Bow Wow

by Spencer Quinn

  SOME FOLKS GOT MORE EDUCATION THAN others,” Lem said on the ride back to St. Roch. Same setup as before, with Birdie up front in the passenger seat of the pickup and me on the truck bed in back, the rear window open. I was lying down, feeling a bit sleepy, with their voices flowing over me in a pleasant way.

  “Like Mr. Longstreet?” Birdie said.

  “Uh-huh. The educated type for sure. On the other hand, there’s me.”

  “I don’t understand—you went to college. You played for the Ragin’ Cajuns.”

  “But I wasn’t in class a whole lot. And the classes I signed up for … well, I probably couldn’t have told you what they were even back then. My life was football. I was headed to the NFL and that was all what mattered. And then I blew out my knee and reverted back to the parish. A cheap shot but the zebras never threw the flag. I … I got hung up on that for a long time. Talkin’ about decades, Birdie.”

  “Because it was so unfair?”

  “I guess.”

  “Not just the bad call,” Birdie said. “I meant the whole thing.”

  “Got a head on your shoulders, no doubt about it. But here’s what I finally figured out. Can’t get bogged down in what-if. Gotta have dreams, sure. One foot in the dream world, but the other on solid ground. So get an education, Birdie.”

  “I already know I’m not going to the NFL,” Birdie said.

  Lem laughed and laughed. “Don’t let me forget that one,” he said. And then, “My memory’s not what it should be. I’ve had botha my feet in the booze for way too long.”

  “Oh,” Birdie said.

  “But what I finally realized is that I got a lot out of football anyways—worth doing just for itself, you see what I mean. And the moment that hit me, the bottle lost its power. Haven’t touched a drink since.”

  “That’s great, Lem. What made you realize?”

  “Just popped into my head. I was with Snoozy, actually. He was goin’ on and on about somethin’ or other—baboons, maybe—and that was when it came to me. Worth doing for itself, Birdie. Left my drink unfinished in the glass.”

  “When was this?” Birdie said.

  “Week ago Friday,” said Lem.

  Birdie was silent. Or maybe not, but my mind was now totally on baboons. I knew them from the Nature Channel, which me and Birdie watched sometimes, especially on rainy days. Were baboons in the parish? We had problems.

  First thing back in St. Roch, we swung by Snoozy’s place. Snoozy had a double-wide in a trailer park on the outskirts of town, a trailer park that had gone out of business, so he had a lot of scrubland all to himself. “Biggest landowner in town,” he said, “and I don’t even own it!” Birdie always laughed when he said that, so I’d heard it many times.

  “Be one sec,” said Lem, getting out of the truck. He knocked on Snoozy’s door. “You back? Snooze?”

  No answer. Snoozy had one of those lawn gnomes out front. Lawn gnomes scared me at first, but now I’ve gotten used to them, even find them useful at times. This particular lawn gnome was smoking a pipe. Lem reached into the bowl of the pipe and took out a key. He went back to the double-wide, unlocked the door, and walked in.

  “Snoozy? Snooze?”

  Lem disappeared into the shadows beyond the open doorway.

  “Snoozy?”

  Silence.

  Lem came back, got in the truck. “No sign of him.” We drove off. I had hoped to get a bit closer to the gnome. Maybe next time. Meanwhile, I wriggled around a bit, made myself comfortable. That’s one of my best skills.

  I woke up feeling … well, superb, if you must know. That’s what a nap will do for you. I rose, gave myself a good shake, enough to rattle things around in my head, get the show on the road up there. First things first: Where was I? Hey! Still in the back of Lem’s truck, a bit of a surprise. Right away I smelled Grammy’s strawberry shake, packed with ice in a small Styrofoam box up front. We were no longer moving—in fact, seemed to be back in the center of St. Roch, parked in front of the sheriff’s office, with its blue light over the door. And on their way inside were … Birdie and Lem! By some strange accident, they appeared to have forgotten me. No problemo. These things happen. I hopped on out of the pickup and bounded across the sheriff’s lawn—snagging an old tennis ball on the way—and squeezed inside the doorway just in time.

  Birdie turned. “Bowser!”

  Did she sound happy to see me? I thought so and dropped the tennis ball at her feet, just to let her know I was on top of things.

  “Help you folks?” said a woman at the front desk.

  “Like to see the sheriff,” said Lem, nodding at a closed door with a star on it.

  “He’s in a meeting—shouldn’t be long.” She gestured toward some seats. We sat down, me nice and comfy under Birdie’s chair. On a nearby wall were photos of a bunch of tough-looking customers. Birdie scanned them.

  “There’s a couple I know,” Lem said, “just at a glance.”

  “Which ones?” Birdie said.

  Lem raised his hand to point, but just then the door with the star opened and out came a short and thick-necked dude with a neatly trimmed beard, sort of backing out. He seemed familiar and then—boom! The name came to me: It was Mr. Kronik from up at Betencourt Bridge. What a sharp memory I had all of a sudden! I’d rattled things around in my head but good!

  Did we like Mr. Kronik? I kind of thought we did not. And also that the sheriff didn’t feel especially buddy-buddy with him, either, so it was a bit of a surprise when Mr. Kronik said, “And nice talking to you, too, Sheriff. Keep in touch.”

  Then came the voice of the sheriff. “Will do.”

  The sheriff’s door closed. Mr. Kronik had taken a few steps across the waiting room when he noticed Lem. He showed no reaction to Lem, but then his gaze found me and Birdie. First his eyebrows went up, like he recognized us and was kind of surprised. Then his eyebrows went down and bunched together in the middle—not the most pleasant look, considering the bushiness of those eyebrows, kind of like the chubby caterpillars you see in these parts. His mouth opened like he was going to say something, but he did not.

  “Hi, Mr. Kronik,” Birdie said.

  “Uh,” said Mr. Kronik, “Birdie, was it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He glanced at Lem and then at me. There’s a scent humans give off when they’re uncomfortable around me and my kind; not the smell of sweat, exactly, more like sweating is about to start up any second. Mr. Kronik was giving off that scent.

  “You—you just hang out here?” he said. “Or what?”

  “No, sir,” said Birdie.

  His mouth did that opening-and-closing thing again. Then he said, “Have a nice day.” He headed for the front door.

  “Say hi to Holden,” Birdie said.

  Mr. Kronik went out, perhaps closing the door harder than necessary. The woman behind the desk rose and entered the sheriff’s office.

  “You know that guy?” said Lem.

  “He’s the one who put up the bounty,” Birdie said.

  “Yeah?” said Lem. “I wonder what … Hmm.”

  Meanwhile, behind the sheriff’s closed door, the woman was speaking real softly so no one in the waiting room could possibly hear. No humans, anyway. But that didn’t include ol’ Bowser, who heard her say, “Lem LaChance is out there. With a youngster—a friend of Rory’s, I think. She’s got a dog with her.”

  “Birdie Gaux?” said the sheriff, also very softly.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  “Good grief.”

  “Want me to tell them you’re busy?”

  The sheriff sighed.

  Then the woman came out, gave us a big smile, and said, “You can go on in.”

  “Well, well,” said Sheriff Cannon, rising from behind his desk, a big smile on his face. Big smiles on top of one another! We were having a good day. “What a nice surprise! Take a seat.”

  We sat—except for
me. I felt like standing. No reason, unless you count the faint scent of a ham and cheese sandwich rising from the sheriff’s wastebasket. Not a whole sandwich—nothing to get excited about—but even a tiny scrap beats no food at all.

  “Would you look at that tail wagging away,” said the sheriff.

  “Happy to see you,” said Birdie.

  Sure, think whatever you want. I eased my way closer to the wastebasket.

  “Haven’t, uh, seen you in some time, Lem,” the sheriff said. “Professionally, that is. How’s the crawfish business?”

  “Same old, same old,” said Lem.

  “Got wind of some missing traps up in Cleoma.”

  “Wouldn’t know nothin’ about that.”

  “Good to hear,” said the sheriff. “So what can I do for you folks?”

  “It’s about my nephew.”

  The sheriff laughed. “Come to bail one out? I’ve got what—three? four?—in lockup at this very moment.”

  “Three,” said Lem, not laughing. “And this ain’t about them. It’s about Snoozy. He’s gone missing.”

  The sheriff wiped his mouth, getting it back in non-laughing position, and slid a writing pad into place. “How long’s he been missing?”

  Lem thought. “Hard to say exactly. Depends on …” He turned to Birdie.

  “Snoozy left yesterday—to join up with one of the bounty hunters.”

  “Bounty hunters?” said the sheriff.

  “Mr. Kronik’s bounty.” Birdie nodded to the door. The sheriff sat back, his eyes kind of watchful. “Today he texted Lem to come get him down in Baie LaRouche but—”

  “Yeah, right, exactly,” Lem said. “At Shakey’s Shakes.”

  “—he wasn’t there,” Birdie finished up.

  “How long ago was this text?” said the sheriff, writing on the pad.

  “Three, four hours,” Lem told him.

  The sheriff looked up. “So Snoozy’s been missing for three or four hours?”

  “We haven’t actually seen him since yesterday,” Birdie said.

  “But that doesn’t count, since he’s been heard from since then. I’ve got to follow procedure, Birdie, and procedure says no one can be labeled officially missing until twenty-four hours are up. Besides, Snoozy’s a grown man, capable of taking care of himself.”

  “But—”

  “And also capable—no disrespect for Snoozy, who’s always been a law-abiding citizen, give or take—of changing his mind about a rendezvous on account of who knows what. Agreed?”

  Lem sat there for a bit, then slowly nodded his head. Birdie just sat there.

  “Birdie?” said the sheriff. “You’re not with me here?”

  Birdie folded her hands in her lap. I loved that! Although don’t ask me why. “The thing is,” she said, “some kids heard yelling. And maybe a gunshot.”

  “A gunshot? Where was this?”

  “On the beach—not too far from Shakey’s.”

  “Who were these kids?”

  “Mrs. Shakey’s kids,” said Birdie.

  The sheriff wrote some more on the pad, then got on the phone. “Mrs. Shakey? Hey, there, ma’am. Sheriff Cannon up here in St. Roch. How’s your day goin’?” He listened, laughed, and said, “I hear you. Got word of a possible gunshot down your way. Your kids heard it, maybe? Something like that.” He listened again. I could hear Mrs. Shakey on the other end.

  “Good lord. Listen, Sheriff. I got two kids. One’s the imaginative type, has nightmares and such. The other one the factual type, no imagination whatsoever. Mr. Imagination says he heard a shot. Miss Factual says it was a firecracker. So you tell me.”

  The sheriff laughed, hung up, put down his pen, and went through the whole imagination-factual thing again, me paying not much attention. By that time, I was right beside the wastebasket, could make out a very small remnant of a ham and cheese sandwich. But way more interesting was the fact of what the wastebasket had hidden from my sight, namely a small cooler. A small cooler with the top off, I might add. And let’s add one more detail: There was half a ham and cheese sandwich in that cooler, completely untouched.

  “So what I think we’ll do,” the sheriff said, “is give this another day or two, see if Snoozy shows up, which dollars to doughnuts he will.”

  Doughnuts? Was the sheriff saying there were doughnuts in the cooler? That just wasn’t the case. What we had in the cooler was half a ham and cheese sandwich—no longer actually inside the cooler, strictly speaking—and a can of soda. Doughnuts? Not a one. I began to have doubts about Sheriff Cannon.

  “But, Sheriff,” Birdie said. “What about Mr. Longstreet?”

  “Who’s he?” said the sheriff.

  “This old man we met down there. Near where the shot went off.”

  “Firecracker,” the sheriff said. He checked his watch.

  “But he’s against the bounty hunt.”

  “An environmental type,” Lem said.

  “And he hates the bounty hunters,” Birdie said. “So maybe—”

  The sheriff held up his hand in the stop sign. “The state is full of environmental types, as you put it. I’m one myself. Let’s not go looking for trouble. We’re going to give Snoozy a day or two to come in from the cold.”

  “What cold?” Lem said.

  “It’s just an expression,” the sheriff said. “So—another day or two. Agreed?”

  “All right,” said Lem.

  “Birdie?” the sheriff said.

  Birdie got a stubborn look on her face, not flattering on most humans but very pretty on her. “Are you against the bounty?” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Being an environmentalist.”

  “I am not against the bounty,” the sheriff said.

  “You’re for it?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m neutral.”

  “What’s neutral?” Birdie said.

  “No opinion one way or the other,” the sheriff said. “At this point in time. Although I sure wish some of those guys down on the water would chill out a bit. But for now just tell me you agree to wait a day or two—let’s call it two—for Snoozy.”

  “But what about the sunglasses?” Birdie said.

  “Sunglasses?”

  Birdie took the sunglasses with the mermaid Croakie from her pocket and laid them on the sheriff’s desk. “Snoozy’s sunglasses.”

  “Right,” said Lem. “Know Little Flamingo Island, Sheriff?”

  “Sure.”

  “The sunglasses was in the hut. And outside was some sharks hung up on a board.”

  “Bull sharks?” said the sheriff.

  “No.”

  “And inside was a crate that had gotten smashed up,” Birdie said.

  The sheriff sat back. “Are these some dots I’m supposed to be connecting? All right, here goes. Snoozy’s after the bounty. He kills some sharks down off Baie LaRouche, takes a nap. When he leaves he forgets his sunglasses. Please don’t tell me he’s never forgotten sunglasses before. I know for a fact he’s searched through our lost and found more than once.”

  “But … but the crate,” Birdie said.

  “What about it?”

  “It was smashed up.”

  “You already said that.”

  “But recently. The split part of the wood looked fresh.”

  Hey! I remembered that part. Plus the smell of blood mixed with Mr. Manly.

  The sheriff smiled. “You’ll be running the FBI someday, Birdie. But I’m missing what you’re trying to tell me about that crate.”

  “I think there was a fight inside that hut,” Birdie said.

  “Got more to go on than the smashed-up crate?” the sheriff said. Birdie had no answer. “It’s not near enough,” the sheriff continued. “So—two days. Agreed?”

  There was a long pause, and then Birdie said, “Okay.”

  We went out, closed the sheriff’s door, headed across the lobby. What with the closed door and the distance between us I can’t guarantee I heard exactly what the
sheriff said, but it sure sounded like, “Could’ve sworn I saved half of that …” His voice trailed off in a puzzled sort of way. Poor sheriff: Not everything in life is understandable. I’d learned that myself a long time ago.

  There’s a rocker in the breezeway between Grammy’s half of our place at 19 Gentilly Lane and ours—ours meaning mine, Birdie’s, and Mama’s. Grammy was sitting in it later that day—the sun sinking behind the tree branches across the street—rocking gently and sipping her strawberry shake.

  “Ah,” she said. “Hits the spot.” She did some more sniffing. “Understand you and Lem spoke to the sheriff.”

  “Did Lem call you?”

  “The sheriff did.”

  “I don’t think he’s on top of this, Grammy. Why doesn’t—”

  Grammy held up her hand. “Hold it right there. What he’s saying makes sense—especially since it’s a Snoozy situation.”

  “But—”

  “Two days. Then if he doesn’t show up, we’ll revamp.”

  “What’s revamp?”

  “Make new plans. So are we on the same page here?”

  “Okay.”

  “Meaning the exact same page?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” Grammy rocked a bit, the strawberry shake in her lap. Was she about to fall asleep? “Give me a few minutes and I’ll fix supper,” she said.

  “I’ll do it, Grammy,” Birdie said.

  “Oh?” said Grammy, getting more wakeful. “What are you cooking?”

  “I could try that vegetarian pot pie Mama likes.”

  “Tell you what,” said Grammy. “Here’s ten bucks. Whyn’t you head on over to Brick Oven Express and bring us back a pizza.”

  “Thanks, Grammy.”

  “Pepperoni, sausage, and what’s that ham I like?”

  “Prosciutto?”

  Prosciutto? I was with Grammy on that. No complaints regarding the partial ham sandwich I may or may not have downed recently, but there was no comparing ordinary, everyday ham with prosciutto. Birdie and I took off for Brick Oven Express—

  “Bowser! Slow down!”