“Long time ago,” Mr. Albert said. “Very hazy, like when the dust storm rolls in.”
“Was this before the Flower Mart closed?” Bernie said. “Were you still the caretaker?”
“Oh, yeah, still the caretaker. They paid me . . . what was it? Three eighty-five an hour? Might have been . . .” His voice trailed off.
“It doesn’t matter,” Bernie said. “The point is—”
“What the hell?” said Mr. Albert, his voice rising and getting squeakier. “Wage they give a man don’t matter? Ever gone hungry?”
“No.”
“Damn straight. Then you’d know a thing or two, by God.”
I myself had gone hungry, lots, in fact. For example, at that very moment a little something would have gone down nicely. I wanted to figure out the thing or two I knew from that, but there just wasn’t time.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Bernie said. “But I’m getting the picture that even though you weren’t getting rich, you were better off than at other times in your life.”
“Yeah,” said Mr. Albert, not so loudly now. “That’s the picture.”
“So,” Bernie said, “back when you were making some money and the Flower Mart was still a going proposition—”
“Know what it smelled like in here?” Mr. Albert said. “Heaven.”
Heaven. I’d heard of it, of course—it came up a lot in human conversation—but never been.
“Why did it shut down?” Bernie said.
“Forces. There are big forces at work in this world, case you haven’t noticed.”
“Like that night the woman ended up in the Dumpster,” Bernie said.
“Exactly what I’m talking about, brother,” said Mr. Albert. His fingers did that blanket-stroking thing on the bottle again. “Though you could barely call her a woman,” he went on.
“I’m sorry?” Bernie said.
“A teenager’s not quite grown-up, not in my book,” said Mr. Albert. “And I should know—I was all of eighteen when that B-13 come a-calling. Blew up over my goddamn head and then there was blood all over. Not mine, my buddy’s, which I didn’t realize right away. Made no difference in the end. Don’t expect anyone to understand that.”
“What I’d like to understand,” Bernie said, “is this story of the woman in the Dumpster.”
“Not a story,” said Mr. Albert. “It really happened. You can check.”
“Where?”
Mr. Albert shrugged. “The records.” He glanced down at the bottle. “Anything else for now? I’ve got to get back to my duties.”
“I’ll try to be quick,” Bernie said. “First, are you telling me that two women have been killed and left in the Dumpster?”
“Two?” said Mr. Albert.
“I told you—they found a body in there two days ago.”
“Two days ago? I’m talking about years and years.”
“Where were you two days ago?”
“Here. This is where I am.”
“Did the police come in the building?”
Mr. Albert shook his head.
“What about the sirens when they arrived?” Bernie said. “Didn’t you hear them?”
Mr. Albert got a faraway look in his eyes. “I thought it was a dream,” he said.
“It really happened,” Bernie said. “A woman—a second woman, if I’m following you right, ended up in your Dumpster. She was a reporter for the Trib named Carla Wilhite.”
“Not a teenager?”
“No.”
“The one I knew was a teenager.”
“You knew her?” Bernie said.
“Sure I did,” said Mr. Albert. “I knew all the workers on the floor, even the part-time kids who came in on weekends.”
“The girl was one of the part-time kids?”
“That’s what I’m telling you. A pretty young thing, nice smile.” Mr. Albert squeezed his eyes shut. “I can see her,” he said. “Pretty young thing, name of April.”
“April?” Bernie said. His voice didn’t rise—went the other way, if anything—but it seemed to fill the room, even push against me, like the sound was taking up space.
Mr. Albert’s eyes opened. “April something or other. But the April part’s easy to remember.” He paused for a moment or two, licked his lips. “It’s a month.”
“Who killed April?” Bernie said, tamping down that scary thing in his voice some; not scary to me, goes without mentioning—there was nothing scary between me and Bernie.
“Asking me?” said Mr. Albert. “I couldn’t tell you.”
Bernie reached out, not quickly, more like he was doing something he did all the time, and took the bottle out of Mr. Albert’s hands.
“Hey,” said Mr. Albert.
“Who killed April?” Bernie said.
“Already told you—I couldn’t say.”
“Why not?”
Mr. Albert gazed at Bernie. “Oh, good Christ—you think I’m the guilty party?”
“I’m not saying that,” Bernie said. “I just want the facts.”
“The facts?” said Mr. Albert. “Facts are scarce on the ground.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Can’t have facts if they never found out who did it.”
Now Bernie got real quiet. “You’re saying it’s an unsolved crime?”
“The right way to put it,” Mr. Albert said.
“Were there any suspects?” Bernie said.
“Couldn’t tell you,” said Mr. Albert. “All I know’s what I told the detective.”
“Which was?”
“What you already know—April was a nice girl.”
“Who found the body?”
“Why, I did, of course—I’m the caretaker.”
“You went out to put something in the Dumpster?” Bernie said.
“You’re a smart one,” said Mr. Albert. “Torn strip of insulation—the pink kind.” He looked at Suzie. “And you, too, ma’am. Smart.” And then at me. “Even the pooch here. So if you’re lookin’ to find out who killed April, then maybe you will.”
“Who was the detective?” Bernie said.
“The name, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“My apologies on that,” said Mr. Albert. “But one thing I’m sure of—he had long side whiskers, like an old-time riverboat gambler. Also wore himself a tall Stetson.”
Bernie handed him back the bottle.
“But it was a long time ago,” Mr. Albert called after us as we climbed the stairs out of his little room. “So maybe you won’t.”
I heard a faint sound of metal on glass: that would be the bottle cap getting unscrewed.
TWENTY-TWO
In the car—me on the shelf, again, being very good about it, nice and quiet, nibbling from time to time at a tiny opening I’d made in the back of the shotgun seat, now occupied by Suzie, again—Bernie was talking fast, all about Red Devil’s and sideburns and Thad Perry and April and lots of other stuff that flew by faster and faster, becoming pure sound, kind of like music, until Suzie interrupted.
“Bernie?” she said. “Can you take me to the airport?”
“Whoa,” said Bernie, at the same time hitting the brakes, even though we were barreling down the passing lane in light traffic. Someone honked behind us. “Uh, I thought you weren’t in a rush to get back,” Bernie said.
“It’s not that,” Suzie said. “Well, maybe it is, partly.” She went silent. Meanwhile, Bernie had slipped over into the most inside lane, the very slowest, where we never rode except when we were headed for an exit.
“And partly what else?” he said.
“This is hard to say,” she said. “And maybe kind of stupid.”
“I doubt that,” Bernie said.
Suzie turned to him, a small smile crossing her face and vanishing fast. “And then you come up with something like that,” she said. “Let’s forget it.”
“Forget what?” said Bernie.
But why bother? I was with Suzie on this one: imme
diate forgetting was often the way to go.
“What I just said,” Suzie replied. “The whole thing.”
“I don’t understand,” Bernie said. “You don’t want to go to the airport?”
“Christ,” Suzie said.
Uh-oh. Were they fighting? Was this some kind of fight between Bernie and Suzie? How could that happen?
There was a long silence. In the distance I saw the head of the huge wooden cowboy who stands outside the Dry Gulch Steakhouse and Saloon, a smiling cowboy with his big white hat tilted back on his head. He also had a six-gun in each hand, but that part was out of sight, hidden by some buildings. Were we headed to the Dry Gulch? Seemed like a good idea to me, kicking back, having a little something, getting along. But when the exit ramp appeared, we kept going.
“You do want to go the airport?” Bernie said after a while. “Is that what I’m supposed to figure out?”
“You’re good at figuring things out,” Suzie said.
I got the feeling they were still fighting. That little opening in the leather seat back in front of me? It was growing. Some interesting-looking stuff in there. I tried to concentrate on it and block out everything else, normally a real talent of mine. But not right now, for some reason.
“I’m sorry, Bernie,” Suzie said. “That was uncalled for. It’s my fault.”
“What is? I’m not getting this at all.”
“Oh, hell,” Suzie said. “Let’s just say the Post wants me back ASAP and leave it like that. And it happens to be true.”
“The part you’re leaving out,” Bernie said. “Spill it.”
Suzie thought for some time and then nodded. “Okay, Bernie, and maybe you’ll think it’s petty.” She sat up straight. “But I don’t like being silenced.”
“Huh?” Bernie said.
“My father did that to my mother all the time,” Suzie said. “I hated it.”
“Did what, exactly?” Bernie said.
“This,” said Suzie, and she made a small sideways chopping motion with her hand. “Whenever she was about to say something he didn’t want to hear, he’d cut her off, just like that. And you did the same thing to me.”
“I did?”
“Back at the interview with Mr. Albert, when he was starting to talk about the first murder.”
“But it was a delicate moment, Suzie, and I sensed that—”
“And I can’t handle delicate moments? Or sense things?”
“Of course you—” Bernie began in a calm voice, and then suddenly he got angry. “What the hell is with you right now?”
“It was demeaning,” Suzie said.
“Demeaning? I’m trying to solve the murder of your goddamn friend.”
I lay down flat.
Suzie made no response. From where I sat I couldn’t see her face very well, but her neck flushed from the bottom up.
“Is this just an excuse?” Bernie said, his voice not so loud now, but very hard.
“For what?” said Suzie.
“For getting rid of me,” Bernie said.
“Is that what you think I’m like?”
Bernie didn’t answer. Suzie sat very straight, her neck pink.
Not another word was spoken driving home for her little red suitcase, or on the way to the airport, or when Suzie got out of the car in front of the terminal. By that time all the leather on the seat back was in shreds.
Bernie stopped at a store and bought a pack of cigarettes. It had been a long time since he’d bought an actual pack, not just bummed a smoke here and there. He came back, struck a match, and lit up. Hey! His hands were shaking. I’d seen that in all sorts of different humans, but never, ever in Bernie. He took a deep drag and leaned against the car, actually more like slumping against it. For a moment he seemed to have gotten smaller. I hated that.
“I’m not smart enough to figure this out, big guy,” he said. “Not nearly.”
Bernie not smart enough? Not possible, although what he wanted to figure out was unclear to me.
“Is it some sort of second-fiddle thing?” he went on. “How could Suzie ever think she’d be second fiddle to anybody, let alone me?”
I went from feeling unclear to totally lost. Second fiddle? We didn’t even have a first one, Bernie’s instrument being the ukulele, which he played beautifully. “Dead Flowers,” “Lonely Teardrops,” and “Sea of Heartbreak” were some of my favorites: there’s a woo-woo thing he does at the end of “Sea of Heartbreak” where I always join in.
“Who found Mr. Albert in the first place, after all?” he said. He took another drag. “Might have been a good idea if I’d worked that in somehow. But—hey, Chet, what’s that all about?”
What was what all about? Uh-oh. The woo-woo thing? I was doing it now, by myself? I put a stop to that, and pronto. We drove home. Bernie seemed like he was back to his normal size.
There’s a curve on Mesquite Road, and as you drive around it, our place comes into view. I always loved that sight, but now there was something I’d never seen before: Iggy standing in the long window by our door, front paws on the glass, and . . . and what was that in his mouth? Could it be? We pulled into the driveway. Yes: the ukulele.
And once we got inside the house and Bernie had snatched the ukulele out of Iggy’s mouth? “Like a goddamn bomb went off,” he said. “Didn’t I shut him in the kitchen?” It took Bernie a long time to clean up. Meanwhile, I played with Iggy out on the patio. At first he was very thirsty, lapping up lots of water from the base of the stone fountain, something I’d often done myself. But a little later, he came up with something that had never even occurred to me, something completely new: he lifted one stubby rear leg over the lip of the basin, just clearing it, and peed inside. In all that time we’d been apart, Iggy hadn’t lost a thing. You could learn a lot from friends.
It was getting dark when a taxi dropped off Mr. Parsons. He stumped up to the door and Bernie let him in.
“You’re not one of those messy bachelors, I see,” Mr. Parsons said.
“Um,” said Bernie. “Ah. How’s Mrs. Parsons?”
“Stabilized,” Mr. Parsons said, “and thank you for asking. Also thanks for taking care of Iggy—hope he behaved himself.”
“No complaints,” Bernie said. “Iggy!” he called.
A moment or two passed and then Iggy appeared in the hall. He was chewing on . . . yes, a cigarette, but he swallowed it quickly, possibly before anyone else noticed. Iggy saw Mr. Parsons. Iggy was one of those tail waggers who pretty much wag with their whole bodies.
Night fell, and the air cooled down some. Bernie took out the bourbon, started to unscrew the top, then stopped, and placed the bottle back on the shelf. He went into the office and made some calls. I lay under the desk and let the sound of his voice wash over me, very relaxing. After a while, he put down the phone and said, “How about a walk?”
I was at the door. One of the great things about our place on Mesquite Road—wouldn’t live anywhere else—is how we back right up on the canyon, pretty much wide open country, all the way down to the airport and up to Vista City. Bernie was opening the back gate when it hit me that while we’d taken a zillion walks in the canyon or even more, none had ever come at night. So: what a great idea! But that was Bernie.
He switched on a flashlight as we crossed the narrow gully beyond the gate and started climbing up the slope. Day or night doesn’t make much difference to me, but it’s a game changer for humans. They can’t seem to see at all in the dark, and what’s there to fall back on? Hearing? Smell? Please. So it’s no surprise to me that nighttime is when humans tend to land in trouble. Don’t get me wrong. I liked just about every human I’ve ever met, even some of the perps and gangbangers, but in my opinion they’re at their best right before lunchtime.
We reached the top of the ridge—Bernie huffing and puffing a bit already? How could that be?—and soon came to the big flat rock. I walked across it, felt the heat of the day, still there. Sometimes the earth itself seems . . . a thought star
ting out on those lines almost got going in my mind.
No time for that. We walked along the ridge, then took the trail that led to the lookout, highest point on our side of the canyon, and one of our favorite places, what with its nice stone bench and view of practically the whole valley. A javelina had been this way, and not long ago. I went into my trot, cut across the trail and down the slope, then back up, the scent strong at first, then fading out. That happened sometimes, and the go-to play was to circle back and—
“Chet.”
Maybe later.
We climbed to the top of the lookout and then came a surprise: a man, all shadowy, was sitting on the bench. Just as I was about to bark, I smelled who it was. I trotted over.
“Hey, Chet,” said Rick Torres, giving me a pat. “Didn’t hear you on the trail, not a sound.” He turned to Bernie. “You, on the other hand, are one goddamn noisy hiker.”
Bernie sat on the bench, stretched his bad leg. “Didn’t want to sneak up on you,” he said.
“Glad to hear that,” Rick said. He wasn’t in uniform, wore jeans and a T-shirt, but had a gun on him somewhere. It hadn’t been fired, but it had been lubricated—I’d watched Bernie lubricate the .38 Special plenty of times—and grease is a real easy smell to pick up. There are actually many grease smells—pizza grease and human hair grease, to name two—something I hope we can get into later, unless it’s happened already.
“Am I hearing a double meaning?” Bernie said, losing me completely.
“A funny place to meet, that’s all,” Rick said.
Hey! Were they not getting along? At the same time Bernie wasn’t getting along with Suzie, either? What was going on?
Bernie looked at Rick for a moment, then turned his gaze to the faraway lights of the downtown towers. The lights were hazy and so were the stars, and I could see dust drifting over the face of the moon.
“Wish it would rain,” Bernie said.
“So does everybody,” Rick said. “But is that why you brought me here in the middle of the night, to discuss our weather patterns?”
Bernie turned back to him, then took out his cigarettes and lit up.
“A whole pack?” Rick said. “That’s a bad sign.”
Bernie blew out a stream of smoke, all silvery in the moonlight.
A Fistful of Collars Page 18