Dog On It (3 page)

Cynthia nodded, and opened the door. A girl was coming up the walk, a ponytailed girl with a backpack. Her face was still in the night shadows, but I knew who it was right away from the smell.

“Madison?” said Cynthia. She covered her mouth, one of those things that human females did sometimes and human males never. “Oh my God—where have you been?”

Under his breath, to no one in particular, Bernie said, “I need a drink.”

From back in the house came the harsh voice of Cap’n Crunch: “Make it a double.”

Madison smelled just like her pillowcase, except now there was sweat mixed in; sweat and a little marijuana, too. Sweat, human sweat, is a big subject. There’s a kind that comes from exercise and has a fresh tangy smell. Then there’s the kind that comes from not showering enough, less fresh, with faint nonhuman elements mixed in. The kind that comes from fear—what I was smelling now—is somewhere in between.

Cynthia stepped outside, grabbed Madison’s wrist. “Where were you? I’ve been out of my mind.”

“I—” Madison began, then noticed Bernie and stopped.

“This is Mr. Little. He’s a detective.”

“A detective?”

“I was worried sick.”

“For God’s sake, Mom. You called a detective?”

“Where were you? Answer me!”

Madison bit her lip. They do that sometimes. What does it mean? Hard to tell, exactly, but I always notice. “It’s not my fault. Mr. Rentner recommended it.”

“Mr. Rentner? What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Mom—my history teacher. The one who liked my essay on—”

“Right, right, what about him?”

“He said we should see this movie about Russia.”

“You were at the movies?”

“They had a special showing at the North Canyon Mall. Just today and tomorrow. I watched the movie and then hung out till I could get a ride home.”

“From who?”

“This senior—you don’t know him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tim something-or-other. I don’t really know him, either.”

Cynthia gazed at Madison, upward a little, since her daughter was taller. “Why didn’t you phone?”

“Sorry. I forgot.”

“And I called your cell a million times.”

“I turned it off, Mom. Like, at the movies, cell phones, you know?”

“Don’t talk to me that way.”

Madison looked down.

There was a silence. Then Cynthia said, “Let’s get in the house.” She turned to Bernie. “Thanks for your time.”

“No problem,” Bernie said. “Glad everything worked out.” He looked at Madison. “Big fan of Russian movies, myself. Which one was this?”

“
Dr. Zhivago
,” Madison said. “We’re studying the Russian revolution.”

“Love
Dr. Zhivago
,” said Bernie. We watched a lot of movies, me and Bernie, although I had no recollection of this one. Truth was, I didn’t pay close attention unless my own guys were involved, even in a small way, like in
As Good as It Gets
, for example, or
Ghostbusters II.
Bernie added one more comment: “My favorite part was the tennis-court scene.”

“Yeah,” said Madison. “That was cool.” Then she did something that took me by surprise: She came closer and gave me a pat, very soft and gentle. “I love your dog,” she said.

They went in the house. We went home.

It was late. Bernie found a leftover steak in the fridge. He smeared on A.1., cut it in half, and we had a little snack. Bernie cracked open a beer, sat at the table.

“I feel guilty, not even offering to return the five C’s.”

I chewed my steak. Loved steak, could eat it every day.

“Except for one thing, Chet. Know what that is?”

I looked up from my bowl, a piece of meat possibly sticking out of the side of my mouth.

“There is no tennis-court scene in
Dr. Zhivago
.”

Bernie opened his laptop. I turned to the water bowl.

“Let me freshen that up.”

Bernie refilled the water bowl at the sink, even threw in a few ice cubes. Ah. Love ice cubes. He went back to the laptop. “Yup.
Dr. Zhivago
’s playing at the North Canyon Mall, on that little screening room at the back. And Mr. Ted Rentner teaches history at Heavenly Valley High.” He sighed. Yes, the sigh, also interesting: The younger the human, in my observation, the less they do it. “Two kinds of lies, Chet. The big lie, totally out there, and the tiny one slipped into a web of truth. The girl’s damn good.” He shook the A.1. bottle, poured some more on his steak. “Did Cynthia say she was on the gifted track?”

No idea. I crushed an ice cube. Made my teeth feel great, and then cold little chips were swirling through my mouth, cooling me down all over. Dinnertime—even a quick snack
like this—was something we always looked forward to, me and Bernie.

He flipped his laptop shut. “On the other hand, she’s back home, safe and sound. Big picture. But you see why I don’t feel too bad about taking the money?”

Sure. We needed money in the worst way. Our finances were a mess—alimony, child support, Hawaiian pants, and almost no revenue except for divorce work. Bernie went over and over that, almost every night. An ant, one of those juicy black ones, appeared from under the stove and tried to run right by me. What was he thinking? I hardly had to move my tongue. Bernie always stressed the importance of protein in the diet.

Bernie’s bedroom—pretty messy, clothes, books, newspapers all over the place—was at the back of the house, looking out on the canyon. He slept in the big bed he’d shared with Leda. In those days, I’d slept in the kitchen; now I was on the floor at the foot of the bed. There was a nice soft rug somewhere under all the debris.

“’Night, Chet.”

I closed my eyes. The night was cooling down, and Bernie had the AC off, windows open. Lots of action in the canyon—coyote yips, rustling, a sharp cry suddenly interrupted. Bernie’s breathing grew slow and regular. He groaned once or twice in his sleep, once muttered something that sounded like “Who knows?” A car went down the street and, from the sound, seemed to slow as it approached the house. I raised my head. The car kept going, engine noise fading into silence. I got up, walked around in a little circle, and lay back down, stretching my legs straight out. One white ear, one black? So what? Very soon I was roaming the canyon, chasing coyotes, lizards, and javelinas under the moonlight
—in my dreams, of course. In real life, the canyon was out of bounds, unless I was with Bernie. But he trusted me. At least I didn’t have an electric fence to deal with, like poor old Iggy.

I woke up to the sound of Bernie snoring. The room was dark except for a faint silvery band between the curtains. I got up—feeling good, appetite sharp, a bit thirsty—and went to the bedside. Bernie lay on his back, just his face showing, from the chin up. His forehead was all wrinkled, the way it got when he was thinking hard about some big problem. There were dark circles under his eyes; he looked more tired than he had going to bed. I lay my head on the blanket.

A car came down the street. This one didn’t keep going but stopped with a little squeak. A door slammed shut. Just from that slamming sound, I was pretty sure who it was. I trotted out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and into the TV room. The window looked out on the street, and yes, there was Leda, striding up the walk. Charlie sat in the car, staring out.

I ran into the bedroom.

“Chet, for God’s sake.” Bernie grabbed the blanket, tried to keep me from pulling it away. “Knock it off. I’m sleeping.”

Ding-dong. The front door.

Bernie sat up. “Someone’s here?”

Ding-dong.

“Chet! What the hell? Get off the bed.”

I was on the bed? And kind of pawing at Bernie? Oops. I jumped off. Bernie rose, threw on his robe, the one with lots of holes and a missing belt. He hurried out of the room, hair all over the place, breath pretty strong. I followed.

Bernie opened the front door, blinked in the light. Leda had pale eyes, like the sky in winter. She looked at Bernie, his messy
hair, his robe; then at me; and back to Bernie. Bernie just stood there, mouth open.

“Does it make you feel good to humiliate me like this?” she said.

“Huh?” said Bernie.

I didn’t understand, either. I’d always had trouble understanding Leda, even from point-blank range like this, where I could see every movement of her lips, every expression on her face.

She whipped out a piece of paper, thrust it at him.

“What’s this?” he said.

“A letter from the school, obviously.”

Bernie gazed at the letter, his eyes going back and forth. “The tuition check?” he said. “But I’m sure there was enough money in the account. I even—”

Leda snatched the letter from him. “Don’t worry—Malcolm covered it.”

Malcolm was the boyfriend. I’d only seen him once. He wore flip-flops and had long skinny feet and long skinny toes.

“So now you owe him.”

“But I don’t see how—”

I trotted out to the car. Charlie opened the door. I jumped up, gave his face a nice big lick.

“Chet the Jet! How you doing, boy?”

Just great, never better. Charlie stroked my back.

“Hey, what’s this?” He was picking at my coat. “You’ve got a tick.” A tick? I hadn’t been aware of it at all, but now I felt it coming out: a pinch and then a tiny soundless pop, very satisfying. Charlie held up the tick, a horrible bloated thing. “Gross,” he said, and tossed it in the gutter.

There was a strong current of air in the car, very pleasant. I didn’t realize at first that it was on account of my own tail wagging
so hard. Charlie laughed: the best sound made by humans, bar none, and kid laughter is the best of the best. Charlie had a round face and a funny mixture of teeth, some big, some tiny.

“I just vacuumed that car.” All of a sudden Leda was right behind me.

“Chet doesn’t shed,” said Charlie.

“All dogs shed.”

I backed out of the car. Leda gave me an angry look. Things were happening fast, always did when Leda was around. Shedding is a big problem, I’m aware of that, but humans shed, too: Hairs and all of kinds of stuff are raining down all the time, I assure you.

Bernie approached, tugging his robe closed. “Hi, Charlie.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“He’s going to be late for school,” Leda said.

“See you on the weekend.”

“Can we go camping?”

“Don’t see why not.”

“Because it’s going to be ninety-five degrees,” Leda said. She got in the car.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

And they drove away, sunlight glaring off the back of the car, Bernie waving.

In all the commotion, I hadn’t noticed that another car had pulled up. A woman had stepped out, was watching us. Bernie turned to her.

“Bernie Little?”

“Yes?”

“Hi, I’m Suzie Sanchez.” She came closer, held out her hand. Bernie shook it, clutching the front of his robe with his other
hand, eyebrows raised. He had dark, prominent eyebrows that had a whole language of their own. “From the
Valley Tribune
?” she said. “I hope I didn’t get the day wrong.”

“The day?”

“For that feature we discussed—a day in the life of a Valley PI. Lieutenant Stine of the Metro PD recommended you.”

“Oh,” said Bernie. “Right, right.” Had I heard about this? Maybe, maybe not. Bernie glanced down at his bare feet. “Running a bit late, sorry,” he said. “Due to . . . circumstances. I’ll be right with you.”

Suzie Sanchez’s eyes shifted to the road, in the direction Leda had gone. “No rush, I’ve booked the day.” She looked at me. Her eyes were bright, dark and shiny like the countertops in the kitchen. “What a cute dog! Is he yours?”

“That’s Chet.”

“Can I pat him?”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

Suzie Sanchez laughed; not quite as nice as Charlie’s laugh, but pretty close. She walked over, showed me her hand—it smelled of soap and lemons—then scratched me between the ears, where it turned out I was itchy. Ah.

“Does he like treats?”

Do I like treats? Was that the question? She reached into her bag, pulled out a bone-shaped biscuit, size large.

“You carry dog biscuits around with you?”

“Reporters run into dogs all the time,” she said, “not all of them as nice as Chet.”

She lowered the biscuit in range. Wouldn’t do to snap it up in a greedy way, might not be in keeping with my cute appearance. I was just telling myself that when—Snap!

Suzie Sanchez laughed again. I downed the biscuit in two
bites, maybe one. Some brand totally new to me and the best I’d ever tasted. What a world!

“Can he have another one?” she said. “I’ve got a whole box in the car.”

Strong air currents blew all around me.

Stakeouts: I’ve sat through a million. Okay, possibly not a million. Truth is, I’m not too sure about a million, what it means, exactly—or any other number, for that matter—but I get the drift from Bernie. A million means a lot, like “out the yingyang,” another favorite number of Bernie’s, maybe even bigger.

“This is exciting,” Suzie said.

We sat there, me, Bernie, Suzie Sanchez. We had a pickup we used for stakeouts, old, black, inconspicuous. There was a bench seat in front, so I was in the middle; not so good, what with the mirror interfering with my view, but I’m not a complainer.

“Exciting how?” said Bernie.

“Just knowing that something dramatic could happen at any moment.” Suzie gestured with her coffee cup to an office park across the street. We were in the Valley but don’t ask me where. The Valley went on forever in all directions, and although I was pretty sure I could find my way home from any of them, it wouldn’t be by a method you’d understand.

Bernie opened a little packet, dumped the contents in his coffee, stirred with a pencil. “I wouldn’t say dramatic. Not necessarily.”

“But divorce is a life-changing event, isn’t it? I call that dramatic.”

Bernie nodded, a slow nod with his eyes shifted, a nod that meant she’d caught his attention. His eyes shifted back, looked past me, at her, then away. “Ever been divorced yourself?”