The Dog Who Knew Too Much

by Spencer Quinn

  I bashed around, clawing blindly at my surroundings. Even clawing blindly, you start to figure things out from the different feel of what’s getting clawed. I figured out that I was in the back of a station wagon, with a cage-type grille separating me from the rest of the car. I’d seen many members of the nation within the nation riding in setups like this, and somehow that calmed me. I bashed around a little bit longer and then lay down.

  The front doors of the car opened and people got in. Two moving bodies, that was easy to hear, and then I picked up their scents: Georgie—there was sickness in his smell—and this new strong dude, Butch, all about needing a shower plus lots of deodorant. From the passenger seat, Georgie said, “Let’s get out of this hellhole.”

  “Hell, yeah,” said Butch. “Never wanted to—” I heard another car driving up. “Who’s that?” said Butch.

  “Quick,” Georgie said. “Get that hood off the goddamn dog.”

  “But—”

  “Move!”

  Then came a lot of confused banging around, maybe someone climbing over the seats, followed by grunting and clunking, and suddenly that black bag went whooshing off my head and I could see. The first thing I saw was the neckless, shaved-headed dude, Georgie’s driver. This had to be Butch. I surged toward him just as he snapped the grille back in place.

  “Christ almighty,” Butch said. “He’s a beast.”

  “Shut up,” said Georgie. “And let me handle this.”

  Handle what? I looked out. A taxi was parked beside us— always easy to spot, from that little boxy thing on the roof—and getting out of it was Anya. Anya! She came striding over, her face angry. I had no problem with that—I was angry, too.

  Georgie got out of the car. “Hey, there,” he said. “What can I do you for?”

  Anya pointed at me. “What are you doing with Chet?” she said.

  “The Chetster, as we like to call him?” Georgie said. “Taking care of the big fellow, that’s what.”

  The Chetster? No one had ever called me that in my life. I was Chet, pure and simple. Fact one, as Bernie liked to say. Fact two: I was real happy to see Anya. Other than those, I had no facts.

  “We like him and he likes us,” Georgie said. “See how happy he is?”

  Was that my tail, stirring up a lively breeze? I dialed that down, but not as fast as I wanted, my tail resisting for some reason.

  “Uh,” Anya said, “that’s good. But I’ll be taking over now.”

  “Oh?” said Georgie.

  “Chet belongs to Bernie Little,” Anya said. “Bernie’s … indisposed at the moment. I’m a friend of his, so I’ll be looking after Chet in the interim.”

  “Have you talked to Bernie about this?” Georgie said.

  “Not yet,” said Anya. “But I know it’s what he’d want.”

  “Not so sure of that, all due respect,” said Georgie. “See, I’m friends with him, too. We go way, way back, me and ol’ Bern.” Bern? Bernie hated that. “In fact—Butch? Mind passing me that envelope from the glove box?—Bern has already made his wishes clear in case the kind of unfortunate situation now happening ever happened, if you follow.”

  “I don’t,” Anya said.

  Georgie held out the envelope. Anya’s gaze shifted for a quick moment to Georgie’s bloody fingertips—a nice sight in my opinion—before she took the envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper inside.

  “Duly signed, dated, and witnessed,” Georgie said, stuffing his hand in his pocket.

  Anya read, “‘In the event I am temporarily or permanently incapacitated, I entrust without reservation the care of Chet to my longtime friend and colleague, George Malhouf. Signed, Bernie Little.’”

  “You follow now?” Georgie said.

  TWENTY

  Boss?” Butch said. We were on the move, driving down a long sloping canyon with mountains on both sides, tall green trees growing on their lower slopes but all rocky and steep above that. “Got a question.”

  Georgie took a deep drag at his cigarette, spun the butt out the window. The incoming air, rich and full, more like the air I was used to, felt good in my chest. “What kinda question?” he said.

  “About what you’re doing,” said Butch. “For my own development, like.”

  “Development?”

  “In case I’m ever in your shoes,” Butch said. “Running a company.”

  Georgie choked on the cigarette smoke. I’d seen the same thing happen with Bernie from time to time. After, Bernie would always say, “That’s it, cold turkey.” So I was expecting Georgie to say that, too, and looking forward to what would happen next, specifically: would a turkey—it wouldn’t even have to be cold—finally put in an appearance? But instead, Georgie said, “Let’s hear it,” and didn’t mention turkeys at all.

  Outside a field of yellow flowers went by, a creek running through them, a winding blue line in all that yellow, kind of familiar. I had one of those memory tastes—does that ever happen to you?—almost as strong as a real taste, in this case of the delicious mushroom Bernie had found. Where was he? I didn’t know. I lay down in the back of Georgie’s station wagon, out of ideas.

  “Thanks, Boss,” Butch was saying. “What I’m wondering is if you made all this happen from the get-go or whether it’s more of an on-the-fly situation.”

  “Made all what happen?” said Georgie. I wondered about that, too. Flies are something I’m very aware of, and I knew there were none in the car.

  “This whole thing with Bernie Little,” Butch said.

  Bernie? I listened my hardest. High above a big black bird was making slow circles in the sky, up and up. The sight made me uneasy, hard to say why. I rose.

  Georgie was lighting another cigarette. “Bernie Little,” he said, blowing smoke through his nose, always an interesting sight. “Been on my mind for a long time.”

  “Yeah?” Butch said, sounding surprised.

  “Why wouldn’t he be, for Christ sake?” said Georgie. “He’s competition. Competition’s gotta be watched at all times. Stamp it out if you can—what do you think made this country great?”

  “You’re right, Boss.”

  “’Course I’m right.”

  “But how’s Bernie Little competition? We’re big.”

  “Ever heard of reputation? Word-of-mouth reputation—can’t buy that for love or money. And Bernie’s is good and getting better. I’m talking in certain circles downtown. Stine, for example. And Torres. Plus the DA loves him.”

  “Yeah? How come?”

  “On account of the past few years, since he hooked up with—” Georgie, not looking back, jerked his thumb in my direction. “—he’s been taking on some tough cases and bringing home the bacon.”

  Bringing home the bacon: how often had I heard that, followed by no bacon coming forth? Couldn’t tell you how many times, but if Georgie thought I was going to fall for the gag yet again, he was mistaken. We have our—something or other, can’t quite remember the expression—me and Bernie.

  “I thought they hated him downtown,” Butch said.

  “The old guard hates him. The reformers love him. Suppose the reformers win out? This election coming up? Heard of it? We gotta be prepared. Which is how come I tried to bring Bernie into the fold. Not taking into consideration that a pigheaded bastard like him’s too good to work for me.”

  Whoa. What had Georgie just said? Something very nasty. I wasn’t going to forget that, not ever.

  “… follow-up,” Georgie was saying, “meaning at least separate him from his number-one operative.”

  “You’re talking about the … ?”

  “I am,” said Georgie. “But if you’re asking whether I knew all this backwoods shit was going down, the answer’s no. What I knew was that some shit like this shit was going down eventually with Bernie—in his DNA, plain and simple. The lucky part was happening to know Laidlaw, way back when. But here’s something to remember, Butch. Luck is the residue of design.”

  “Wow,” said Butch. “That�
��s fuckin’ brilliant.”

  Georgie made a little nod.

  “Wow,” Butch said one more time. Then, after a pause, “What’s residue, again?”

  Georgie turned slowly to Butch. “Remind me what I’m paying you,” he said.

  “Thirty-nine K,” Butch said. “Plus bonus.”

  “Unfamiliar with that last word,” said Georgie. “How do you spell it?”

  I don’t remember lying down, but I must have, because soon I was back in dreamland. Riding in cars can do that to you. When I opened my eyes, I found myself on my side in the back of Georgie’s station wagon and the sun in a different part of the sky. Once Bernie had explained all about that to Charlie. All I knew was that the explanation had involved a soccer ball and a tennis ball, which turned out to be a little too much fun for me. As for the sun, things moved, right? So why shouldn’t the—

  Whoa. What was that? Flashing by and towering above, just beyond my window: the giant wooden cowboy who stood outside the Dry Gulch Steakhouse and Saloon, one of our favorites, mine and Bernie’s. They had a patio out back where my guys were welcome. The scraps on that patio—don’t get me started. But that wasn’t the point. I scrambled up. Yes, the wooden cowboy, just off the freeway, and beyond it the Dry Gulch parking lot, and—and was that Suzie’s yellow Beetle? I was back in the Valley! That was the point. From right where we were at that moment I could find my way home to our place on Mesquite Road no problem. I rose, got one paw on the glass, ready to—

  And then, out of nowhere, I heard Bernie’s voice—the best human voice in the world—so clear he might have been right next to me. If only he was! He was telling me something he’d told me many times, something that had never made any sense to me, in fact was still pretty startling: There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Something with a cat in it was important for me to know? That was as far as I’d ever gotten on this. But now for the first time, I took another step. What was skinning a cat, anyway? I didn’t know, but it sounded vaguely … positive. So: something vaguely positive could be accomplished in more than one way? Was that it? Wow. Was I cooking or what? I took my paw off the glass and sat down, calm, obedient, no trouble to anybody.

  The wooden cowboy shrank and shrank and finally disappeared from view. Suzie’s Beetle in the parking lot! All at once I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Dry Gulch made a real nice smelling drink with mint leaves that Suzie loved. She was probably drinking it right now. If only—but Bernie always said not to waste time with if-onlies, so I stopped the whole Suzie train of thought cold, just about.

  We were headed downtown. I could see the towers rising into that strange yellow downtown air. Then came the exit for the college. I thought I glimpsed a Frisbee soaring low in the distant sky—just a bright orange dot. Traffic was as light as it ever got except for at nighttime, and Butch had a heavy foot on the gas. Downtown zipped by and the warehouse part of South Pedroia appeared. And then, all of a sudden: a siren.

  “Christ,” said Butch.

  Georgie grabbed the rearview mirror, twisted it so he could see, and said, “Comes out of your pay, unless you talk him out of it.”

  Butch pulled over. Getting pulled over was something I knew well. Bernie never argued, always said the same thing: “Couldn’t have been over ninety.” And the cop would say, “How come?” and Bernie would say, “’Cause this babe tops out at eighty-nine,” and then the cop would give him a second look and say, “Hey! Bernie!” We knew just about every cop in the Valley, never got a ticket.

  A cop appeared at the window, face kind of obscured by his motorcycle helmet. “License and registration,” he said.

  Now was the moment for saying “couldn’t be over ninety,” but Butch did not. Instead he went with, “Seventy-one on this speedometer, officer—gonna write me up for bein’ six over?” Which I knew was a loser.

  “License and registration,” the cop repeated. He took them, returned to his motorcycle, soon came back with a ticket. “Clocked you at eighty-five,” he said. “Have a nice day.”

  A vein throbbed in the back of the Butch’s neckless neck. The sight made me bark, not loud, don’t know why. The cop crouched down a bit, peered into the car.

  “Hey!” he said. “Is that Chet?”

  I peered back. If it wasn’t Fritzie Bortz! A terrible motorcycle driver with lots of crashes on his record; we’d visited him in the hospital not that long ago, he and Bernie downing a bottle of bourbon, but not the real big size. It was great to see Fritzie. My tail started wagging.

  “Chet?” said Georgie.

  “The dog,” Fritzie said. “Looks so much like this dog I know—” He peered in closer. “Gotta be him.”

  My tail wagged more.

  “Well,” said Georgie, “it’s not. This here’s, uh, Wilkie, and I’ve had him since he was a puppy.”

  “Yeah?” said Fritzie. “Sure looks like Chet. The spitting image.”

  Wilkie? I was getting called Wilkie? And something about spitting, a not-very-pleasant human habit, although pretty much men only? I barked.

  “Ha ha,” said Georgie. “Wilkie knows we’re talking about him.”

  “Knows his name, like,” Butch said. Georgie shot him a quick glaring look. “Which is Wilkie,” Butch added. “Ha ha.”

  “Sure looks like Chet,” Fritzie said again.

  “Lots of dogs look alike,” Georgie said. “On account of they’re bred to.”

  Fritzie’s eyes got thoughtful. I didn’t know what he was thinking. I was thinking: check my tags. But instead Fritzie nodded, straightened, tapped the roof, and moved away.

  Butch pulled back onto the freeway. “Wendell Wilkie was a ballplayer, right?” he said after a while.

  “B-o-n-u-s?” Georgie said. “Forget it.”

  We took the last South Pedroia exit, the one before the interchange where you could decide on the spur of the moment to take off all the way to San Diego. We’d surfed, me and Bernie! I thought about that over and over, and then we were parking in front of a low white building with a sign on the roof.

  “Read the sign,” Georgie said.

  “Our sign, you mean?” said Butch.

  “What other goddamn sign is there?”

  Butch gazed at the sign. “‘Malhouf International Investigations.”

  “Ever wonder what the ‘International’ part was all about?”

  “Nope.”

  “Now you’re going to find out.”

  They got out of the car.

  “What about the dog?” Butch said.

  Georgie gazed at me. “On second thought,” he said, “you stay here with him.”

  “Okay.”

  “And while you’re at it, take off his tags.”

  “How am I sposta do that?”

  “You’ll figure it out,” Georgie said.

  “What if he tries to run away?”

  “Didn’t you hook up the chain like I said?”

  Uh-oh. News to me, and not good.

  Georgie entered the building. Butch walked around to the back of the station wagon, stood watching me through the window. “Gonna be good?” he said.

  Of course not. The instant that door opened up—if that was in the cards, as Bernie liked to say, although he’d stopped that after the Mama Reenya Tarot card case, a case I hadn’t understood from the get-go, except for what a great patter Mama Reenya had turned out to be, right up there with Autumn—I planned to be as bad as bad gets. But then, just as Butch was reaching for the door, I remembered about the chain. And coming right on top of that memory, so fast, was Bernie’s—what would you call it? advice? Yes! That was it. Thank you, Bernie! Even if it had to do with cats, the point was: more than one way, big guy.

  I lay down, chin right on the floor, eyes gazing up at nothing in the least-threatening way imaginable, like I was just one big softie. You hear that about a certain kind of big guy: oh, he’s just one big softie. Not this big guy, amigo. When that door opened, I was going to rip—

  Whoa.

 
More than one way. I’d come close to forgetting the whole thing.

  Butch looked through the back window. “You gonna make this difficult?”

  I yawned, no idea why, a real big one, mouth open wide as wide could be.

  “You are, ain’t you?”

  What was wrong with Butch? Scared of a yawn? But then I remembered, maybe a little late, that yawns show teeth. I shut my mouth and went right back to being Mr. Softie.

  “That’s better,” Butch said. He licked his lips, how humans do when they’re nervous. We in the nation within get nervous, too, but show it in different ways, although I couldn’t think of a single one at that moment, maybe because I didn’t feel nervous myself, not the least bit. That was Bernie for you every time: just hearing his voice made everything all right.

  “Now,” Butch was saying, “what I’m gonna do is raise this here door, slip off those tags, and let you out, nice and easy, no crazy shit. Got that?”

  I gazed up at nothing, my eyes as blank as I could make them.

  “On three,” said Butch. “One, two, three.” He raised the rear door, then jumped quickly back. I didn’t move a muscle. “Okay, then, so far so good. Now I’m gonna reach in here like so.” He reached in like so, if that meant real slow and cautious. His hand—stubby, with fat fingers, nothing like Bernie’s, moved past my mouth. I could have … done just about anything, but somehow I knew for sure that that was the wrong play. He unclipped my tags and said, “Whew. Now I’ll just lean over here a bit, grab onto the chain, move back—and there we go!” Butch, standing outside the open door, wiped sweat off his upper lip. “Come on out.”

  I just lay there. Being Mr. Softie was growing on me.

  “Huh?” Butch said. “Hop out. You’re free.”

  Free? Butch was forgetting the chain, one end of which he had in his hand. But maybe I’d made my point. I rose, in no hurry, had a nice stretch, butt way up, head way down and then stepped out of the car, landing lightly in the parking lot. Maybe something about that landing alarmed Butch. He was eyeing me like mayhem might be on my mind. And of course it was—always, actually, something to probably not get into at any time. But not now, big guy. I sat down, gazing up at him like an obedience-training star. Which I never quite was—have I mentioned about my days in K-9 school?