The Sound and the Furry

by Spencer Quinn

  “Why’d you go and let him do that?”

  “Begs the question,” Bernie said.

  “Huh?”

  Which was always what we got when Bernie raised the begging-the-question thing.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Bernie said. “Why were you hiding in the closet?”

  “Because I heard you sneaking around downstairs, why else?” Vannah said.

  When Bernie’s not buying something, he has this quick head shake, a simple one-two. There it was. “How do you explain your reaction when you saw it was us?”

  Vannah shrugged. Bernie’s gaze dipped down, but for just an instant; he dipped it back up pretty quick, as quick as I’d ever seen him in this kind of setup, the naked woman setup happening surprisingly often in our business. He bent down, picked up the gun, broke it open.

  “It’s not even loaded,” he said.

  “Must mean we’re friends,” Vannah said.

  Bernie tossed her the gun. She caught it in one hand, real easy, then pointed it again at Bernie. “Bang,” she said.

  “Put it away, for Christ sake,” Bernie said.

  “Where?” said Vannah.

  “Get some clothes on,” Bernie said.

  “Now I am making you nervous—don’t deny it.”

  Bernie said nothing. Vannah came out of the closet, went over to the bed, put on jeans and a T-shirt that were tangled up in the sheets.

  “You’ve got something going with Mack?” Bernie said.

  “What a disgusting suggestion,” Vannah said. “I’m totally faithful to Frenchie, except when it comes to work, and Frenchie’s totally cool with that, especially in this putrid economy.”

  “There was an uptick in the latest jobs report,” Bernie said.

  “I don’t believe any of that shit,” Vannah said, giving her hair a shake. “But what you’re missing is that Mack is my brother.”

  “Ah,” Bernie said.

  “What does that mean?”

  I was with Vannah on that. I waited to hear.

  “Wish I’d known, that’s all,” Bernie said. “Ah” meant he wished he’d known something? At last I knew! I got a very good feeling about the case.

  “Why?”

  “Context is everything in this business.” Wow! A new one on me. Maybe it was one of Bernie’s jokes. I’d always thought the business was about grabbing perps by the pant leg. “It might have helped me do a better job on our first go-around out here.”

  “Did you scare him?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because he was expecting me for breakfast.”

  “Do you usually eat in the nude?”

  Vannah laughed. “I sleep in the nude, even for short naps—which was what I was doing while I waited for Mack to show. How about you?”

  “How about me what?”

  “Sleep in the nude.”

  “Um,” said Bernie, followed by “er,” and then “I don’t, uh, have a hard and fast rule about it.”

  “Hard and fast, huh?” said Vannah, which I didn’t get but for some reason that led to a long silence, finally broken by Bernie.

  “I don’t see how I could have scared Mack,” he said. “Doesn’t he know I’m working for you?”

  “Not easy to know what he knows and doesn’t know,” Vannah said. “Mack has his own reality. There’s a lot of that in these parts, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “I’d like to find out more about his reality,” Bernie said. “Where do I look?”

  “I don’t know,” Vannah said. “The fact is . . .” She paused, then gave Bernie a look, hard and direct. “Can I trust you?” she said.

  “You’re the client,” Bernie said. “This won’t work if there’s no trust between us.”

  “That’s a careful answer.”

  “It’s the only one you’re getting.”

  Vannah turned away, facing the wall with her back to us. Human fear has a sharp kind of cheesy smell that just can’t be missed. It was coming off her in waves. I felt not too good about her wrist.

  “I need time to think this over,” she said.

  “Take a month or two,” Bernie said.

  She turned. “You really think—” Then she had a good look at Bernie’s face, and her own face went red, or at least pink, which I’m pretty sure of, a pinkness that started on her neck and rose up like a jar getting filled. “How come Frenchie didn’t tell me you were a prick?”

  “Maybe he likes me,” Bernie said.

  “That wouldn’t mean anything,” Vannah said. “He’s got lousy judgment when it comes to people.”

  Bernie eyed her and said nothing, but his gaze seemed to be speaking, if that makes any sense. I even thought I came close to hearing what it meant.

  “A prick for sure,” Vannah said.

  For some reason that word coming up again so soon made me think of a long-ago night down Mexico way, a huge round moon, and a member of the nation within named Lola. Funny how the mind works, but I didn’t worry about that, just enjoyed the memory. It was one of my very favorites.

  “. . . emotions and personalities are immaterial,” Bernie was saying when I tuned back in. “You’ve got to make a decision.”

  “I’m a woman—have you noticed?” Vannah said. “Emotions are at my core. Why do you think I’m here?”

  “Good question,” Bernie said. “I thought you were back in the Valley.”

  “It’s a free country,” Vannah said. I was totally with her on that—it was one of my strongest beliefs. “But the truth is I was worried about Mack. It doesn’t take much to tip him back into that world.”

  “The drug world?”

  Vannah nodded. “He’s not answering his phone.”

  Bernie went to the window and gazed out. “Does Ralph have a drug habit?”

  “No way,” Vannah said. “He’s as straight as they come. Which is what makes their friendship so improbable.”

  Bernie turned quickly. “Whose friendship?”

  “Mack and Ralph’s,” Vannah said. “Best friends, really—in Ralph’s case I’d say Mack’s his only real friend in the world.”

  “Are they gay?” Bernie said.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Vannah said.

  “I have more faith in you than that.”

  She gave him a sharp glance. “Especially about matters of sex?”

  “I didn’t say it.”

  Vannah was still for a moment or two. I thought she was about to get real mad, but instead she laughed. “I’ve made my decision: I’m trusting you. For now.”

  “Great,” said Bernie. “Let’s kick things off with a true answer to the Mack and Ralph question.”

  The Mack and Ralph question? All of a sudden, I was a little lost. I licked my muzzle, encountering a nice surprising leftover flake from the fried chicken, and felt back on track, but totally.

  “I really don’t know,” Vannah said. “This is still a very old-fashioned place in some ways. But if I had to guess, I’d say Ralph was one of those asexual people you hear about sometimes.”

  “And Mack?”

  “Mack is more complicated. He’s been married twice, for starters.”

  “But?”

  “Yeah,” Vannah said. “But.”

  Then came a long silence. I could feel both of their minds at work. My own mind was work-free at the moment, just sort of feeling their thoughts, which was more than good enough for me.

  “Do you think they’re together somewhere?” Vannah said.

  Bernie didn’t answer right away. His thoughts, whatever they were, got darker. “It’s one possibility,” he said, “especially if the Robideaus are right about Ralph.”

  “I’m not following you,” Vannah said, which made two of us.

  “They think he was in on the shrimp heist.”

  “How stupid are they?”

  “Why is that stupid?”

  Vannah just shook her head.

  “If you know what happened to the shrimp, Vannah, now’s the time to tell me
.”

  “Lord hijacked them, period.”

  “Maybe,” Bernie said. “Where are they now?”

  “The shrimp?”

  “Yeah. What happened to them?”

  Vannah raised her hands, palms up. She had nicely shaped hands, not big, but they looked strong and soft at the same time, in fact reminded me of the hands of  Tulip and Autumn from Livia Moon’s. I made up my mind about Vannah on the spot: she was a keeper. Too bad about her wrist, but it really was just a scrape: there was hardly any blood at all, except for a tiny pool on the floor. I licked it up and that was that.

  “Should we try to trace them?” she said.

  “The shrimp?” Bernie said. “That would have been my next move.”

  “But?”

  “Ever heard of the Quieros?”

  “Is that the taco joint?”

  Bernie smiled at her, a very nice smile that reminded me of some of the smiles he sent Suzie’s way. I missed her.

  “What’s funny?” Vannah said.

  “Nothing,” said Bernie. He took the strange pipelike thing out from under his belt and showed it to her.

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  “Some kind of plumbing?”

  “Could be.”

  “What’s it got to do with anything?”

  “Probably nothing.” Bernie tucked it back in his belt. Then he rubbed his hands together. I loved when he did that: it meant we were gearing up. “All I need from you now is the name of Mack’s drug contact.”

  “You don’t want to get involved with those people,” Vannah said.

  “I’m actually in the mood for it.”

  Her eyebrows—like a lot of women, Vannah didn’t have much going on when it came to eyebrows, certainly nothing to match Bernie’s, so lovely and thick, with a language all their own—rose. “You’re a doper?”

  “Lose the R,” Bernie said.

  For some reason, Vannah thought that was pretty funny.

  We rode up to the city, Bernie at the wheel and me in the shotgun seat, Vannah staying behind in case Mack returned, or maybe for some reason having to do with the fried chicken. I hadn’t been clear on that, but Bernie and I had both had some and she hadn’t, so I couldn’t really blame her.

  We took the bridge high over the river. “Mighty Mississip, big guy,” said Bernie, and if he was talking about the river he was right about the mightiness, like an enormous living thing on the move, actually kind of snakelike, a thought I’d tried not to have, but there it was again. But a few moments later, my mind forgot whatever had disturbed it, and was now nice and clear. Way to go, big guy! Chet the Jet!

  We got off at a ramp and not long after that entered a crummy neighborhood. I knew crummy neighborhoods from back in the Valley, and this one was as crummy as the crummiest. That didn’t mean the people in them were crummy—we had some good buddies in Vista City, for example, like Ronny and Vonny Von Runge, great old-timey musicians who sometimes let Bernie sit in on ukulele, and probably would again, as soon as they got out of Central State Correctional, their plan to dress up as toll takers on the new turnpike we have in the Valley and get rich in a day having fallen apart for some reason I couldn’t remember.

  We drove down a rutted street lined with boarded-up houses and came to one that wasn’t. Bernie pulled over, checked a scrap of paper Vannah had given him, then took the .38 Special out of the glove box and stuck it in his pocket. I loved the .38 Special, hadn’t seen it in way too long. And Bernie was a crack shot, could hit spinning dimes right out of the air. Maybe that would be happening real soon.

  “All set?”

  What a question! Bernie caught up to me at the front door, a very big and solid-looking door for such a small boxy house.

  “Nice and easy, big guy,” Bernie said. I sat beside him, which was what nice and easy meant. He knocked on the door.

  A little eyeball slot in the door opened right away and a dark eyeball looked out. A deep, raspy voice came through a speaker. “Don’t know you.”

  “Bernie Little,” Bernie said. “And this is Chet. We’re friends of Mack Larouche, down in St. Roch.”

  “Still don’t know you.”

  “We can get past that just by you opening the door,” Bernie said.

  “Tryna be funny?”

  “We’re just trying to see Cleotis. Anything beyond that’s gravy.”

  Gravy was a possibility? I smelled none but inched closer to the door anyway, something I can do in a sitting position, no problem.

  “Cleotis don’t talk to nobody he don’t know.”

  “We have a mutual friend.”

  “You said that already. And you look like a cop.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “You look like a cop.”

  “How about I flash my non-cop badge?”

  “Huh?”

  Then another voice came through the speaker, but from farther away. “Let him in.”

  Big heavy bolts got slid aside, one, two, more. The door swung open. A real big guy stood before us, a sawed-off shotgun in one hand, pointed at the floor. He gave us an unfriendly look, at the same time speaking over his shoulder.

  “He’s got this real big mother of a dog.”

  “So?” The second voice again, coming from through the partly open kitchen door at the back. “Do your goddamn job. Pat him down.”

  “Chet won’t like that,” Bernie called toward the kitchen. Wouldn’t like what, exactly? I was still back at the mother thing, my mind refusing to get around it. “And I’m not armed,” Bernie added.

  “Pat him the fuck down.”

  “You heard the man,” said the big guy. “Get over by the wall.”

  “It’s really not nece—” Bernie began, but then the big guy planted his big free hand in the middle of the Bernie’s chest and shoved him against the wall, so hard Bernie’s feet left the floor. Bernie hated that kind of thing. It brought out a side of him I hardly ever saw, but I saw it now, saw it in the way he bounced off the wall, spun around, and chopped the big guy in the throat with the side of his hand, saw it in his wild eyes.

  The big guy went down fast, clutching his neck, doing some moaning and writhing, and also sort of looking surprised, way too late. Bernie swept up the sawed-off, pointed it at the kitchen door. A dude in a bandanna charged through it, drawing a gun from his belt.

  “Drop it,” Bernie said.

  The dude wasn’t nearly as big as the other guy, had a face that reminded me of Prof at Valley College back home, our go-to buddy when it comes to tracking money that perps don’t want tracked. Prof was a smart man and had smart eyes. This dude was sort of like that, but younger, thinner, and maybe a little darker. He dropped the gun.

  “Cleotis?” Bernie said.

  The dude nodded.

  Bernie lowered the shotgun. His eyes went back to normal. “What’s with you drug dealers?” he said. “Why does there always have to be this drama?”

  “We’re all prisoners of one culture or another,” Cleotis said.

  SEVENTEEN

  I stood right beside the big dude, still lying on the floor, although he’d amped down the noise a bit. Actually, it was more like I was standing over him instead of beside, specifically at the head end.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he said, “goddamn animal’s gonna bite my face off.”

  Or something like that. The big dude wasn’t so easy to understand now, his voice having come all over raspy.

  “His name is Chet,” Bernie said. “Not goddamn animal.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” the big dude said.

  “So an apology would be nice,” Bernie said.

  “You want him to apologize to the dog?” said Cleotis.

  “A general apology will do.”

  “Will it make him stop with the goddamn snarling?”

  “Give it a try.”

  Someone was snarling? News to me, but now that the idea was out there, I thought I
did detect a little snarling, perhaps from some distance away.

  “Herman?” Cleotis said.

  “Yeah?” said the raspy dude.

  “What’s the holdup? Apologize.”

  “Fuckin’ hell. I’m sorry as shit.”

  “Apology accepted,” Bernie said.

  “Didn’t stop the snarling,” Cleotis said.

  Cleotis was right about that. I could hear it now for sure, loud and clear.

  “Ch—et?” Bernie said, in this special way he has of saying my name.

  The snarling stopped. It got nice and quiet in Cleotis’s crib, even peaceful. When things turn peaceful, you pick up little details you might have been missing. For example, I noticed that my mouth was open kind of wide, and it was even possible that I was drooling on Herman’s head. Not a lot, but most humans have a thing about being drooled on. I like it when humans like me. It’s as simple as that. I got my mouth closed nice and tight and backed off a step or two. We were guests, don’t forget. I took a nice deep breath, smelled pot, coke, and smack, not usually found all in one place. The learning never stops in this business.

  This was a shotgun house. I was very familiar with the type, totally comfortable. We sat in the kitchen, Cleotis and Bernie—with the sawed-off across his knees—at the table, me at the window where I could keep my eye on a real big black bird perched on a clothesline. As for Herman, he’d gone upstairs for a little lie-down.

  Cleotis examined our card, looking at the front, the back, the front again.

  “Are you the kind of PI who sells folks out to the cops?” he said.

  “Sell?” Bernie said. “Never. I give sometimes, but hardly ever and certainly not here. I’ve been hired to find a missing person, and as soon as we find him we’re gone.”

  “Talking about Mack the shrimp guy from down in St. Roch?” Cleotis said.

  “Not originally, but now he’s missing, too.”

  “Sounds complicated,” Cleotis said. He shook a cigarette out of a pack lying on the table and lit up. “Smoke?” he said.

  Bernie gazed at the cigarette pack. Oh, no. I’d seen that gaze before. And he was trying so hard to quit, once and for all. That was what he always said: Once and for all. What did it mean? I wasn’t sure. Now he said, “One can’t hurt.” I knew the meaning of that: he’d soon be lighting up—like now, with Cleotis holding a lit match across the table in a friendly sort of way, although his eyes, so smart, got a quick here-and-gone look that didn’t seem friendly at all—inhaling nice and deep, blowing out a slow stream of smoke, and saying “Ah.”