But right at the highest point of my leap, well above the heads of all humans concerned—which is a nice angle to have on humans, as I’d learned before and was learning again—I caught sight from the corner of my eye of an unwelcome development, namely the woman opening her jacket and going for her pea shooter, a pea shooter I now knew for sure I should have taken off the table when I had the chance. Lucky for me, I’m capable of kind of writhing around in midair and changing my flight plan, which is what I did, snatching that gun—which from the surprising weight must have been more of a stone-cold stopper than a pea shooter—right out of her hand—
“OW!”
—and trotting it over to Bernie. He took it just as Mr. Ferretti was reaching into his own jacket. Bernie turned to him, gun held loose, pointed at the ground, and Mr. Ferretti stopped with the reaching thing, holding his hands nice and steady, out where we could see them. Over by the car, the dude was staring down at the front of his shirt, which had somehow popped all its buttons, and the woman was dabbing at her wrist with a tissue, a tissue that looked just about pure white to me, give or take.
A comfortable silence descended on the pit stop area. I’m sure we were all thinking pretty much the same thing: what a beautiful day, the sky so blue, the leaves on the trees all sorts of colors, a soft breeze. Bernie tucked the gun in his pocket. At last! Going so long without a peacemaker had made me nervous, even though I hadn’t realized it at the time. And now? I was back to feeling tip-top, and I knew it, which made everything just that much tip-topper.
“The thing is,” Bernie said, “Chet feels kind of possessive about our car.”
Mr. Ferretti nodded. At the same time, his two helpers were stepping away from the Porsche, kind of rapidly, as though they expected it to blow up any moment. Not a crazy thought on their part! We’d had a Porsche—the one before this, or the one before that, hard to keep it all straight in the mind when your life is on the adventurous side—blow up on us, in some ways a beautiful sight. And in the end, we’d made somebody pay and pay good, although who, exactly, wasn’t coming to me at the moment.
Bernie moved over to Mr. Ferretti, put his arm over his shoulder, just the way Mr. Ferretti had done to him at the start of their little walk and talk. “How about your assistants take a moment or two in the SUV?”
Mr. Ferretti nodded. “Coffee?” he said to Bernie.
“Black,” said Bernie, taking out his wallet.
“That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Ferretti said. “Guys?” he said to the others. “If you will? Coffee run. Black for Mr. Little.”
“Uh,” said the man with the open shirt, “we’re kind of in the middle of nowhere.”
“Even the middle of nowhere has coffee these days,” Mr. Ferretti said. “Warms the heart about this land of ours.”
The man and woman got in the car.
“If you get a chance,” Bernie called after them, “Chet’s fond of Slim Jims.”
Fond? I was flat-out crazy about them! Ever tasted one? Then you know.
The SUV drove off. Bernie walked over to the Porsche, started picking up the bird remains all over again. “Mind bringing that shopping bag?” he said to Mr. Ferretti.
Mr. Ferretti went and got the shopping bag from the far side of the clearing where the breeze had taken it. Nothing shabby about his retrieving skills, although not in my class, hardly bears mentioning. He held the shopping bag open while Bernie dumped the pieces inside, Mr. Ferretti gazing at them kind of sadly. For a few moments they worked together real nice, like good pals. Hey! It turned out that Mr. Ferretti had beautiful hands, although not as beautiful or as big or as anything as Bernie’s; also not bearing a mention. But here’s something about me: I kind of like mentioning things that don’t bear mentioning! What’s with that? I’m even tempted to mention whatever it was one more time.
Meanwhile, the last piece of the strange bird was dropping into the shopping bag with a soft clank, and a good thing—I never wanted to see that bird or any part of it again. Mr. Ferretti extended his hand, like he was expecting Bernie to give him the bag, but Bernie did not, taking a step back instead, which reminded me of a sort of a game that one of Charlie’s little buddies played with him once, a game that was all about holding out an ice cream cone and then snatching it away every time Charlie reached out for it, and that had led to a miniature brawl between them, stopped but pronto by Chet the Jet, who also ended up with the ice cream cone.
Forget all that. The point is Bernie held on to the bag. “How about we make a deal?” he said.
“To get my own property back?” said Mr. Ferretti. “That doesn’t strike me as friendly.”
“We’re not friends,” Bernie said. “More like the opposite.”
“Oh?” said Mr. Ferretti. “Even after I got you out of jail? Seems a tad ungrateful.”
“I’ll explain,” Bernie said. “Stop me when I go wrong. You knew I didn’t kill Eben, but you say you don’t know who did, meaning you’re sure my alibi was solid. No other possibility that I can see. But my alibi is the kind that almost never holds up. I was asleep at Suzie Sanchez’s place, no witnesses. Makes it a real good bet that you had a drone outside her window. No way you’d have been keeping an eye on me—I’d just come to town. You’ve been spying on Suzie. Suzie’s my girlfriend. So therefore, we’re enemies, you and me.”
What a great moment in my life! Mr. Ferretti had tried to take the so therefores away from Bernie, and Bernie had snatched them back, just like . . . an ice cream cone. An ice cream cone? An odd thought. I pushed it aside, tried to pay attention.
“You made just one mistake,” Mr. Ferretti said. “We weren’t spying on Suzie.”
“The drone just happened to be outside the bedroom window?”
“Pretty much. We had a drone in the vicinity—not this one, by the way, if taking revenge on an inanimate object is motivating you—but its mission had nothing to do with Suzie Sanchez or you.”
Then came a long silence. I could feel Bernie’s thoughts zinging around, short and choppy, not like his usual thoughts. Mr. Ferretti watched him think for a while and smiled. I myself puzzled over “drone,” a new one on me.
“So therefore,” he said, “we aren’t enemies, you and I.”
What was this? Mr. Ferretti had snatched the so therefores right back? Bernie! Do something!
Which Bernie did, although it was the last thing I expected: he handed over the shopping bag.
“Much obliged,” said Mr. Ferretti. “I’ll take my colleague’s firearm, while we’re at it.”
“Whose side are you on?” Bernie said, the gun remaining in his pocket.
“Side?”
“One of the political parties, maybe? The president? Some candidate?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Mr. Ferretti said. “I’m here to protect the country in the long term.”
“Now you’ve got me scared,” Bernie said. “I’ll be keeping the weapon.”
TWENTY-SIX
* * *
Nice job on the gun, big guy,” Bernie said as we zoomed off down the road, just the two of us back on our own, the way we like it. “Interesting that you and Ferretti seemed to know each other already.” He glanced over at me. “How and when did that happen?”
Not an easy question. I searched my memory. Nothing there at the moment! Meaning there was no choice but to look to the future, not a bad outcome, all in all.
“Must have been while they had me locked up downtown,” Bernie said, “but how—”
The phone buzzed.
“Bernie?” It was Suzie, but sounding not quite herself, her voice higher and thinner.
“Hey, Suzie. You all right?”
“No. I mean yes. Mostly yes. But something’s come up and I think you should—”
“Suzie? Suzie? Are you still there?” We listened hard, me and Bernie, his hand tightening on the wheel
, the knuckles getting yellow. I heard a click, and then nothing.
Bernie pressed a button. The beep-beeping of a phone call trying to get started came through the speakers.
“Suzie, pick up.”
But she did not.
Bernie turned to me. “ ‘Mostly yes.’ What does that mean?”
I had no clue. Bernie stepped on the pedal.
“What was she covering? A flower show?” We roared up a hill, almost took off at the top. Way in the distance, I could see the city, a big white dome sprouting like a mushroom in the center. “Design show, that was it,” Bernie said as we blazed down the far side of the hill, even faster. “What’s the name of that editor of hers? Sheila? Sherry? Charlotte?”
I didn’t know. Plus all these questions were making me nervous, and so was Bernie’s voice, which was nervous, too, no doubt about it. That hardly ever happened, but when it did, it spread to me every time. I started panting. Sometimes you can pant the nervousness right out of yourself. That didn’t seem to be happening this time. So: stop with the panting, right? Except I couldn’t.
“. . . Sheila, maybe,” Bernie was saying in that louder voice he uses for being on the phone even though everyone tells him to tone it down. “Or Charlotte. Don’t know her last name. She’s Suzie Sanchez’s editor, and Suzie was trying to reach me and—”
“One moment, please.”
We topped another hill, the city closer now, the blue river running through it shining like a huge snake. Oh, what a terrible thought! Why now?
“Metro desk.”
“This is Bernie Little. I’m . . . I’m a friend—a good friend—of Suzie Sanchez.”
“Yes?”
“Can you tell me the location of the design show?”
“Design show?”
“The design show you asked her to cover.”
“I didn’t ask her to cover the design show.”
“Maybe I’ve got the wrong person. Can I speak to her editor?”
“I’m her editor, and she’s not covering the design show.”
“But someone’s out sick,” Bernie said. “Didn’t you text Suzie about taking over the assignment?”
The woman’s voice got snappy. “No one’s out sick, and we’re not even doing the design show this year.”
“But I was right there! How the hell—”
Bernie took a deep breath. I’d seen him take this kind of deep breath before, always when he was trying to control himself. These control struggles were always the best time for feeling Bernie’s strength, even better than when he was throwing down with some huge drooling tough guy. Explain that! Nothing wrong with drooling, of course, wish I’d left it out.
“Sorry for the misunderstanding,” Bernie said, quieter now. “Where is the design show?”
“Franklin Court,” said the woman, still snappy. “But she won’t be there.”
• • •
We drove into the city, went downtown, and soon I was catching glimpses of that strange stone tower again. It popped up a lot, taller than just about everything else around; I turned my head this way and that to keep the tower in view.
Bernie glanced my way. “What’s with you and the Washington Monument, Chet?”
I didn’t know, wasn’t even sure I understood the question.
“Kinda makes sense,” Bernie said. “He was a fan of the nation within. Had to be—those Virginia gentlemen were into foxhunting in a big way.”
Fox hunting? I knew foxes, of course, had run one or two off the property back home, sneaky little buggers and surprisingly shifty. We were going to hunt some of them down? That sounded wonderful! Only one problem, namely that foxes have a scent you—meaning me, no offense—can pick up a mile away, and way more if it turns out a mile isn’t very far, and I was smelling absolutely none of it, like there wasn’t a single fox in the whole town.
“Smell something?”
Bernie was watching me again. I had my nose pointed up, and yes, I was smelling something, in fact, many somethings.
“Food, I’ll bet.”
Sure, but that wasn’t the point. The point was the absence of fox scent when I’d just been promised a foxhunt. What was up with that?
“Easy, big guy—we’ll get you fed.”
Fed? But I wasn’t the slightest bit—
• • •
We parked in an underground garage. What is it about those places that I don’t like? Easier to name the things I do, which is only one, specifically the smell of human piss, almost always male. Kind of a mystery, since I’d never caught a human in action in an underground parking garage, but action went on, no doubt about that, and this garage was no exception. It put me in a very good mood, hard to explain why, or maybe I was in a very good mood already. We went up to the street and entered the lobby of a tall and fancy building, all human piss smell gone, except for the tiny trace you find when old people are on the premises. Did a lobby count as premises? I had no idea, but there were a few old people around, all of the well-dressed, slim, and sort-of-young-looking type—“if you don’t look at their necks,” as Leda used to say.
This lobby was maybe the nicest I’d ever been in, full of sunshine, with polished stone all over the place. Along all the walls were—what would you call them? Sort of rooms, except they weren’t real, since the real room was the lobby? Whoa! Way too complicated!
Lots of people were clustered around the unreal rooms—kitchen, living room, office, closet, TV room, others I didn’t know the names of, all filled with shiny things, lots of them breakable if you happened to have a tail. I followed Bernie across the lobby, my tail up and as motionless as I could make it. He walked up to a woman with a clipboard.
“Can I help you?” she said, glancing at me with a nice smile. “Pet design’s on the fourth floor, room four one six.”
“Pet design?” Bernie said.
“Doghouses, bedding, doggie door entrances, the latest in bowls, leashes, calming vests, collars, booties, you name it.”
Wow! I couldn’t wait! Booties? What an idea!
“Actually,” Bernie said, “we’re looking for Suzie Sanchez. She’s a reporter for the Post who—”
A line or two appeared on the woman’s forehead. “I’m not sure what’s going on with that. They need to get their act together.”
“What do you mean?”
The woman’s nice smile was gone. “First,” she said, “we were told they wouldn’t be covering us this year. Then she shows up at the last moment, no warning. Fine, we can work with that. Next, five minutes later, out the door she goes, not a word of explanation. Although not before I’d blogged that the Post would be doing a story after all, damn it.”
Bernie took a real quick glance around the lobby. “Did you see her leave?”
“Are you saying I’m making this up?”
“Not at all,” Bernie said. “Was she alone?”
“She was with some guy.”
“Did she come in with him?”
The woman shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“What did he look like?”
“Some guy.” Her phone beeped. She checked it, tapped at the screen with the tips of her silvery fingernails. “I wasn’t paying a lot of attention.” She looked up, the are-we-done-here? look on her face.
“One more thing,” Bernie said. “Who’s handling security?”
“The building—it’s included in our deal.”
“I’d like to talk to whoever’s on duty at the moment.”
“Why? What’s going on? I don’t understand.”
Bernie’s voice did that hardening thing where it actually gets quieter. “If this wasn’t important, I wouldn’t be bothering you.”
The woman gave him a new kind of look, like . . . like she was seeing Bernie now, and not just any dude, although how anyone could eve
r get Bernie confused with just any dude made no sense to me. She tapped at her screen, put the phone to her ear, and said, “Security?”
• • •
We rode—uh-oh—an escalator upstairs. Bernie didn’t exactly hold me by the collar the whole way, more like he rested his hand on it in a pally sort of way. There are many great human inventions—the car, the tennis ball, the barbecue pit, just to name two or more—but the escalator is not one of them. Suppose you slipped at the top and got swept underneath, gone to who knows where. You must have thought of that or maybe had bad dreams about it and then had trouble getting back to sleep and ended up tired the next day. If you haven’t, I hope that kind of thing doesn’t start up now on account of me bringing it up. I’d feel bad about that.
We were lucky this time, getting off with no problem—“Did good, big guy, I know it’s not easy”—and walking down a hallway. Bernie knocked at the first door we came to; a man called, “Come in”; and we went in, me forgetting all about escalators, if I hadn’t done so already.
Big buildings, sports stadiums, airports: they all have security offices somewhere inside, a fact you learn early in our business. No matter what the rest of the place is like, the security office tends to be on the shabby, stripped-down side, but not this one, which had nice furniture, a floor of polished stone just as in the lobby, a wall of flat-screen monitors, and a little white desk with spindly legs. The dude sitting behind it was kind of the opposite of the desk, if that makes any sense, huge and dark.
His eyes went to Bernie, then to me, and didn’t look too happy about something or other. Then he took a closer look at Bernie and everything changed.
“Bernie?” He rose, even huger than I’d thought, with a body like an oil drum, only way bigger. His voice was kind of like an oil drum, too, deep and booming.
“William?” Bernie said.
They moved toward each other, met in the middle of the room, shook hands, Bernie’s big strong hand practically disappearing inside this William dude’s. William’s other hand was the machine type, metal and plastic, which didn’t bother me at all. Lots of guys I knew at the VA hospital back home—where we sometimes went for visits, me and Bernie—had hands like that, and some of them could do fun tricks with those machine hands, like shuffling a deck of cards—Bernie had bet fifty bucks against that one—or peeling a grape, which had cost us a C-note.
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