To Fetch a Thief

by Spencer Quinn

  “If he was here, Chet would know,” Bernie said.

  Nadia turned to me. We were in her kitchen. “Does it bother you that you’re exploiting this animal?”

  “I don’t think Chet feels exploited,” Bernie said.

  “You flatter yourself,” Nadia said. “And isn’t that the whole point of pet dogs—to flatter humans?”

  What was this all about? I had no idea, didn’t find it interesting. We were supposed to be on the job. Where was DeLeath? I took a sniff or two, smelled Nadia and her nervousness, mouse droppings, whatever was in the pot on the stove, not much else.

  “. . . discuss some other time,” Bernie was saying, “but right now we need your help.”

  “I’ve got nothing else to tell you,” Nadia said. “I had nothing to do with his disappearance and know nothing about it.”

  Bernie moved over to the stove, glanced in the pot. “What’s cooking?” he said. Tiny bright blue flames flickered under the pot; always liked watching those.

  “Chili,” Nadia said. I knew chili, but the chili I knew had a different smell, the kind of smell that made you want to stick your nose in right away. Nadia’s chili was different.

  “Vegetarian?” Bernie said.

  “Of course,” said Nadia.

  Bernie turned to her. “Maybe you don’t care that DeLeath is in danger, but what about Peanut?”

  Nadia twisted a dial on the stove. The bright blue flames disappeared. “You’ve had your look around.”

  “Is it possible,” Bernie said, “that you’re not worried about Peanut because you know exactly where she is?”

  Nadia took the pot off the stove, stuck it in the fridge. “No,” she said, “it’s not possible.”

  “Therefore, you must be worried about Peanut.”

  Nadia closed the fridge door, but not before I spotted a whole big row of eggs. Love eggs—Bernie always mixes them into my kibble.

  “I’ve got nothing more to say,” Nadia said.

  “If you want Peanut brought back safe and sound, we’re your best hope, me and Chet.”

  “Safe and sound? That’s far from the life of a circus elephant.”

  Bernie’s mouth opened like he was about to say something, but he didn’t. I’d seen other humans do that, but never Bernie. We headed to the door, Nadia following. She opened it and we stepped into the hall, Bernie first, then me. Nadia closed the door behind us, but not before I felt a pat—very light, very quick—on my back.

  * * *

  Back in the Porsche, Bernie was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “Scenario one—Nadia gets DeLeath on her side and they spirit Peanut away somewhere. If that’s the case, DeLeath will probably reappear with some cockamamie story.” Uh-oh. Cockamamie had come up in the past, always on our toughest cases. “Scenario two—it’s a kidnapping, engineered by Nadia, in which case . . .” Bernie’s voice trailed off. I curled up on the shotgun seat, got comfortable. Passing headlights shone on Bernie’s face. His eyes were dark, the lines on his forehead deep. “Scenario three—it’s a kidnapping, but engineered by—”

  And just like that, I was in dreamland. Did Bernie say: “Exploitation? But what about the love?” Or was that part of the dream?

  When I woke up I saw an amazing sight: the giant Ferris wheel at the fairgrounds, all lit up, and then, just as my eyes opened, going dark. What a world! I looked around, saw we were on the ring road, approaching the back gate. It was open and cars were coming out. We started driving in. The guard stepped out of the gatehouse, hand raised.

  Not our guard, Darren Quigley, the little guy with bloodshot eyes and a toothpick; this guard was big and the whites of his eyes looked very white. “Closing down,” he said.

  “That’s all right,” said Bernie. “We’re looking for Darren Quigley.”

  “Don’t work here no more.”

  “No?” said Bernie. “Need an address, someplace to send the reward.”

  “Reward?”

  “Lost my watch here the other day. He found it. I told him next paycheck, I’d drop by with a reward.”

  The guard’s gaze went to the watch on Bernie’s wrist—the everyday watch, not Bernie’s grandfather’s watch, our most valuable possession—then to me, then to the car, which at that moment started shaking, the way it did sometimes.

  “A modest reward,” Bernie said.

  The guard held out his hand. “I can get it to him.”

  “Thanks,” said Bernie. “Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “Uh,” said the guard. He blinked a few times. I’ve seen lots of human blinking. Does it happen because something gets screwed up inside, the same way the car was shaking? Hey! Where did that thought come from? Did it mean that . . . I lost whatever might have been coming next, a kind of distant shadow. Meanwhile, the guard had gone into the gatehouse. He came out, handed Bernie a scrap of paper.

  Bernie glanced at it, then said, “Here’s for your trouble,” and gave the guard a dollar, at least I hoped it was only a dollar; I’m not too good at telling the bills apart, even close-up. Who are those dudes in the pictures? Scary-looking, each and every one; perps, most likely.

  The guard touched the stick-out part of his cap. We drove away. I turned back, no reason why. The guard was in the gatehouse, picking up the phone.

  The Valley goes on just about forever in all directions. At night the sky turns dark pink, with a few stars sometimes peeking through. We hit the freeway, drove all the way past the downtown towers and took the exit into South Pedroia. I always know we’re in South Pedroia from the high smokestack that never stops spewing a kind of smoke that smells like eggs left out in the sun; sometimes at night there are sudden bursts of fire way up there, too. There was one: like a muzzle flash in the sky.

  Bernie gave me a pat. “Nice night, big guy.”

  Yeah, a nice dark-pink rotten-egg night with giant muzzle flashes and us on the job. Who could ask for more? Not this dude, amigo.

  We went down a street that looked like it was paved with cracks, little run-down houses on both sides, some of them boarded up. Bernie stopped in front of one of the houses, a brown or maybe yellow cement-block box, a blue TV light showing in the front window. Scraps of paper and plastic lay on the tiny hard-packed dirt yard, shifting around in the breeze. Bernie turned to me, put one finger across his lips. That meant we were being quiet.

  We got out of the car, me landing without a sound, Bernie banging something, possibly a trash can, as he opened the door. A face appeared in a window across the street, and quickly withdrew. We walked up to the front window of the cement-block house. Curtains were drawn inside but not all the way, and we could see Darren Quigley. He sat in an easy chair, wearing only boxers, beer can in one hand, cigarette in the other, blue TV light flickering on his slack face and bare, scrawny chest. The TV itself I couldn’t see, but I knew from the sound that Darren was watching NASCAR. We watched NASCAR sometimes, too, me and Bernie, but never long in my case on account of how sleepy I always got. We moved to the door. Bernie knocked. Car sounds came from inside. He knocked again, harder. The cars went silent.

  “Someone there?”

  “Friends,” said Bernie.

  I heard footsteps inside. They approached the door and stopped. “Friends?”

  “Everybody has some,” Bernie said.

  “Jocko? Don’t sound like you, Jocko.”

  “Even better friends than Jocko.”

  “Don’t got no better friends than Jocko.”

  Bernie was silent. He was always the smartest human in the room, in case I haven’t mentioned that already, so silence had to be the right move. The door opened—just a bit, on account of the chain. Darren peered out, eyes glassy, breath strong and beery.

  “I don’t know you,” he said.

  “Sure you do,” Bernie said. “You must remember Chet.”

  Darren looked at me, then back to Bernie. “You’re the bastard that cost me my job.”

  “That’s what we want to talk to you abou
t.”

  “Feelin’ guilty? Ain’t it a little late for that?”

  “I wouldn’t say feeling guilty, exactly,” Bernie said. “But it’s never too late to make amends.”

  “What are those?”

  “To patch things up.”

  “Think the colonel’ll give me my goddamn job back? You don’t know him.”

  “True,” Bernie said. “But maybe you can fill us in.”

  Darren’s eyes narrowed. Glassy and narrow at the same time: not a pleasant sight. “What’s your angle?”

  “No angle,” Bernie said. “We just want things to come out right.”

  “I remember now,” Darren said. “You’re a private dick.”

  “I like private eye better.”

  “How come?”

  “Figure it out.”

  Darren’s eyes shifted. I could feel him thinking, sort of. “Can’t,” he said at last. “Fact is, that’s it for chitchat, far as I’m concerned.” He started to close the door. Bernie stuck his toe in the gap, one of his best moves. I just loved when he did that.

  “What the fuck?” said Darren.

  “Sorry about the private dick thing,” Bernie said. “Call me whatever you want and don’t worry about it—in fact, don’t worry about anything. Can we come in from the cold?”

  “Cold? What are you talking about? Hasn’t gone below eighty in weeks.” Darren stuck his hand out to feel the air. I let Bernie grab Darren’s wrist: he was closer. Darren struggled some, but he was a scrawny little guy and Bernie was Bernie, plus I might have growled a bit, letting impatience get the best of me. Soon we were inside Darren’s crib.

  Not much of a crib: a front room that felt too small for me, made me want to get out, a hallway leading back into shadows, and also—hey! The smell of Cheetos. So: it could have been worse. We sat down, Darren in the easy chair, Bernie on the arm of a sagging couch, me on the floor. The Cheetos were also on the floor, in a bag by the base of the easy chair, next to some empty beer cans. Some of the Cheetos had actually spilled out already, all by themselves. Lots of good things happen to me.

  “How about we lose the TV?” Bernie said.

  “Huh? That’s a flat screen, cost me a bundle.”

  “I meant just turn it off, so we can hear ourselves.”

  “These are NASCAR highlights, man,” Darren said, but he switched off the TV. It got quiet, but also the whole room went dark.

  “And maybe turn on the lights,” Bernie said.

  “Lights don’t work.”

  We ended up with the TV back on but the sound off. The tiny cars went round and round. Bernie gave Darren a nice smile, his teeth blue in the TV light.

  “How’re things, Darren?” he said.

  “Not too good.”

  “But at least you’ve got a friend in Jocko.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Any chance he’s an animal rights activist?”

  “Huh?”

  “What does Jocko do for a living?”

  “Jocko? He gets by. No worries with Jocko.”

  “How about you? Are you an animal rights activist?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Someone who thinks animals shouldn’t be in the circus, for example.”

  “Huh? What’s a circus without animals?”

  I knew this was an interrogation, had sat through plenty in my time. Was it going well? Hard to say. I inched closer to the Cheetos.

  “Do you know Nadia Worth?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “How about FAAN—Free All Animals Now?”

  “How about it?”

  “Ever had any dealings with that group?”

  “Never heard of them, neither.” Darren reached for a beer can, took a long drink, head tilted up, throat exposed. That throat-exposed thing is always interesting to me, can’t tell you why.

  “Here’s the problem, Darren,” Bernie said. “Your story just doesn’t add up, and when that happens we keep going over and over it until it does, me and Chet. So if you’d like to make this our last conversation, you’ll have to come across.”

  “With what?”

  “The truth about Peanut and DeLeath,” Bernie said. “Or at least some lie we can’t shoot holes in.”

  “Didn’t lie about nothin’,” Darren said. He took another long swig, or at least it looked like it was going to be a long swig, but all of a sudden Bernie leaned across the small space between them and batted the can away with the back of his hand. It spun through the blue light trailing sparkling blue beer drops, a beautiful sight.

  “What the hell?” said Darren, starting to rise. I rose, too. He sat right back down. Since I was on my feet anyway, I scarfed up a Cheeto or two. Cheetos: even better than I remembered.

  “What you’re missing—maybe because you’re not thinking your clearest—is that we’re on your side,” Bernie said.

  “Yeah, I’m missing that.”

  “Unlike the colonel, who’s obviously not on your side. How could he be, thinking the way he does that either you fell asleep on the job or deserted your post. We know you’re better than that.”

  “Goddamn right,” said Darren.

  “So all that’s left is for you to tell us about the better you.”

  “The better me?”

  “The you that didn’t fall asleep or desert,” Bernie said. “The stand-up you. What’s that guy’s story?”

  Darren licked his lips. “The stand-up me,” he said. Sometimes humans get a look in their eyes that tells you they like the sound of what they’re saying; this was one of those times. “Goddamn right,” he said. “They say he’s not even a real colonel, can you believe that?”

  “Easily,” Bernie said. “Getting back to the stand-up you.”

  “The stand-up me.” Darren turned to Bernie and met his gaze, at least for a moment. “The stand-up me don’t fall asleep on no job, don’t desert no post—you can take that to the bank.”

  Meaning we were putting money in at last? That was good news. This case was looking up already.

  “You got me convinced,” Bernie said. “But something unexpected happens to the stand-up guy last night—that’s my guess.”

  Darren gave Bernie a quick glance. “You’re a good guesser.”

  Bernie shrugged his shoulders. Sometimes he also said, “Shucks,” while he was doing that, but not now. Instead he said, “Fill us in.”

  Darren took a deep breath, let it out slow. This was usually a sign; of what, I couldn’t quite remember at the moment. “Goddamn JB, every time,” he said.

  “Who’s he?” Bernie said.

  “JB? Son of a bitch Jim Beam. Never heard of Jim Beam?”

  “Heard of him,” Bernie said.

  “Truth is, I got a bit of a weakness where JB is concerned.”

  “You’re not alone,” Bernie said.

  Darren looked surprised. “No?”

  “No.”

  Darren leaned a little closer to Bernie, like they were buddies now. “Thing is, I never drink on the job.”

  “Got you.”

  “Hardly ever.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “And then beer only.”

  “Wise choice.”

  “But last night what happens?”

  “Some kind of bad luck.”

  “You can say that again. Just doin’ my shift, quiet night, a few hours to go. And then I get a visit.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Darren went silent, took a few more deep breaths, shook his head from side to side.

  Bernie checked his watch. “A visit from who, you don’t mind my asking?”

  “My man Jocko.”

  “Your pal.”

  “Best pal. Sometimes he drops by, you know, when it gets slow. His job, I’m talkin’ about.”

  “Which is?”

  “Troubleshooter.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “You name it.”

  “Who does he troubleshoot for?”<
br />
  “Whoever’s payin’, I guess. Jocko’s what you’d call a consultant.”

  “A troubleshooting consultant?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And last night there were no troubles, so Jocko dropped by with a bottle of JB,” Bernie said.

  Darren sat back a little, no longer quite so close to Bernie. “You’re one hell of a guesser.”

  “Not really,” Bernie said. “You and Jocko shared a drink or two?”

  “Yup.”

  “Or maybe three or four?”

  “Musta been more than that.”

  “How come?”

  “Or else I ate something bad, ’cause the next thing I know I’m wakin’ up down on the floor of the gatehouse, pukin’ my guts out.”

  “Jocko still around?”

  “Nope. All by my lonesome. Not for long—by the time I get it all cleaned up, the place is swarmin’ with cops. And I told them God’s own truth—didn’t see nothin’, didn’t hear nothin’.”

  “No arguing with that. Did they ask if you’d had a pop or two?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “Yup.”

  “Been in touch with Jocko since then?”

  “Nope. But he’s got my back.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Christ, I thought you were smart.” Darren wagged his finger at Bernie. The last guy who did that? Flatfoot Bardiccio, now breaking rocks in the hot sun. “Because no one knows about the JB is why,” Darren said. “Jocko’s no snitch.”

  “Sounds like a helluva guy,” Bernie said. “He got a last name?”

  NINE

  Jocko’s last name turned out to be something I forgot right away. But I hung on to the fact that he slept in his pickup, though where that was also got away from me. We drove out of South Pedroia, took one freeway, then another, soon put the downtown towers behind us. The rotten-egg smell lingered in my nose. I tried snorting it out, making a funny little sound I liked, so I did it again.

  “Tired, big guy?”

  Tired? I was full of pep, rarin’ to go, feeling tip-top.

  Bernie gave me a pat. “I know it’s late, but got to strike while the iron is hot.”

  Please, no, not the iron. Most of the time the iron stayed in the closet, but when it came out—like when Bernie decided his pants were too wrinkled for going to court—look out; although the firemen turned out to be great guys, with a big bag of treats in their truck. I kept a close watch on Bernie for the rest of the ride. Was he tired? I didn’t think so: not from the sparkle in his eye.