To Fetch a Thief

by Spencer Quinn

  We sat. Sitting’s a big part of this job. We’re good at it, me and Bernie. After a while, he said, “If she’s really getting stalked and it turns out to be Jocko, then . . .” Then what? I waited to hear. Time passed. Bernie said, “He’s probably watching way too much TV.” Jocko was watching too much TV? Was that our problem with him? I thought it was all about how he’d gone over us both pretty good with that baseball bat and we still hadn’t paid him back. Then came thoughts of smashing up Jocko’s TV. After that, no more thoughts. We sat.

  I heard an approaching car, looked down the street but didn’t see it at first, on account of the headlights were off. It passed under a street lamp—not a car, but a pickup with a crooked antenna on the roof. I glanced at Bernie. His eyes were closed. I have different kinds of growls. One’s real low and quiet, stays deep in my throat, just right for a time like this.

  Bernie’s eyes snapped open. “Chet? What’s—”

  The pickup with the crooked antenna slowed down and stopped, right in front of Leda’s house. The driver, too far away for me to tell whether it was Jocko or not, pointed something out the window. All of a sudden the .38 Special was in Bernie’s hand. But then I caught the tiny blue screen glow of the thing in the guy’s hand, and so did Bernie. “Cell phone,” he said. I knew cell phones weren’t just for talking—they could take pictures, too, for example. Humans love gadgets, maybe way too much, but there was no time to think about that. The pickup started moving again, drove past us, headlights still off, meaning we weren’t blinded and got a good look at the driver.

  “I’m going to break his goddamn neck,” Bernie said.

  It was Marvin Winkleman.

  NINETEEN

  This is like one of those Italian comedies with what’s-his-name,” Bernie said. We were following Marvin Winkleman. Nothing to it, really: the pickup’s lights were on, freeway traffic was light, and he wasn’t driving fast. “You know,” Bernie said. “Good-looking guy, divorce, Marcello something?” He was quiet for a while. Winkleman took an exit not far from the North Valley Mall—the lights from its huge parking lot made an orange haze in the sky. “Divorce must be funnier in Italy,” Bernie said. “Why is that?” I had no idea, didn’t quite know what he was talking about, although some of it, like divorce, when Leda had packed up Charlie’s stuff and taken it away, and Italy, which was connected to pizza—sausage and pepperoni, no extra cheese, being our favorite, mine and Bernie’s—was pretty solid in my mind.

  We followed Winkleman past the mall, then swung up into the Pottsdale hills, one of the nicest parts of the Valley. Downtown Pottsdale has lots of art galleries where Leda had tried to drag Bernie before the divorce, plus fancy restaurants that didn’t want me and my kind around, and weren’t the sort of restaurants Bernie liked anyway. We like the same kind of restaurants, me and Bernie, our favorite right now being Max’s Memphis Ribs. Max’s Memphis Ribs—in Rosa Vista, pretty far from Pottsdale—is owned by Cleon Maxwell, a friend of ours. We’re friends with lots of restaurant owners. That’s working out real well for us.

  Winkleman drove past a bar with people sitting at outdoor tables, candlelight flickering on wine glasses and silverware, a pretty sight, and turned a corner. “Pepe’s Mandarin is down this street,” Bernie said. “Best Chinese food in the Valley—ten to one that’s where he’s going.” Chinese food’s a big subject, no time for it now, but there’s something called pineapple chicken balls that’s hard to beat. Meanwhile, Winkleman kept going. A restaurant with lanterns in the window went by and Bernie said, “Owe you ten,” losing me completely. Winkleman drove another block or two, passing some storefronts, the windows dark now, and finally parking in front of a place with a big coffee cup sign hanging over the street. Hey! I knew where we were: Livia’s Friendly Coffee and More.

  Bernie pulled over quick, parked behind a car. We watched Winkleman getting out of the pickup. He glanced up and down the street. “Is it possible?” Bernie said.

  Winkleman moved toward Livia’s Friendly Coffee and More. It was dark, closed for the night like the other stores on the block, but I knew from the Chatterley case—no time for that now, a complicated affair I never really understood, although we somehow ended up with an emerald necklace, later pawned to Mr. Singh when the piston rods did something bad, can’t remember what, and . . . what was I . . .?

  The Chatterley case. From the Chatterley case, I knew that Livia’s Friendly Coffee and More being closed for the night didn’t mean much. Winkleman glanced around again, then knocked on the door, a soft knock, but sound was carrying well on the quiet street. After a moment or two the door opened and Winkleman disappeared inside.

  “How about a little visit with Livia Moon?” Bernie said. Fine with me. Livia Moon—I think I mentioned her already, something about Popo’s smell reminding me of hers that first time I saw him with the white face, red mouth, green eyes, and nasty orange hair, with the added male element, of course—owned the coffee shop, and knowing coffee shop owners was like knowing restaurant owners, a good thing, and her blueberry muffins were very tasty if you like muffins, which I don’t, really, no offense, but the point is that when the coffee shop shut down for the night, Livia’s wasn’t quite dead, on account of her house of ill repute doing business in back.

  Bernie knocked on the door, a heavy wooden door, the kind you see on the old ranches in the Valley. I heard footsteps approaching, a click-click of high heels. Houses of ill repute come up from time to time in our job—I’ve liked every one.

  The door opened. A young woman in a short black dress looked out. “Sorry,” she said, “we’re closed.” Behind her the coffee shop was dark except for the white glow of a cooler and tiny green machinery lights here and there.

  “Too late for coffee anyway,” Bernie said. “I’d never sleep.” Don’t ask me what that was about; the young lady didn’t appear to get it, either. But then Bernie took out our card and we were back on track. “Mind showing this to Livia?” he said. She nodded and closed the door. We waited. A patrol car went down the street, didn’t slow down.

  “What does that tell you?” Bernie said.

  I didn’t know.

  More clickety-clicks from inside. The door opened, and the young woman looked out again, this time with a friendly smile. “Mr. Little? Please come in.”

  Which we did.

  “I’m Autumn,” the young woman said, closing the door.

  “That’s a nice name,” Bernie said.

  “I found it online,” Autumn said.

  “Oh,” said Bernie.

  She looked at me. “Is this Chet? Livia asked me if he was with you.”

  “Yup,” Bernie said.

  “Can I pat him?”

  “He hates that.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  Of course he was. Bernie’s quite the joker at times, not always the right ones. But in this case everything worked out fine. Autumn turned out to be an excellent patter. The young ladies in houses of ill repute were always excellent patters, although why I wasn’t sure. What the whole business was about, meaning what was actually for sale—for example, Max’s Memphis Ribs sold ribs—remained a mystery to me.

  We followed Autumn across the coffee shop, through a door, into a storage space with sacks of coffee beans—lots of complicated smells but no time to sort them all out—and then through another door and into a nice sort of living room with a soft rug, some puffy-looking sofas and chairs, and a small bar, a room I kind of remembered, mostly from a heavy perfume smell. Another young lady in a black dress, but barefoot rather than in high heels, lounged on one of the sofas, leafing through a magazine, and a somewhat older woman wearing a dark pantsuit and a string of pearls sat at a desk in front of a laptop. She saw us and jumped up—or maybe not jumped on account of her being a big woman, big and curvy—and hurried to us.

  “Bernie!” She threw her arms around him, a big woman and not that much shorter than Bernie.

  “Hi, Livia.” I could see Bernie’d had enough o
f hugging after a while, but Livia didn’t let go till she was good and ready.

  She stepped back, still gripping Bernie’s upper arms, in fact, giving them a little squeeze. “You look just great,” she said.

  “Uh, no, um, thanks,” Bernie said, which made Livia laugh, a nice big sound, not a boomer like Uncle Rio’s but impressive for a woman. “And you, too,” Bernie said.

  “Oh, go on,” she said. “I’ve put on so much weight.”

  “No, no, no,” Bernie said. “And it suits you.”

  Livia laughed again. “Those are mutually exclusive, Bernie. Pick one, preferably the first.”

  “Um,” Bernie said, and then he was laughing, too.

  “Tulip?” she said. The young woman on the sofa tossed her magazine aside and rose right away. “A nice big bourbon on the rocks for Bernie here, and a small one for moi,” Livia said. Tulip went behind the bar, reached for a bottle.

  “Sweetie?” Livia said. “We’re pouring from the top shelf tonight.”

  Tulip took a quick glance at Bernie, picked out a different bottle. Autumn went over to help her. Anyone could see this was a well-run place.

  Soon Bernie and Livia were on a couch having drinks—Bernie at one end, Livia in the middle and maybe inching closer to him. Tulip gave me a pat. She was an excellent patter, too, maybe even better than Autumn, couldn’t make up my mind about that. Autumn herself had left by another door; laughter came from not far off just before it closed.

  “His coat is so nice and glossy,” Tulip said.

  “Chet’s a looker, no doubt about that,” said Livia. She reached over, touched Bernie’s knee. “Nothing shabby about his partner, either.”

  “I don’t,” said Bernie, “uh . . .”

  She gave his knee a squeeze. “We go way back, Bernie and I.”

  “Was he one of your husbands?” Tulip said.

  “Oh, never,” said Livia. “I’m genuinely fond of Bernie.” She turned to him. “Remember how we met?”

  “Well, it was a long time ago,” Bernie said, “as you say, and . . .”

  “This was near Fort Hood, Tulip,” Livia said. “I had a very small establishment then, doing what I could for boys in the service—I’ve always been very patriotic, and by the way, you’re not wearing your flag pin.”

  “It must have fallen off somehow,” Tulip said.

  Livia seemed to think about that. Then she sipped her drink and continued. “A small establishment, but with a nice enclosed patio in back, where we sometimes had dancing, and one night things got a little out of hand—I wasn’t quite so knowledgeable then—and Bernie just happened along and saved my bacon.”

  He did? Then where was it? No bacon smell in the air, but that didn’t mean none was around, in a fridge, for example, although I could usually sniff out bacon in fridges. Still, the possibility of bacon was out there; this was turning out to be a great evening.

  “But,” Livia was saying, “Bernie’s probably not here to reminisce—never been much of a reminiscer, have you, Bernie?”

  “I wouldn’t say I never—”

  “So let’s get straight to whatever prompts this very welcome but unexpected visit. Goes without saying that any of our services are on the house, specialties included.”

  Tulip’s eyes widened; why, I didn’t know.

  “Thanks, but not tonight,” Bernie said. “We’re actually working.” He nodded toward Tulip, a tiny quick nod, barely noticeable.

  “Sweetie pie?” Livia said. “Go relax for a few minutes.”

  “With who?” said Tulip.

  “With yourself.”

  “With myself?”

  “Watch TV. Check your email. Do your nails.”

  “I just did them.” Tulip showed her nails, wine-colored, I thought, but don’t trust me when it comes to color.

  “Do them again.”

  Tulip left the room. Livia set down her drink. “What’s up?” she said.

  “Marvin Winkleman,” Bernie said.

  “He’s in number four,” Livia said. “Want me to interrupt the proceedings?”

  “Just tell me a little about him.”

  “Do you know the word schlub?”

  “No.”

  “Means like it sounds. That’s Marvin, a schlub. On the other hand, he’s a very good customer, never makes trouble, pays cash, tips appropriately, wears deodorant.”

  “A very good customer?” Bernie said.

  “Not the weekly kind of regular—that’s our bread and butter—”

  Bread and butter went well with bacon. Didn’t smell any bread and butter either, but I moved closer to Livia just in case some of this food she was talking about made an appearance.

  “—more of a semiweekly, I’d say. Or is it bi when you mean every second week?”

  “That’s a tough one,” Bernie said.

  “Come on, you know—you’re just not telling. No need to be modest with me, big fella.”

  “Bi,” Bernie said. “How long has he been a customer?”

  “Years and years,” Livia said. “Ten, at least.”

  Bernie rose. “Thanks,” he said.

  “That’s it? You’re not even finishing your drink?”

  “Work comes first,” Bernie said.

  “My philosophy, too, but sometimes it’s nice to blow off a little steam.”

  “That’s where I get in trouble,” Bernie said.

  Livia gave Bernie a careful look. Her eyelashes were amazing! “How’s divorce treating you?” she said.

  “Not too bad.”

  “Got a lady friend?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Want some advice?” Livia said. “From—let’s face it—a pro?”

  “I’d be crazy not to,” Bernie said.

  “Take her on a long walk. Hold her hand. Keep your mouth shut.”

  “Got it.”

  “Kiss me good-bye.”

  Bernie gave her a kiss. I thought it was meant to be quick, one of those pecks, but Livia had other ideas. When she finally stepped back and opened her eyes she said, “I’ve got a lot of know-how if you’re ever interested.”

  “My heart couldn’t take it,” Bernie said.

  Livia started laughing, then stopped quite suddenly. There are times when humans can’t be understood, and this was one of them.

  We followed Winkleman from Livia’s for a few blocks, onto Pottsdale’s main drag. He pulled over at a takeout place and went inside.

  “Worked up an appetite,” Bernie said. We parked behind him, got out of the car, stood on the sidewalk. “Long walk,” Bernie said. “Hold hand. Shut mouth. Sounds so easy.”

  Winkleman came out of the takeout place, a brown bag in his hand. With a BLT inside, meaning bacon, but I tried not to think about that. Life has some frustrations, such as now all of a sudden a subject like bacon comes up over and over and yet you’re not getting any—but I tried not to think about that. Winkleman saw us and stopped.

  “Bernie?” He patted his comb-over. “This is a surprise.”

  “Couple things,” Bernie said. “First—your stalking adventure is over.”

  “What the hell?” said Winkleman. Spots of color appeared on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He looked my way, stepped back a bit. My mouth was wide open for some reason.

  “You’ve been stalking someone who has nothing to do with your case,” Bernie said. “Stalkers piss the DA off more than just about anything. That’s what got him elected.”

  “The DA? What the fuck are you—”

  Bernie made a quick chopping motion with his hand, not something I’d often seen. “Second—your revenge fantasy is over, too.”

  “Huh?”

  “Think, Marvin. Are you really in a good stone-casting position?”

  Winkleman’s mouth opened and closed, always a good sign for us.

  “Get divorced,” Bernie said. “Move on.”

  “I thought you were working for me.”

  “In a big-picture sense. Y
ou’ll be grateful one day.”

  “I want my twenty-five hundred back.”

  “Less time worked and expenses.”

  “Time worked?”

  “Tonight,” Bernie said. “Tailing you.”

  Hey! Was Bernie being tough about money? I wanted to see that more often.

  TWENTY

  Bernie called Leda from the car. Charlie answered. His voice came through the speakers. “Have you found Peanut yet?”

  “No.”

  “When are you going to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I told the class you were finding Peanut.”

  “Did you say when?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Put your mother on.”

  Leda came on. “Everything’s taken care of,” Bernie said. “A case of mistaken identity. You won’t be bothered again.”

  “Whose identity was mistaken?”

  “Just about everybody’s,” Bernie said.

  “I don’t—”

  “No time to discuss it now, Leda. We’re on a job.”

  “Okay,” Leda said, and her voice softened. “And thanks.”

  Bernie hung up. “This marriage has got to work,” he said. “Work and be a model for every single marriage till the end of time. Otherwise I couldn’t live with myself.”

  No problem—I could live with him. In fact, forever. So everything was cool, although a bit confusing, so it was good that the phone started ringing.

  The next voice over the speakers was Popo’s. “Can we meet somewhere?” he said. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  “Should we come to your trailer?” Bernie said.

  “It’s not mine anymore,” said Popo.

  We met Popo in the lobby of this old hotel called Copperman’s in the West Valley. I knew Copperman’s from a case we’d worked on long ago, all about a Japanese restaurant and some stolen tuna. We found the tuna, but too late—I knew that before we even got out of the car on that last day.