  The horse rounded the turn and came pounding down the stretch, the muscles in his chest rippling, his eyes huge and crazy. I had a sudden urge to … not compete, exactly, more like simply to get out there and—

  I felt Bernie’s hand on the back of my neck, very gentle, but there. The horse galloped by us. The cigar-smoking man clicked his stopwatch, peered at it, and said, “Piece of shit.”

  There was some on the track, no doubt about that, but I had no idea which piece he meant and what he wanted done with it. Rolling in it was always a possibility, of course. I kept that in a corner of my mind.

  Bernie and I drew closer. The man heard us and turned, the big-bellied sort of man, so his belly kept turning and then jiggled back into line.

  “Billy Baez?” Bernie said.

  The man spoke around his cigar. “Who’s askin’?” He glanced at us and went back to watching the horse, now trotting down the track, the jockey holding the reins in one hand and checking his phone in the other.

  “Bernie Little,” Bernie said. “And this is Chet.”

  Billy Baez, if that was his name, turned his tiny eyes on me, eyes made even tinier from squinting through cigar smoke.

  “Sizable animal. Wouldn’t be fixin’ to put the fear of god into Capitol Hill, now would he?”

  “Excuse me?” Bernie said.

  Billy Baez twisted his lips to poke the cigar in the direction of the horse, now walking slowly back our way, the jockey still looking down at his phone.