A Fistful of Collars

by Spencer Quinn

  What was he saying—that Charlie was a great kid? I knew that already. The rest of it made no sense to me and blew away like bits off this and that flying out the trash truck when the trash truck dudes are in a hurry. And no time to think about it anyway, because an ambulance was parked next door to our place, not on old man Heydrich’s side, but the other, over in front of the Parsons’ place, where my pal Iggy lived.

  “Whoa,” said Bernie, slowing down and pulling into our driveway.

  We got out of the car and just stood there, Bernie standing and me sitting, actually, side by side. How often have we done that? Lots, and it never gets old. Bernie watched the Parsons’ front door, so I did, too. We’re real good at watching, and watching pays off in our line of work, big-time. Then why were our finances in such a mess? We were good! Sometimes you had to try to make your mind not do things. I tried to make my mind not think about our finances ever again. It thought about our finances right away.

  “I hope—” Bernie began.

  The Parsons’ door opened. Out came two EMTs, rolling old Mrs. Parsons on a stretcher. She had a breathing mask over her face—I knew breathing masks from this one time Bernie and I saved a kid from drowning; what a day that was! and who cared if the perp got away? especially since we collared him that night, a perp whose name was about to come to me, I could feel it—and tubes sticking out of her here and there. Mr. Parsons came stumping after them on his walker, trying to keep up and at the same time extending one hand, maybe wanting to touch Mrs. Parsons’s wispy hair. He lost his balance, started to tip sideways. One of the EMTs reached out and grabbed him, saying, “Sir, please.”

  “But I want to come,” said Mr. Parsons. “I want to ride with my wife.”

  “Sorry,” said the EMT. “No room, no time.”

  The other EMT banged open the rear doors of the ambulance. They slid Mrs. Parsons inside, one of the EMTs jumping in after her, the other running around to the front and hopping up behind the wheel. At that moment, Iggy appeared in the Parsons’ doorway. He paused there, his stubby tail up straight, his crazily long tongue hanging out. Iggy, my best pal! When was the last time he’d been outside? Long, long ago, back before the divorce, maybe even all the way back to when Bernie and Leda weren’t fighting all the time. This was Iggy’s big chance, and I knew Iggy: when a big chance came along, he grabbed it fast and never looked back. That mailman, for example, back in the long-ago time, who’d left his sandwich on the dashboard of the truck while he’d delivered a package across the street: what a great memory, Iggy with egg salad all over his face! The truth was I’d learned a trick or two from Iggy, back in the day.

  But right now, Iggy wasn’t grabbing his big chance. He lingered in the doorway, sniffing the air. He might not even have seen me. Then, still sniffing, he moved onto the brick walkway, sniff-sniffing his way along. The ambulance driver revved the motor and hit the siren. Iggy raised his head, saw the ambulance, began moving faster, at the same time making a little whining noise. The ambulance pulled away from the curb and started driving away. Iggy went yip-yip-yip, zipped around Bernie, who was about to collar him, ran right into the street, and took off after the ambulance.

  “Iggy!” called Mr. Parsons.

  But way too late. Iggy pelted after that ambulance, running faster than I’d ever seen him, impossibly fast, those short legs of his just a chubby blur. It took me practically the whole block to catch him.

  And then it was like old times, the two of us zooming side by side, ears flattened straight back by our own wind: we were making wind, me and Iggy! Up ahead the ambulance slowed down a bit to roll through a stop sign. We came so close to catching up, but then—oh, no—a truck? Barreling down the cross street? Right at us? I swerved, swerved my very quickest, knocking Iggy sideways and off the road. The truck honked—one of those real blaring and angry honks—and blew by.

  For a moment I got mad at Iggy because . . . because I didn’t know why. I barked at him. He made another one of those whining noises—not like Iggy at all; where was the old yip-yip-yip?—and took off again after the ambulance, now just about out of sight. But did that stop Iggy? No. He ran. I ran beside him. Block after block—the ambulance long gone except for the smell of its exhaust—we kept going, Iggy panting a lot now, and also whining, out of our neighborhood, past the public school where Charlie could have gone for free—“What’s wrong with public school?” Bernie asked Leda many times. “I went to public school and so did you.”—and toward the freeway entrance ramp, all blocked up with a line of cars. Iggy came to a slowish kind of stop, then just stood there whining, even whimpering, if you want the truth, his stubby tail drooping down almost to the ground, the scrubby, littered ground you get beside freeway ramps.

  Iggy sat down. He eased off on the whining and whimpering, took to full-out panting instead. A kid in the bumper-to-bumper line slid down his window and said, “Mommy, look at those doggies.”

  A woman inside the car craned her head. “They must be lost,” she said. “I’ll call animal control.”

  Animal control? Was that the pound? I had memories of the pound, not good. That biker: I’d thought we were friends. Maybe a story for another day, or possibly one I’ve been over already. In any case, no time now. I barked a low rumbly bark. Iggy sat. I tried the bark again, a bark which means time to split, loud and clear. He sat. I went over and gave him a nudge. The little bugger nipped me. I nipped him back, then gave him another nudge, this one meaning business. When he stopped rolling, he rose, gave himself a good shake, and started to follow me home.

  We met Bernie coming the other way. He didn’t say anything, didn’t seem angry, just opened the door of the Porsche and let us in. We shared the shotgun seat, me and Iggy.

  Back home, Mr. Parsons was stumping his way to a taxi, idling in his driveway.

  “No need for that, Dan,” Bernie said. “I’ll go with you.”

  Mr. Parsons shook his head. “You’re a good man, but waiting around hospitals is a killer. Wouldn’t put you through it. If you really want to help, maybe you could look after Iggy till I get back.”

  “Of course.”

  Mr. Parsons turned to Iggy. “C’mere, little fella.”

  Iggy, limping a bit now, went over to Mr. Parsons. He bent over, one hand on the walker, and scratched Iggy between the ears. Very briefly, but a high-quality scratching, I could tell from the look in Iggy’s eyes, pretty much nobody home. I wanted some of that.

  “Be a good boy for Bernie here,” Mr. Parsons said.

  Iggy pushed against Mr. Parsons’s leg.

  “I mean it,” Mr. Parsons said. “Need you to be a team player now.”

  Iggy stopped pushing, went still, let his tongue hang out. He gazed down at the ground.

  Bernie helped Mr. Parsons into the taxi, folded up the walker, stuck it on the front seat beside the driver. Then he handed the driver some money and spoke a few words I didn’t catch. Bernie tapped the roof. The taxi drove off. Iggy raised his head. For a moment, I thought he was about to take off again, but he didn’t. Instead he sat down and watched the taxi disappear. No whining, no panting: he just watched.

  Along about then, I noticed old man Heydrich—even older than Mr. Parsons, Bernie said, although he didn’t look it, trim and straight—watching from the edge of his property.

  “Think he’ll put his place on the market?” old man Heydrich said.

  Bernie just stared at him.

  “Be interesting to see what he gets in this market,” said Heydrich. He turned and went back to his house, pausing on his way to pick up a fallen leaf, crush it up, and scatter the pieces.

  “Come on, Iggy,” Bernie said. “We’ve got some nice treats.” Bernie headed for our house. I followed Bernie. Iggy followed me, but not in a quick way. He didn’t understand treat?

  * * *

  Inside our house, Iggy sniffed around for a bit, then lay down under the kitchen table. Bernie reached up to the treat shelf—the very highest shelf in our kitchen—and took do
wn two rawhide chews, the long, thin, tubular kind, just a wonderful design, in my opinion. He crouched down by the table and offered one to Iggy, but Iggy was zonked out, eyes closed.

  “All tuckered out, huh, little guy?” Bernie said. “I’ll just leave this here on the floor for when you—” He glanced over at me and said, “On second thought.” Then he rose and put Iggy’s chew back on the shelf. “Catch,” he said, and tossed me mine, which I snatched out of the air no problem, and got busy with right away, but the whole time I was thinking about that strange on-second-thought thing Bernie had mentioned: What did it mean? Why bother? Why me? Those were my thoughts. They refused to come together in any way I could understand.

  Bernie went down the hall to the office. I heard the pen squeaking on the whiteboard. And then, another sound, very faint, caught my attention, a sound coming from the street. Was it a sort of . . . yes: a tick-tick-tick. I trotted toward the long window by the front door, taking the remains of the chew with me, and looked out.

  Tick-tick-tick: a car drove slowly by, that same dark car with darkened windows. The driver’s side window slid down and the driver tossed out a match, leaving a tiny cloud of cigarette smoke hanging in the still air. I got a good look at that driver: a white-haired dude, not old like Mr. Parsons and Heydrich, maybe more like Bernie’s age, his white hair kind of long. What else? Black eyebrows, a shiny stud in his ear, a narrow little mouth; and dark, liquid eyes. Then up popped the head of that huge member of the nation within, leaning into view from the backseat: the real gigantic dude with angry eyes and long, long teeth. I barked, forgetting about my chew, which fell to the floor. The big dude barked back, ferocious. I grabbed my chew, ran down the hall to the office, and barked at Bernie, forgetting the chew, which fell to the floor.

  He turned from the whiteboard. “No way,” he said. “You haven’t even finished that one.”

  I listened for the dark car, heard the final fading away of its engine sound, and maybe the hint of one last bark.

  The phone rang. Suzie, on speaker. “Bernie, can—” she began, and then, “what’s he barking about? I can hardly hear you.”

  “I haven’t said anything,” Bernie told her.

  “What?”

  “I said—for God’s sake, Chet, knock it off!”

  I amped it down as much as I could.

  “He’s doing his chew strip thing,” Bernie said. “What’s up?”

  “Can you come out to the old Flower Mart?” Suzie said. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Iggy was still asleep under the kitchen table. “Iggy?” Bernie said. “Iggy?” Iggy stretched his stubby legs but didn’t wake up. “I guess it’s okay to leave him here,” Bernie said. “Don’t see what trouble he can get into with the kitchen door closed.”

  We went outside. No sign of the dark car with the liquid-eyed dude and his fierce buddy inside. We hopped in the Porsche. My chew strip thing? Meaning what, exactly?

  “You’re pretty quiet all of a sudden,” Bernie said, giving me a look that was more than careful, maybe even a bit worried.

  Hey! Had I come close to sinking into a bad mood? Chet the Jet: what was with you? I snapped right out of it, sat straight and tall, ears up, on the job and ready. Bernie laughed, not sure why, but what a lovely laugh. I felt tip-top.

  TWENTY-ONE

  It was the hottest part of the day when we got back to the old Flower Mart, and this was pretty much the hottest part of the year, all that heat making Bernie’s Hawaiian shirt—he wore the one with the fiery volcanoes—kind of damp. Not a cloud in the sky, but no blue, either: instead it glowed a dusty, golden brown.

  “I don’t like that sky,” Bernie said.

  Then neither did I. I hoped that another one would come sliding across soon.

  No sign of Suzie in front, so we drove around to the back. No Suzie, and also the Dumpster was gone. We stopped and got out. All the lower windows of the old Flower Mart were boarded up, and the door looked boarded up, too, but it opened and Suzie looked out. She gave us that little hooked finger motion that meant come. We went inside.

  “What’s up?” Bernie said.

  He spoke in a low whisper, the low human whisper always clear as a bell to me, even from across a street. An odd thing about bells: easy to hear, no question, but their sound was sometimes so complicated, full of all these different parts separating and coming together, like THA-roomp, tha-ROOMP, that you couldn’t really call bell ringing clear.

  “How did you get in?” Bernie went on.

  “Why are you whispering?” Suzie said.

  Bernie laughed. “I don’t know,” he said in a normal voice.

  I looked around. We were in a big, shadowy space with shafts of dusty light shining down through the upper windows, the floorboards all torn up, paint peeling off the walls, wires hanging from the ceiling high above.

  “I heard a toilet flush inside and tried the door,” Suzie said. “Turned out the boards weren’t nailed to the frame.”

  “Because someone’s been squatting in here?” Bernie said.

  “You’re sharp today,” said Suzie.

  She led us to the far end of the room, past a big pillar, down a set of dark stairs, and into a small room lit by a single, weak lightbulb hanging from a beam above. A small room—toilet and sink on one side, counter with a hot plate on the other, bed in between—and very neat, with the bed made, no wrinkles. The man sitting on it—a little old guy in a faded uniform—looked neat, too, hair cut short, face shaved, shoes freshly shined—a smell hard to miss. Another smell I was picking up: bourbon, a smell I’m very used to, and happen to like.

  “Bernie, meet Mr. Albert,” Suzie said. “Former caretaker of the Flower Mart.”

  Bernie gave Mr. Albert a close look, his gaze taking in the faded uniform. “Former Master Sergeant Albert,” he said, “Korean War veteran and winner of the Bronze Star.”

  “Correct, sir,” said Mr. Albert. “What service were you in?”

  “Army,” said Bernie. “Same as you.”

  “Overseas?”

  “Yes.”

  “Combat?”

  Bernie nodded. Mr. Albert extended his hand, a bony, spotted hand with lots of thick veins. They shook.

  “Korea came before the Flower Mart, just sose you know,” said Mr. Albert. “Before Korea was high school. Important to keep all these events in order.”

  “Mr. Albert was the caretaker here until it closed down,” Suzie said.

  Mr. Albert’s eyes narrowed. “How d’you know that?”

  “You told me,” Suzie said.

  Mr. Albert shook his head, then glanced over at a bottle standing by the sink. The bourbon with the red label: sometimes Bernie bought the same kind.

  “What did you do after the Flower Mart closed down?” Bernie said.

  Mr. Albert turned to him. “What time is it?” he said.

  Bernie checked his watch. “Three fifty.”

  “Military time is better,” said Mr. Albert.

  “Fifteen fifty,” Bernie told him.

  Mr. Albert nodded. Then he pointed to the dull-colored metal star on his chest. “How much for this?” he said.

  “What do you mean?” said Bernie.

  “How much will you give me for it?” Mr. Albert said. “What else could I mean?”

  “I think you should keep it.”

  “Huh? Don’t want it? You’re telling me you already got one of your own?”

  “No,” Bernie said. I wondered why: could he have forgotten that he did have a star just like that, maybe a bit shinier, in one of the drawers in his bedside table? Barking started up in the little room.

  “Hey, Chet,” Bernie said.

  Uh-oh. It was me. I put a stop to it at once, or almost.

  “I had a dog once, name of Marshall,” Mr. Albert said. “Not as good-looking as this one here, missing a leg, but I liked him fine.” He glanced over at the bottle. “Mind reaching me that?”

  “In a bit,” Bernie said.

&
nbsp; Mr. Albert looked Bernie in the eye. “You’re a hard man,” he said. “Hard men die, too, easy as soft.”

  “I know,” Bernie said.

  “I seen ’em die, like flies. Ever have a B-13 go off right over your head?”

  “No.”

  “Happened to me,” Mr. Albert said. “Keeps happening, too. My head’s never been the same since.”

  Bernie picked up the bottle, handed it over. Mr. Albert didn’t unscrew the cap, just held the bottle in his lap.

  “Can you remember what happened after the Flower Mart job?” Bernie said.

  “A whole lot of shit,” said Mr. Albert. “Think I’d live in the shelter? Think again. I improvised my way back in here, wired myself up some juice, plumbed myself up some water, and hell with them all.”

  “Why not?” Bernie said.

  Mr. Albert gave Bernie a long look. “Maybe you’re not so bad.” He turned to me. “This your dog?”

  Bernie nodded.

  “Got the dog, got the wife, you’re on track,” Mr. Albert said.

  “We’re not married,” Bernie told him.

  “What’s the holdup?”

  Bernie smiled, glanced at Suzie. She looked down. He stopped smiling.

  “Life is short, never heard that?” Mr. Albert said. “B-13 goes off over your head and forget it.”

  “Some people’s lives are shorter than others,” Bernie said.

  Mr. Albert sat back a little.

  “Are you aware,” Bernie went on, “that a woman was shot and dropped in your Dumpster the other night?”

  Mr. Albert shook his head. “No, no, no,” he said. “That was a long time ago.”

  Suzie started to say something, but Bernie made a tiny motion with his hand. “Tell me about it,” he said.

  Mr. Albert’s fingers moved on the bottle. I thought about this blanket Charlie had had, back when he couldn’t even walk yet—and what a shocker that was, seeing how long it took a human to get up and go, kind of basic, after all—and the way his tiny fingers would stroke it. Funny how the mind works.