Arf

by Spencer Quinn

  “A pretty long name,” said Junior. “I’d stick to Birdie.” Then he laughed and laughed, like he’d just said something very funny. Birdie didn’t seem to get it or even notice.

  “Pardo is his middle name,” she said.

  “I see that,” said Junior. “An uncool name? Is that where you’re going with this? Kind of sucks, now that I think of it—parents can stick an uncool name on you.”

  “But why?” Birdie said. “Why Pardo?”

  Junior shrugged. “Is it a word? Like birdie is a little bird. Maybe Pardo’s a little … something or other. How about we ask him?”

  “Ask Preston?”

  “Or maybe you ask him. When you return the wallet. Um, if that’s in your plans. There is such a thing as finders keepers.”

  “I don’t think finders keepers is part of the law.”

  “Gotta be,” said Junior. “What else is in there?”

  Birdie looked through the wallet. “A credit card.”

  “He’s got a credit card?”

  “Gold American Express. And there’s money, too. Looks like … a hundred and twenty dollars.”

  “He walks around with a hundred and twenty dollars? And a gold card?”

  Birdie checked the license. “He is seventeen years old, Junior.”

  “No way I’ll have all that when I’m seventeen,” Junior said.

  “How do you know?”

  “ ’Cause his family’s rich and mine’s not, that’s how. Is your family rich, Birdie?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean I’m stuck in not being rich forever.”

  “You want to be rich?”

  “I actually haven’t thought about it,” Birdie said. “And I don’t have time.” She held up the wallet. “Plus what am I going to do about this?”

  “Keep it, like I said. I won’t tell.”

  “I’m not keeping it, but I don’t want to see Preston anytime soon.”

  “You could drop it off at the police station,” Junior said. “Lost and found.”

  Birdie thought about that. Meanwhile, Junior dusted off his drum, slung it over is neck. He tapped on it with the sticks, light and slow. Tap, tap-tap-tap.

  “Maybe I’ll head down to the pond after all. I kinda feel a song coming, a song about Drea. You in?”

  Birdie shook her head.

  Junior gazed down the road. “Think she committed suicide, like they say?”

  “No,” said Birdie.

  “You did good, Bowser,” Birdie said when we were alone, walking back into town, Junior having continued on toward the campground. “Real, real good. What would I do without you?”

  That was an easy question. The answer was that we didn’t even have to think about it. Birdie and I were going to be together forever. Ask me a tough one, Birdie!

  But there were no more questions. We headed into town, soon found ourselves standing outside the police station. It stood across a little square from the post office and looked pretty much the same, as if they’d both been built from the same pile of rust-colored bricks. Birdie’s hand was in the pocket of her shorts, wrapped around Preston’s wallet. I could smell the leather and also the sweat on her hand, now mixed with Preston’s sweat. I didn’t like that part of it.

  Birdie gazed at the blue light above the police station door, dim and weak in the sunshine. “This could go wrong, Bowser,” she said.

  Uh-oh. A problem? What kind of problem could worry us? Hadn’t we just taken down Preston, a pretty big dude, after all? I’d nipped at his heels and he’d yelled his head off: Life doesn’t get much better than that. I wondered who else’s heels might be nippable, thought at once of the sheriff. I was having a real good day.

  “How could it go wrong?” Birdie continued. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. Has the sheriff gone to the Richelieus’ place with that photo? Is that how come Preston was so mad? But that would mean the sheriff told them who gave him the photo! How can we ever trust him?”

  The door of the police station opened and out stepped Officer Perkins, licking a green Popsicle. It looked so cool and refreshing. I wanted it pretty bad.

  He saw us and paused. Officer Perkins was a huge dude, way bigger than Preston. I studied his heels. He wore black leather shoes, highly polished.

  “Hi, Birdie,” he said.

  “Hi.” She jammed her hand deeper into her pocket.

  “Looking for the sheriff?”

  “No.”

  “He should be back real soon.”

  “We’re just … just out for a walk.”

  “Hot day for walking,” Perkins said. “Anything I can help you with?”

  “No,” said Birdie. “No, thanks. Come, Bowser.” We moved off.

  “If you change your mind …” Perkins called after us.

  We kept going, didn’t look back. The rumble of his deep voice stayed with me even after he’d spoken. Soon we were on a little street that ran along the bayou and led to one end of Gentilly Lane. It was a nice, shady street with a café and a restaurant or two overlooking the water.

  “Let’s go home and ask Mama what to do,” Birdie said. “It’s the only thing I can think—”

  She went silent. Up ahead was the café. Was Trixie’s the name? I thought so. We often passed it but never went in. “Three bucks for a cup of coffee?” Grammy said. “What world are they living in?” Trixie’s had a table outside, overhung with an umbrella. Two people sat at the table, a man and a woman. He said something that made her laugh. He laughed, too, then briefly laid his hand on top of hers. Mama was the woman. The man was Vin Pardo.

  WE CAME TO A HALT. OR RATHER, Birdie came to a halt and as soon as I saw that, I did the same thing. So there we were, standing still, not more than a few steps away from Trixie’s Café by the bayou. How come we weren’t walking up to the table where Mama sat with Pardo and saying, “Hi, Mama, how’s it going?” or something of that nature? I had no idea. In fact, we seemed to be shrinking backward, like we were about to slip away and take some other route. Meanwhile, the fur on my back was doing that iron-spike thing.

  “Oh, before I forget,” Pardo said, “here’s the deposit check.” He handed Mama a little slip of paper. “Slightly postdated—just a technicality.” Mama moved to take the check, and that was when she caught sight of us.

  “Birdie?” she said.

  “Hi,” said Birdie. She jammed her hand deep into her pocket, the pocket that held Preston’s wallet.

  Pardo turned our way. For the very briefest moment he did not look happy to see us. Then his whole face changed in a flash to very, very happy. That bothered me, but what bothered me even more was what he had sitting in his lap. Namely, a cat. Not just any cat, but the golden-colored cat I’d first seen that early morning—everyone still asleep but me—when Pardo had driven slowly past our house. Bonnie was the name of this cat, unless my memory was playing tricks on me, which was always a possibility. She arched her back up in a lazy sort of stretch and gave me a lazy sort of look, a look that said, “What’s your excuse?” Or something even nastier. We were not going to be friends. That was clear from the get-go.

  “Well, well,” Pardo said. “Hello there, Birdie. Summer days are dragging by now, I’ll bet.”

  “Dragging?” said Birdie.

  “I remember just itching to go back to school by the end of summer, when I was your age. And I was no big fan of school, believe me.”

  “This was in New Orleans?” Birdie said.

  Pardo blinked. “Why, yes. New Orleans.”

  “Everything all right, Birdie?” Mama said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You look … a little funny. And why is Bowser growling like that?”

  Growling? Me? I listened and yes, thought I detected nearby growling. Maybe Mama was right. I did what I could to get it under control.

  “Reacting to Bonnie, I expect,” Pardo said. “Here, Bonnie, go on over and make friends with the ugly-looking brute over there.” He sort of tossed Bonnie down onto the sidewalk. She
landed in an easy, flexible way, like she could safely jump off tall buildings if she had to. Had I ever met anyone more annoying? Bonnie took another lazy look at me and glided right back up on Pardo’s lap. He laughed and stroked her golden back. She purred, perhaps not in the least a loud or harsh sound, but it hurt my ears big-time.

  “Bowser’s not ugly,” Birdie said.

  “ ’Course not,” Pardo said. “Just an expression.” He stroked Bonnie’s back. “I guess I was projecting what was on Bonnie’s mind.”

  “And Birdie was doing the same thing with Bowser,” Mama said, with a little laugh.

  Pardo laughed, too. “Don’t we all do that with pets?”

  “He’s the best-looking dog in the whole town,” Birdie said.

  Pardo held up his hands. “Hey! I surrender!” Then his gaze fell on Birdie’s pocket, the one she had her hand jammed in, and his eyes narrowed. Just for an instant, but Mama caught it, and looked in the same direction.

  “What’s that in your pocket?” she said. “A treat for Bowser, is my guess.”

  A very nice guess on Mama’s part. I really wished it was true.

  “Um,” said Birdie, taking her hand out of her pocket but then kind of not knowing what to do with it. Meanwhile, the outline of a square-shaped object was pretty clear against the fabric of her shorts.

  “Funny-shaped treat,” Pardo said.

  “It is,” said Mama. “Now I’m curious, Birdie.”

  Pink blotches spread across Birdie’s cheeks. How nervous she smelled! I tried to think how to make her less nervous but came up empty. I moved closer to her side, all I could think of to do.

  “It’s not a treat,” she said, looking not into Mama’s eyes, instead sort of at her chin. “More like a … uh, a wallet. I found a wallet. It, ah, belongs to Snoozy. It’s Snoozy’s wallet!”

  “Goodness,” said Mama. “Where did you find it?”

  “I’m on my way to the store to give it to him right now,” Birdie said. “Come on, Bowser!”

  She took a step and part of the next one before Mama said, “But wherever did you find it?”

  “Oh, just on the … porch. At the store, more like in the parking lot.”

  “But why didn’t you go in the store and give it to him then?”

  “He—he wasn’t there. He’d gone out. For a snack. A quick snack with … with his uncle Lem.”

  Mama tilted her head, gave Birdie a questioning sort of look. Pardo sat back in his chair, elbows on the armrests.

  “A quick snack with Uncle Lem?” Mama said. “No such thing.”

  “Ha-ha.” Birdie laughed, but not her usual laugh at all. This was high-pitched and almost unpleasant, Birdie incapable of making any sounds that were truly unpleasant. “Well, bye!” she said, and started walking quickly away, me right with her. I felt eyes on us until we rounded a bend on the bayou walk and Gaux Family Fish and Bait came into view.

  “Oh, Bowser, I messed that up so bad.”

  Birdie messing something up? I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “I lied to Mama,” she said. “Lied and lied and lied.”

  She had? Not that I’d noticed. What was lying all about, again? I tried to get my mind around it. And gave up pretty quick. Some parts of the human world are so complicated it’s best not to even go there.

  “But what could I do?” Birdie went on, as we approached the back entrance of the store. “What if I’d told her whose wallet it really was? With Mr. Pardo right there? And Preston’s middle name being Pardo? How could I let that happen? Doesn’t whatever’s going on—Drea, her dad, my dad—connect to the name Pardo? But how, Bowser? How?”

  Whoa! So many questions! I preferred to take questions one at a time. Actually, none at a time. We climbed the back steps, Birdie pushing a crab trap aside with her foot, and entered Gaux Family Fish and Bait.

  Snoozy sat by the cash register, head on the counter, drooling slightly. What a face Snoozy had at that moment! Not a care in the world. How would it be to live Snoozy’s life? Not bad, not bad at all! Once, he and I had shared one of my biscuits. Let’s keep that between you and me.

  “Snoozy?” Birdie said. “Snoozy?”

  Snoozy groaned, shifted his head slightly, made a contented sound, and went back to what he’d been doing, namely enjoying a nap.

  “Snoozy!”

  He slept on. Birdie stepped up to the counter and—and gave that counter a smack! Wow! Just like Grammy, although not quite so hard.

  Snoozy’s head snapped up. “Wasn’t sleeping, boss, just resting my eyes for a—Oh. It’s you.” He rubbed his eyes. “Hey! Is it true about that motorcycle girl from New Orleans? She committed suicide?”

  “It’s true she’s dead,” Birdie said.

  “Wow. And just the other day she was standing in this very store, right where you are, in fact.”

  Birdie glanced at the door. “Listen, Snoozy. We may not have much time.”

  “For what?”

  “To get our stories straight.”

  “Stories? Like about how I wasn’t really sleeping, just resting my eyes? Which happens to be the truth. I have the kind of eyes that need a lot of rest—school nurse told me that way back when. But your grammy don’t believe me and she swore she was going to can my butt the next time—”

  “Snoozy!” For a moment I thought Birdie was about to give the counter another smack, but she did not. “Forget about sleep for once.”

  “For once? That’s not very nice, Birdie. And here I always thought that you and me—”

  “Sorry,” Birdie said, taking a deep breath. “This isn’t about sleep or Grammy—Hey! Where is she?”

  “Out with a customer on Bayou Girl.”

  “I wish—” Birdie began, and then stopped herself. “This isn’t about sleep or Grammy or anything like that. It’s about your wallet.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t tell me I lost it again!” Snoozy patted his pockets.

  “That’s exactly it!” Birdie said. “You lost your wallet.”

  “Huh? But here it is.” He pulled a worn-looking wallet from one of his pockets and held it up.

  “Right,” Birdie said. “You have it now. But you lost it and I found it and gave it back to you.”

  “When was this?”

  “Never, Snoozy! That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I found another wallet but if anyone asks, you say I found yours.”

  “Whose wallet didja find?”

  “That’s not the point. The point is—”

  “Yeah, except what do I say when they ask whose wallet you found when you gave me back mine?”

  “Huh?” said Birdie.

  I didn’t blame her. This was impossible to follow.

  “And,” Snoozy went on, “who’s this they that’s gonna be askin’?”

  “Well,” Birdie said, “it could actually be my mama.”

  “Whoa. You want me to lie to your mama?”

  “No,” Birdie said. “But it’s not exactly a lie.”

  “On account of what?” said Snoozy.

  “On account of other things I can’t go into right now.”

  “Hmm,” Snoozy said. “You in some kind of trouble?”

  “No. Not really.”

  Birdie thought for a bit. Snoozy put his wallet away and yawned. He was a great yawner, almost in my class when it came to how wide he could open his mouth.

  “What do you think about the sheriff?” Birdie said. “Is he smart or not?”

  “He’s the law,” Snoozy said. “We have a saying about the law in the LaChance family.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure thing. We have all sorts of sayings about all sorts of stuff. For example, ‘Don’t work too hard’ and ‘Always leave room for dessert.’ ”

  “And about the law?” Birdie said.

  “ ‘Stay away from the law.’ That’s a LaChance family—what would you call it? Rule for a better life?”

  Birdie was about to say something, but at that moment the phone rang. Snoozy r
eached for it, knocked it across the counter, gathered it up, and said, “Gaux Family Fish and Bait, Manager LaChance at your service.” He listened. The voice on the other end came through sharp and clear. “Oh, hi, boss,” Snoozy said. “How—” Grammy’s voice rose. Snoozy held the phone away from his ear.

  “You’re not the manager! How many times do we have to go through this?”

  “Uh,” said Snoozy. “Makes the customers feel important, doncha think? To believe they’re dealin’ with the manager?”

  “Bull pucky!”

  “Never happen again. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Is Birdie there?” Grammy said.

  “In the flesh.”

  “Put her on.”

  Birdie took the phone, held it to her ear. Grammy lowered her voice till I could no longer make out the words. Birdie listened, said, “Yes, Grammy,” “I will,” “Sure you’re all right?” and “Bye, Grammy,” and then hung up. She turned to Snoozy. “Water pump problems. Grammy’s going to stay overnight down at Roux’s boatyard while they fix it, sleep on the boat.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “But she sounded pretty happy. It’s an easy fix and they caught a twenty-five-pound striper, so the customer’s happy. She, uh, wanted me to ask you when was the last time you cleaned the strainer.”

  “The strainer, huh?” Snoozy rubbed his chin. “Is that the thingy that keeps all the crud outta the pump?”

  Birdie nodded yes.

  “I’ll have to think.” His face went still for what seemed the longest time. At last he said, “You found someone else’s wallet, not mine?”

  “What’s that got to do with any—” Birdie stopped herself, then sighed, took the wallet out of her pocket, and laid it on the counter.

  “Nice-lookin’ leatherwork,” Snoozy said. “Saw one of these in a catalog.” He flipped open the wallet, took out the driver’s license. “Preston Richelieu, huh? Ain’t he the quarterback of the Hornets?”

  “Woo-woo,” said Birdie in a strange low voice, even angry. Angry: But at what I didn’t know.

  “What are you gonna do with it?”

  “Return it. But I don’t want to see him. Or anybody in his family.”

  “The Richelieus, huh?”