Bow Wow

by Spencer Quinn

  “This shark,” he went on, “was shot out on the water and the body drifted in.” He did that slicing thing again, this time harder than before. Was he angry about something? “And what’s more, it’s a disgrace,” he said.

  “Well,” Lem said, “some of the fishermen get a little slap-happy when it comes to—”

  “It’s got nothing to do with fishermen!” The old man’s voice started out loud and booming, but then cracked and finished in a wispy way. He coughed and pounded on his chest, all his impatience now turned on himself.

  “Um,” Birdie said, “what has it got to do with? Sir?”

  The old man turned to her. “What’s your name?”

  “Birdie.”

  He nodded, that little repeating nod humans do when they like something.

  “And I’m Lem,” said Lem. “Pleased to meet you, Mr….”

  “Longstreet,” said the old man. “Henry Longstreet. As for your question, Birdie, this has nothing to do with fisher-men. It’s all about the bounty hunters. Bounty hunters! I could strangle them with—” Mr. Longstreet’s hands, old and worn, but big and still powerful-looking, curled into fists. He took a deep breath. “The real culprit, of course, is the arrogant ignoramus who put the bounty out there in the first place. Do you know how many sharks I’ve seen in the past two days with bullets through their heads? Four! And now five, counting this one. Two nurses, one finetooth, one blacknose, one spinner, all ocean-going only.”

  “No bull sharks?” Birdie said.

  “Oh?” said Mr. Longstreet. “You know something about this? No, not a single bull shark. These cowboys are shooting at anything with gills and checking after the fact. But even if they were killing bull sharks, it would make no difference.”

  “Because there’s no way a bull shark could get up the bayou as far as Betencourt Bridge?” Birdie said.

  “Where are you getting that information?”

  “My grammy,” Birdie said.

  “With all due respect, your grammy happens to be dead wrong.”

  Birdie took a step back. I stayed right with her.

  “The fact is,” Mr. Longstreet continued, “there was a documented bull shark sighting in Montville seventy-three years ago, and Montville’s seven miles up the river from Betencourt Bridge. Documented by my father, with photos he took himself.”

  “He was a photographer?” Lem said.

  “A marine biologist,” said Mr. Longstreet. “As am I, or was. I’m retired. Now my interest is in conservation.”

  “So you’re saying Holden Kronik really was attacked by a bull shark?” Birdie said.

  “Who is Holden Kronik?”

  “The boy from Betencourt Bridge.”

  “The one whose father is paying the bounty?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You guess so. Do you know these people?”

  “Not really,” Birdie said.

  Around then was when I noticed a pair of sunglasses lying on the deck of Mr. Longstreet’s pirogue, beside the fuel tank. Sunglasses on boats are no surprise, but these sunglasses had an unusual Croakie attached, a Croakie decorated with tiny mermaids. I edged closer to the pirogue.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Longstreet was saying, “Must have been a scare for the boy, if indeed he had an encounter with a bull shark. But I take it he wasn’t hurt, so no harm done. Maybe next time he’ll be more careful.”

  “More careful?” Birdie said. “How?”

  “How? By respecting the territory of others.”

  “Huh?” said Lem. “Who is these others?”

  Mr. Longstreet turned his eagle nose in Lem’s direction. “Other creatures, Len.”

  “Lem,” said Birdie.

  Mr. Longstreet didn’t seem to notice. “Other creatures with whom we share this planet. Think of where it ends if we just start killing off sharks willy-nilly. Which, by the way, is pretty much happening in certain parts of the world. Ever heard of the food chain? What happens if a single link is wiped out?”

  I knew food, which I loved. I also knew chains, which I hated. I tried to fit the two things together, and could not. Which didn’t bother me in the slightest! I’m lucky that way! Maybe it’s because what I like in life is action. I was in action at that very moment, in fact, reaching my head into the stern of the pirogue and grabbing those sunglasses with the mermaid Croakie. Why? Because … because … Does there always have to be a why?

  I trotted back over to the others. They were so busy with their discussion—somewhat boring, if you want my opinion—that they didn’t notice me. I was fine with that for what seemed like the longest time. Then, when I couldn’t stand it anymore—and I’m sure you would have felt the same, in my place—I pressed myself against Birdie’s leg, not too hard.

  “Bowser!” she said, perhaps stumbling a bit, for reasons unknown to me. “What are you—”

  Her gaze went to the mermaid Croakie.

  BOWSER?” BIRDIE SAID. “WHAT YOU GOT there?”

  She knelt in front of me, reached for the sunglasses. I let her have them. Most of the time I put up resistance when people try to take something from my mouth, maybe a lot of resistance, but usually just for fun. Not this time, of course: We’re dealing with Birdie here. She’s not people. Well, a person, yes, but not people, if you get my meaning. I’m not sure I do, myself.

  “This looks like one of Snoozy’s Croakies,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Lem said, giving it a close look, “the mermaid one. Snooze got it online at All Things Croakie dot com—he’s a preferred customer.”

  “Where did you find these sunglasses, Bowser?” Birdie said. “What are they doing here?”

  Or something like that. I was too busy wagging my tail to really concentrate. I could just tell I’d done good. What a feeling!

  “He didn’t find ’em here,” Lem said. “Not on the beach. He took ’em outta the pirogue—I seen him do it.”

  Wow! Was Lem on the ball today or what?

  He and Birdie turned slowly toward Mr. Longstreet.

  “Mr. Longstreet,” Lem said. “What’re these here sunglasses with this here particular Croakie doing in your pirogue?”

  Mr. Longstreet looked down his eagle nose at the sunglasses. “I haven’t the slightest idea—”

  “You don’t know how the sunglasses got into your own pirogue?” Lem said.

  “I’m saying no such thing. If you’d let me finish this time, I was about to say I haven’t the slightest idea why it’s any concern of yours.”

  I felt Birdie go very still beside me. Did we like this Longstreet dude or not? I was starting to think not, and my teeth were thinking the same way, meaning they were starting to feel a little bitey. That’s bad, I know, and I got a grip right away.

  “Well, now,” said Lem, standing up straighter, a very big guy even if not in the best of shape, “those sunglasses belong to my nephew Snoozy, and that makes it our concern.”

  Mr. Longstreet had dark eyes, not a shiny sort of dark, but more faded. Now they shifted sideways. That’s a human thing for when they’re listening to something in their head.

  “What makes you think that these sunglasses—” At which point Mr. Longstreet made a grab for them, followed by Birdie doing something amazing: She put the sunglasses behind her back, out of Mr. Longstreet’s reach! And Mr. Longstreet himself did look amazed, if not in a happy way. He licked his lips and continued. “What makes you think they belong to this supposed nephew of yours?”

  “That there mermaid Croakie, like I was just saying,” Lem told him.

  “And I recognize the sunglasses, too,” Birdie said, holding them up so Mr. Longstreet could see, but out of his reach. “With the gold lenses—they’re his favorites.”

  “So maybe now,” Lem said, “you can explain how you got them.”

  “I found them,” said Mr. Longstreet. “And you can have them.” He turned toward the pirogue, like he was thinking of shipping off.

  “Sure thing, since they’re my nephew’s and all,” Lem sai
d.

  “But wait!” said Birdie. “You still didn’t tell us where you found them!”

  Mr. Longstreet paused and spoke over his shoulder, not looking back at us. “You both seem … rather stirred up about something.” Now he turned. “Why don’t you explain—explain politely—what this is about.”

  “As an old teacher of mine used to say,” Lem said, “politeness is a group activity.” He looked Mr. Longstreet in the eye. Mr. Longstreet looked him back the same way. Lem looked down. I wasn’t happy to see that, although I didn’t know why.

  But then Birdie spoke up, and I was back to being happy. Just her voice does that to me, even if she actually sounded a bit annoyed at the moment.

  “We’re looking for Snoozy,” she said. “That’s what this is about.”

  Aha! I’d actually lost track of that. Lem seemed glad to hear it, too: His head came up, and he didn’t look so … so beaten, if that was the word.

  “Yeah,” he said, “Mister Longstreet. Snoozy texted us to swing down and get him, but now he ain’t where he’s supposed to be, and a possession of his turns up on your vessel. So where’d you find those sunglasses?”

  Mr. Longstreet gazed at Lem, then at Birdie, last at me. “Can the dog behave himself in a boat?”

  What was this? Me? Boats? Me and boats went together like … like the very best going-together things in the whole world! Or better!

  “Bowser’s his name,” Birdie said. “And he’s a natural-born sailor.”

  “Then get in the boat,” Mr. Longstreet said, “and I’ll show you where I found the wretched sunglasses.”

  When it comes to boating, I prefer the bow seat. Isn’t it meant for me and my kind? Bow wow, after all. Enough said.

  So on this particular boat ride, we had a problem right from the get-go, what with Lem taking possession of the bow seat before I even had a chance. That left me in the middle with Birdie—her sitting on a big cooler and me on the deck—and Mr. Longstreet in the stern, driving the boat. But as the shore slipped away and I watched the water sliding past, I forgot whatever it was that I’d been upset about. There’s something about being on the water—especially calm water, like this—that takes your mind off everything. I felt pretty darn good, close to my best, and when I’m close to my best I can hear and smell things like you wouldn’t believe. For example, I could hear Birdie’s heart beating, a lovely thump-thump, thump-thump. As for smells, I knew there was a baloney sandwich in that cooler. Baloney with tomato and mustard, on rye. There was also … a gun? There’s no missing that, not with a nose like mine.

  “Bowser! What’s that growling about?”

  “Don’t tell me he’s going to be sick all over the boat!” said Mr. Longstreet.

  Sick? What a weird idea! Then I got it: Sick meant pukey! Here’s a funny thing: Even though I hadn’t felt the slightest bit pukey in I don’t know how long, all of a sudden now I did! I leaned down toward the deck and—

  “Bowser! Don’t you be sick!”

  —and … and got it together. In no time at all I was back on top of my game.

  Meanwhile, we were on the move, chugging around a point with one tall tree at the end—a tree with a pink flamingo in it, by the way, always a nice sight—and on our way to a nearby island, low and green. Two trees grew on this island, and as we got closer I saw there was a pink flamingo in each. How interesting! Although I didn’t know why. I barked once or twice—or maybe a few more barks than that, but nothing crazy—just to see if I could get those flamingos to take off.

  “Bowser!”

  But they stayed put.

  Mr. Longstreet swung the pirogue sideways, cut the engine, and drifted us into what must have been the remains of a dock, just a single thick beam with rusty bolts sticking out of it. Birdie and I hopped out, Lem tossed her the bowline, she tied up, and then Mr. Longstreet led us up an overgrown path, with me in the actual lead. I picked up Snoozy’s scent right away—his Mr. Manly cologne was like a trumpet blast, if that makes any sense—and also another smell, namely of gasoline and bait worms. Gasoline and bait worms are part of my life, of course, in my co-ownership role at Gaux Family Fish and Bait, but at this moment the smell was actually reminding me of something else. I tried to think what.

  We rounded a bend and came to an old tumbledown stone hut, roofless and covered in vines.

  “What is this place?” Birdie said.

  “Could go all the way back to the pirates,” said Lem. “Made of ballast stones—we got no stones like these around here. We used to search for buried treasure in huts like this, back when I was a kid.”

  Mr. Longstreet, standing behind Lem, gave him a long look, his head tilted slightly to one side. My guess is humans do that when they’re seeing something in a new way, but I could be wrong.

  “Did you find any?” Birdie said.

  “Nope.”

  Mr. Longstreet pointed to the open doorway. “The sunglasses were inside.”

  Were the sunglasses some sort of treasure? That was as far as I could take it.

  We went inside. And we weren’t the first, which I knew from the strong smell of pee. A lot of peeing had gone on in the hut—was that the treasure?—yes, lots of peeing by all sorts of creatures, four-footed and two-footed. How could I possibly lay my mark on all those pee places? Plus this might not be a good time for doing that—hard to tell, one of those judgment calls, whatever those were.

  Also, in this hut we had the scent of creatures with no legs at all, meaning snakes. But no snakes on the scene at the moment, the snaky smells being much too old. The Mr. Manly and gasoline and bait worm smells weren’t old at all. What else? Broken bottles, empty cans, cigarette butts, and a busted-up old wooden crate.

  “That’s where I spotted the sunglasses,” said Mr. Longstreet. “Beside that crate.”

  We gazed at the crate. Not much to see, in my opinion. Birdie went over, picked it up, and looked underneath. “I already did that,” said Mr. Longstreet.

  Birdie didn’t appear to hear him. All her concentration was on the end of one of the crate’s broken boards. “This crate got smashed up recently,” she said.

  “Huh?” said Lem.

  “See the broken ends? The wood is kind of fresh-looking. All the rest of the crate is old and moldy.”

  “Hey!” said Lem.

  “Young Miss Sherlock,” said Mr. Longstreet. First I’d heard of Miss Sherlock, but I didn’t like the way he’d said her name. “And what do you deduce from that?” he went on.

  Birdie turned to him. The sunshine coming through the open roof lit up her head in a lovely way. “I think we should talk to Sheriff Cannon.”

  “Oh?” said Mr. Longstreet, so tall that his own head was almost poking through where the roof would have been. “And why is that?”

  “Maybe … maybe Snoozy’s in trouble.”

  Snoozy in trouble? That caught my attention—maybe on account of those busted boards of the crate. It wasn’t the freshness of the break—I couldn’t make anything of that—but on account of the very faint smell of blood coming off the jagged ends. Blood mixed with Mr. Manly.

  Meanwhile, Lem was raising his heavy shoulders. “What kind of trouble, Birdie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  There was a silence. In a dim corner I saw a big bug struggling in a spiderweb. The spider, even bigger, was moving toward it along the silvery strands of the web, in no particular hurry.

  “Trouble?” Mr. Longstreet said. “Come around to the back and I’ll show you something that’s actually troubling.”

  We followed him out of the hut and around to the back. Two weathered posts stood behind the hut, holding up a crosswise plank. Hooks were nailed to the plank, just like on the display boards you see on all the docks around here, where the charter boat dudes show off the fish they caught. And there were fish hanging on these hooks, too—all sharks, to my eye, none of them real big.

  “Not a bull shark among them, you’ll notice,” Mr. Longstreet said. “This is a crim
e.” His face had gone pale and he seemed to be shaking a bit.

  “The law says you can’t kill sharks?” said Lem.

  “It most certainly does, for some species at some times of the year.”

  “Any of these?” said Birdie. “At this time of the year?”

  Mr. Longstreet gave her a look, annoyed but thoughtful, too. “What’s your last name?”

  “Gaux.”

  “Gaux?”

  Birdie nodded.

  “Where are you from?”

  “St. Roch.”

  Mr. Longstreet’s eyes got a faraway look. Then he blinked, turned to Lem, and said, “There are crimes against the law and crimes against morality. It’s a lawman’s job to stop lawbreakers. It’s everybody’s job to stop morality breakers.”

  “Lost me,” Lem said.

  I was totally with Lem on that. Was Birdie lost as well? Mr. Longstreet was still gazing at Lem. Birdie’s eyes were on Mr. Longstreet. Did they seem lost? Not to my way of thinking. They looked watchful.

  There wasn’t much talk after that. We piled back into the pirogue. The smell from Mr. Longstreet’s cooler was stronger now, especially the baloney part. I wanted that baloney real bad! In a perfect world Mr. Longstreet would have said, “Hey, Bowser, want to share my baloney sandwich? Heck, take the whole thing!” But he didn’t. This was a great world, but not perfect. I could also still pick up the smell of the gun in the cooler. I shouldn’t leave that out.

  Mr. Longstreet dropped us at a dock near Shakey’s Shakes. We were walking to Lem’s truck when Birdie said, “Grammy wanted strawberry.” She went in to get it. Lem looked my way. “She’s got a head on her shoulders, Bowser. We need to visit with the sheriff.”

  Hey! Lem was talking to me? Not many humans did: Birdie, of course, Mama sometimes, Grammy not very often, and usually when I was in trouble. And now Lem. Welcome to the club, Lem! As for what he’d said—namely that Birdie had a head, just like everyone else I knew—well, maybe he’d come up with something better the next time.