“No, no, no!” cried people in the crowd.
“Who’s gonna bring home the bacon?”
“Wray! Wray! Wray’s okay! Wray’s okay!”
An interesting moment. What was Wray all about? Did we like him? Yes? No? Suddenly, the answer was clear. We liked him. He was going to bring home the bacon. And Erlanger, whoever he happened to be, was not going to bring home the bacon. What else was there to know? But whoa! Why was I even thinking about this? We had a real nervous guy trembling in front of us, with a gun in his pocket. Meanwhile, the crowd was chanting, “Wray’s okay! Wray’s okay! Wray’s okay!” It got louder and louder, folks jumping up and down and pumping their fists in the air. A few were even peeing in their pants, which was crazy. And just when it couldn’t get any louder or crazier or pissier or plain wilder, Neddy stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out his gun, and raised it up, pointing straight at Senator Wray.
Or almost. That last part—the raising up and pointing—may not have happened at all, or if it did, you had to be real quick to see, meaning quicker than the dude who grabbed that gun right out of Neddy’s hand, possibly taking a bit of skin, or perhaps a tiny chunk of flesh, along the way. That dude was me. Bottom line: nobody saw it.
Well, except Bernie. And in our little corner of the screaming, fist-pumping crowd, now that things were happening, they happened fast. First, Neddy cried out in pain. Second, he shot a terrified glance at me and then at Bernie. Then he bolted, springing into the crowd like he’d been flung from a slingshot—slingshots a big subject I hope we can get to later—and vanishing among the bodies. Not really vanishing. There’s no vanishing from me, Neddy smelling the way he did at present. I could have tracked him to the ends of the earth, which I’d heard of but not yet visited. The point being that Bernie didn’t even seem to be in a particular hurry when he took the gun from me and slipped it into his own pocket. Only then did we turn to follow Neddy.
That was when Senator Wray, raising his voice above the crowd, said, “Well, well, well, I believe we have a couple of local celebrities in the house.”
And what was this? He was pointing our way? And not just our way, but right at us? With his other hand, he shushed the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, one of the Valley’s greatest champions of law and order, Mr. Bernie Little! And his four-footed sidekick, Mr. Chet! Well, who’s sidekickin’ who, right, Bernie? Ha ha ha.”
All eyes were suddenly on us? Oh yes. I could feel them.
The crowd got pretty quiet, except for a sort of buzz, that human buzzing for when they think some fun is on the way.
Senator Wray raised his hand toward us and made the come-here motion. “Come on up, Bernie. And Mr. Chet! Let the folks see you.”
Twenty-four
So much confusion! I won’t go into the details because there’s a chance I’d never get out again. But one thing stuck in my mind: Mr. Chet! The senator meant me, of course, but no one had ever called me that before. Part of me liked it—and now here’s the star of our show, Mr. Chet!—and part of me did not. It turned out that the not-liking it part of me was the bigger part. Just call me Chet, pure and simple.
Meanwhile, folks up ahead were making way, and folks behind were encouraging us to “get on up there,” one or two even giving Bernie a gentle push.
“Can you believe that dog?”
“What’s his name?”
“Mr. Chet.”
“Nope, that’s the big shambling fella. The dog’s Mr. Bernie.”
And more like that, only adding to the confusion. Plus Bernie was muttering stuff like “No, thanks, thanks very…” and “Very nice, but we really…” and the next thing, I knew we were up on the stage. The senator came bounding over, a huge smile on his face, grabbed Bernie’s hand, and shook it and shook it. The look in his eyes was probably the coldest I’ve ever seen.
Senator Wray turned toward the crowd. Hey! I’d had no idea it was so big! What a very nice sight! I came close to a bit of prancing around. Then I noticed Bernie noticing the crowd. The sight didn’t seem to make him want to do any prancing at all. In fact, he appeared to get a little smaller. I must have been mistaken. How could there ever be anything small about Bernie? I put that thought away forever and followed Bernie’s gaze to the park boundary where Neddy, a tiny figure at this distance, was opening the door of a small yellow car. He drove away.
“My lucky day!” the senator said. “Folks, this is why I love campaigning. My opponent—as you know if you’ve ever had the pleasure—not!—of seeing him on the stump, does not enjoy campaigning!”
Whatever that was, it brought laughter and more “Wray! Wray! Wray’s okay!” The senator raised his voice. “But I love people! I love the stump! Thanks for taking the time in your busy lives! And once in a while, you find you’ve got an unexpected friend or two among the crowd. Folks, remember that Hollywood star—who’ll remain nameless—that got himself into a pickle here in the Valley some time back? Or those bad guys from back east who were messing with our aquifer—our precious water, my friends? This here’s the team that cracked those cases. How about a big hand for the private eye you never want on your tail, the Valley’s own Bernie Little! And his buddy with the teeth you won’t forget, Mr. Chet!”
“Bernie! Bernie! Mr. Chet! Mr. Chet! Wray! Wray!”
“So glad to see you two here, Bernie,” the senator said. “Very grateful for your support. Course, everyone knows I’ve always been a strong supporter of law enforcement—how about the new Valley PD headquarters downtown, my friends—”
“Wray’s okay!”
“But it’s real good to see law enforcement sayin’ to me—right back attcha, Senator! So a great big Western thank-you, Bernie! And a great big bowwow to you, Mr. Chet! Any message for all these fine folks, Bernie?” The senator stuck the mic in Bernie’s face.
The most beautiful face in the world, in case I haven’t made that clear by now. And it had never been more beautiful! It was the most beautiful sight in this whole … what would you call what had going here at Bandstand Park? Thing? Close enough. Bernie’s face was the most beautiful sight in this whole thing, and without it we’d have only … well, I didn’t know what we’d have. That was as far as I could take it on my own.
Beautiful Bernie, but maybe not totally on top of the situation. That could happen to Bernie, but only in the presence of a certain kind of woman, in my experience. This was new. I made what Bernie calls a mental note to keep an eye on Senator Wray every chance I got.
Bernie just stood there, the mic in his face. He opened his mouth. Would it have surprised me if he’d then closed it, opened it again, and said, “Ah” and “Uh” and “Um”? No, not at all. But it didn’t happen that way. Instead, Bernie looked directly at the senator—like he was on top of the situation after all!—and said, “I can’t speak for law enforcement.”
Senator Wray’s eyes were still icy cold, but I caught a slight flicker in them, the meaning unknown to me. He pulled the mic back and said, “Well, course not, Bernie, my friend, and no one would ever ask you to. I’m sure we’re all grateful for your service. How about you tell all these fine folks about this magnificent specimen we got up here with us?” He shifted the mic back toward Bernie.
Bernie looked over at me. I was standing fairly close beside him, but not touching, and actually considering shifting over to the other side of the senator, so we’d have him between us. But why? Did the senator have anything to do with anything? I remembered him on the deck of the lake house, draining his glass and throwing it into the water. Soon after that, the big black fish leaped right clear of the surface, body flexed in a powerful way that had caught my attention. And now I understood. The fish was angry at Senator Wray for treating the lake that way. I began to get the picture. And moved closer to Bernie, so now we were touching.
Bernie stopped looking at Senator Wray and faced the people. He smiled. “There are many things I could tell you about Chet,” he said, “but I’ll just mention one.” H
ey! His voice was so clear, positively ringing out across Bandstand Park. “He knows us much better than we know him.” Now Bernie turned to the senator and looked him in the eye. He also took the mic away from Senator Wray, not all of a sudden or with much force, just more like they were sharing. The senator’s mouth fell open, and he let go of the mic, easy-peasy.
Still looking at Senator Wray, Bernie spoke into the mic. “Chet can see into the human heart. He can tell the good from the bad.”
One of the senator’s eyes almost shut completely, the eyelid quivering. It made him look very fierce, like one of those big birds that snatches up small animals. We’re not small animals, me and Bernie, which the senator now knew, if he hadn’t known already. He smiled a big white smile—and snatched the mic back.
“Well, folks, what an amazing dog!” he said. “But he’s got nothing on you. You’re the people! Of the people, by the people, for the people. What’s good and what’s bad is up to you! And who’s been on the side of good—on your side!—his whole career?”
“Wray! Wray! Wray’s okay!”
The senator raised his voice over the cheering. “Let’s have a big hand now for our wonderful guests! Thank you for all you do, Bernie and Mr. Chet!”
We headed off the stage to lots of applause. I considered prancing around but oddly enough wasn’t in the mood. We just took the short set of stairs and moved off to the side, Bernie getting clapped on the back and me getting petted a bit, and very soon, we were in the car.
I looked at Bernie. He looked at me. “Consider the hornet’s nest stirred up,” he said.
I didn’t know what to think. This whole visit to Bandstand Park had been confusing, but one thing I knew for sure: the place was hornet-free.
Bernie took Neddy’s gun from his pocket and stuck it in the glove box. He started the car, then paused. “Mr. Chet,” he said. “I kind of like it.”
I did not. I turned and looked out my window.
We hit the road, perfect timing on our part. There’s nothing like a long car ride after a puzzling meetup. I curled up, got comfy, felt the power of the Porsche and the power of the earth itself, coming up through the wheels. A mighty invisible hand placed itself gently on my eyelids and closed them. Rumble, rumble, rumble. Ah, heaven, wherever that happened to be. A voice in my head—Charlie’s actually, which was a first—said, “Of the dogs, by the dogs, for the dogs.” Heaven? Was I there?
* * *
When I awoke, we were in a little forest, and the sinking sun, blobby and red, was behind the trees somewhere like it was floating just above the ground. It couldn’t be floating, of course, since air isn’t water. And yet, balloons did float in the air. Hadn’t I seen some very recently? Oh yes, at Bandstand Park. I sat right up.
And there was Bernie, behind the wheel, steering us safely from wherever we’d been to wherever we were headed. He glanced over at me. “Grab some nice, refreshing shut-eye, Chet?”
Yes, I had. I felt refreshed, no doubt about it. Basically, I have two … what would you call them? While I waited for the answer, Bernie reached for the stick and changed gears. That was it! Gears. I have two gears, fresh and refreshed. Oh, and then there’s sleep. Can’t leave that out. So my life is all about fresh, refreshed, and sleep. Works for me.
Bernie slowed down and parked in front of a yellow trailer up on blocks. Hey! I knew this trailer. It was Neddy’s. So it made perfect sense that Bernie flipped open the glove box and took out Neddy’s gun and put it in his pocket. Neddy’s place, Neddy’s gun—were we cooking or what? We hopped out of the car, me actually hopping. Everything here at Neddy’s looked the same as before, except for his bicycle, previously up on its kickstand, now lying flat on the ground, handlebars twisted in a funny position.
We went to the front door and listened for a moment, which we did by me listening and Bernie watching me listen. I heard nothing. Actually, that wasn’t quite true. What I heard was the sound of an empty home, not quite the same thing, although I couldn’t possibly explain. Uh-oh. That wasn’t quite true either. Was I making out a very faint sound of running water? What a complicated case this was! And who was paying? It came to me right away: Sylvia Rottoni. I felt better. We were good to go.
Bernie knocked. “Neddy?” No response. “Open up, Neddy. We’ve got something of yours.” Still nothing. Bernie knocked harder. More nothing. Bernie tried the door. It opened.
Had things been messy at Neddy’s place on our first visit? That was how I remembered it. You couldn’t call it messy now. It was wrecked. There’s a big difference. Bernie drew the gun and held it at his side. After a bit of confusion, we entered the trailer, me first.
It still smelled of weed and General Tso’s chicken, both smells fainter now. Everything that before had been right side up—chairs, table, desk—was now upside down and smashed, mostly to bits. Same in the bedroom and in the bathroom, where the toilet was in smithereens. A small puddle was spreading on the floor. Bernie reached behind what was left of the toilet and shut off the tap. The sound of running water stopped. We went into the bedroom.
Neddy’s bedroom was wrecked the most. Someone had broken all the breakables, torn the drywall off the walls, sliced up Neddy’s mattress, scattered books and papers all over the floor. Bernie wandered around, toeing at this and that.
“Don’t see what else we can—” he began, then paused and picked up some sort of magazine with a purple cover. “High school yearbook,” he said in a voice he uses for talking to himself, meaning to me, too, goes without mentioning. He leafed through the high school yearbook, stopped, took a close look at something, went back, took another close look, leafed through some more, and stuck the yearbook under his arm.
“No blood anywhere, Chet?”
I just stood there, mouth open a bit. If there’d been even one drop, I’d have let him know.
“Sorry, big guy, just making sure.” Bernie looked around. “So what is this? Sending a message? Simple frustration?” He turned and started back through Neddy’s trailer to the front door. I followed. It was never my intention to follow him all the way, of course, since one of my core beliefs is all about being first through any door. But as we passed through the kitchen, I sniffed a Slim Jim. So unexpected, and yet there was no doubt about it. Slim Jims have been a part of my world forever, more than enough time to learn one thing very well: resistance is useless.
I rooted around on the floor and, in a corner by an overturned hot plate, came upon a Slim Jim with only a single bite taken out of it. Was there someone out there capable of saving a partial Slim Jim for later? Neddy, perhaps? The more I learned about him, the trickier he got. I came to a sudden realization. Neddy was a perp. We’d be closing this case pretty soon. I snapped up the Slim Jim and trotted after Bernie.
By that time, he was already at the front door. We’d left it open, so he walked right on through. Here I should probably mention that the door was the kind that opened outward, a kind Bernie didn’t like for front doors. “Not secure,” I’d heard him say to at least one client. But the important fact was that Neddy’s door opened outward. Bernie stepped through and—boom!—the door slammed shut! At the same time, there was a horrible thump that shook the whole trailer, followed by a loud grunt. Not just a grunt, but Bernie’s grunt, a grunt of pain.
I sprang to the door.
Twenty-five
And crashed right into it! The door didn’t give at all. It was shut tight. Meanwhile, some sort of fight was going on outside. I heard grunts and groans and the crack of punches landing and growls, too, one of which was Bernie’s, and another from someone else, a growl deeper than Bernie’s and every bit as fierce. Bernie! He needed me! I threw myself against the door with all my strength, hard enough to shake the whole trailer.
But the door didn’t give.
At the same time, something crashed into the trailer and shook it again. Then came a grunt that scared me, a grunt of real pain from deep inside Bernie. Not his head? Not his poor head! Eliza—the doctor who�
��d fixed Bernie up after the horrible saguaro case, and then been his girlfriend for a while and now wasn’t, a complicated story I hadn’t really understood at the time and now understood even less—had warned us about Bernie getting hit in the head ever again. Was someone out there hitting him in the head? I raced to the nearest window, the only one on the front side of Neddy’s trailer.
And what was this? The window was covered by one of those slatted blinds, so I couldn’t see out? I swatted it away, ripping the whole thing off the wall, and leaped out—
But no. The window wasn’t closed. That wasn’t the problem. It was wide open. But outside hung one of those metal security grates. I heard Bernie’s voice in my head: Why bother with window security when your front door’s an outie?
Oh no. There was Bernie, lying on the ground, his nose bloody. Standing over him, both fists balled, was a huge blond guy in a tracksuit—namely, Vanko. His nose looked just fine, and his eyes—reddish, like everything out there, from the last light of the sun—were the eyes of someone enjoying himself.
I pawed at the security grate, got nowhere. Vanko gazed down at Bernie and said, “Where is our little friend Neddy?”
Bernie got his hands on the ground, pushed himself up to a sitting position. “You tell me,” he said.
“Ha ha,” said Vanko. “You’re a funny fellow. Here is what we do with funny fellows.” He shifted on one foot—real quick, like an MMA dude, but I’d never seen an MMA dude the size of Vanko—and with the other foot kicked Bernie in the face. Maybe not square in the face. Bernie’s real quick, too, don’t forget, and maybe he managed to twist away just a bit, his face getting kicked in a more grazing way, or at least not full-on. But it was enough, more than enough, to knock him flat again.
This was unbearable! I pawed at the grate, pawed my hardest, still got nowhere. I raced around in a tight circle and hurled myself at it. Bang! The trailer trembled, but the grate didn’t budge. A howling sound rose up in the trailer. Vanko heard it, turned toward me, and laughed. That was when Bernie reached out and grabbed one of Vanko’s legs, giving it a hard twist. Vanko lost his balance and fell, but when he fell, he fell right on Bernie! Ooof, went Bernie, the ooof you hear when the wind gets knocked out of a human. They’re not much good for fighting right after that.
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