The Dog Who Knew Too Much (2 page)

“Ten grand sound about right?” he said.

Numbers aren’t my best thing—I stop at two, a perfect number in my opinion—but when it came to money anything with grand in it got us excited, me and Bernie. He was bumping us up to ten grand? Bernie’s speech was going even better than I’d thought.

BAM BAM BAM.
Bernie was tapping the microphone again. “Hear me all right?” He glanced up at the audience, from which came no response, and then quickly down to the papers in his hand. For some reason, he was holding them kind of close to his face, and they weren’t quite steady.

“This, uh, joke—maybe more like a …” He lapsed into silence, a silence that seemed rather long—although the room was getting noisier, with more movement toward the doors behind me—then cleared his throat again, so forcefully it had to hurt, and said very loudly, almost a shout: “Riddle!” He toned it down a bit. “Riddle. That’s it. Here comes the riddle: What did the duck say to the horse?” He glanced up in an abrupt sort of way and scanned the audience, what was left of it.

What did the duck say to the horse? Was that what Bernie had just said?

“Anybody?” Bernie said. “Duck? Horse?”

No response. I knew horses, of course, prima donnas each and every one. I’d also had an encounter with a duck, in the middle of a lake in the border country on our way back from a case we’d been working down Mexico way. Nipped me right on the nose, which came as a big surprise. But horses and ducks together? I had nothing to offer.

Up on stage, Bernie opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “‘Why the long face?’” he said.

Silence.

Bernie reached out, maybe thinking of tapping the microphone again, but did not. “Duck?” he said. “Noting the horse’s different physiognomy, which was the topic of my speech, facial classifications? A funny little approach to the subject at hand?”

More silence.

Bernie shuffled through the papers. “And I guess that more or less … brings us to the end of the prepared remarks.” What was the word for when humans talk but you can’t understand a thing? Muttering? Yeah. Bernie was muttering now. “Happy to take any questions,” he went on, or something like that.

There were no questions.

“Well, then, it’s time to, uh … thanks. Yeah. Thanks. You’ve been a great, um.” Bernie raised his hand in a funny sort of wave, a page or two flying free, and started walking off the stage. Then came the applause. I heard it for sure, but my sense of hearing’s probably better than yours, no offense.

“Fantastic, Bernie,” Georgie Malhouf was saying. We were at a corner table in the bar of the airport hotel, and by now Bernie had stopped sweating. “You’re a natural-born public speaker.”

“I am?”

“Never seen anything like it.” A fresh round of drinks came, beer for Bernie and Georgie Malhouf, water in a nice big soup bowl for me. Georgie clinked Bernie’s glass. “Why the long face,” he said. “Priceless. When did you make that one up?”

“Make it up?” said Bernie. “Can’t really say I—”

“Not just a natural-born public speaker,” Georgie said, “but a natural-born communicator in general.” He handed Bernie a check. “Here you go, pal. Earned every penny.”

I watched carefully till Bernie folded the check and put it in his pocket, not his shirt pocket, where we’d run into problems before, or his back pants pocket, also unreliable once or twice in the past, but the front pants pocket, safe and sound with the car keys.

“Bourbon still your drink, Bernie?” Georgie said. “How about a shot of something to go along with that beer?”

“A little early for—”

“Miss!”

Two shots of bourbon arrived. Glasses got clinked again.

“Communicators aren’t exactly thick on the ground in this business,” Georgie said. I could make out a stretch of ground through the window, saw nothing but a parking lot with a red car pulling in. “So why don’t I cut to the chase?”

That was the kind of thing I liked to hear. I got my back paws up under me, ready to move.

Bernie lowered his glass, tilted his head slightly to one side. That was a sign of his brain clicking into gear, and Bernie’s brain was one of the best things we had going for us at the Little Detective Agency. His brain and my nose: plenty of perps now wearing orange jump suits can tell you about that combo.

“Life’s not fair,” Georgie went on, losing me right away. “Man of your ability.” He shook his head.

“No complaints,” Bernie said.

“See, right there—the quality factor,” said Georgie. He took out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Bernie. Bernie had quit smoking lots of times, but right now we were in the middle of one of his best efforts.

“Don’t think there’s smoking in here,” Bernie said.

“Hotel’s a client,” said Georgie. “Live a little.”

They lit up. Bernie took a deep drag, let the smoke out with a sigh. Poor Bernie. Smoke drifted over toward me. I was smelling how pleasant it smelled when I noticed the red car parking right beside our ride. Our ride’s a Porsche, but not the new fancy kind. It’s brown with yellow doors, very old, and the top went missing back when we were working the Hobbs case, a story for another time. A woman sat behind the wheel of the red car; she didn’t seem in a hurry to get out.

Georgie sipped his drink. “Like this bourbon?” he said.

“Very nice,” Bernie said.

“Tell you the truth, Bern,” Georgie began, and I missed some of what came next, on account of:
Bern.
Bernie hated that! In fact, the last guy who’d tried it, a carjacker from the East Valley, name escaping me at the moment, was now breaking rocks in the hot sun. Were we about to take down Georgie Malhouf? His mustache was really starting to bother me.

“… whole chain’s a client,” Georgie was saying, “including the Arbuckle Palace in LA. Check out the world around us. Security—my kind—is only going to get bigger.”

“What’s the other kind?” Bernie said.

Georgie made a motion with his hand, like he was waving away flying insects, although there were none around. I always know when insects are around: they’re very noisy. Birds are much quieter when they fly, kind of crazy.

“The other kind,” Georgie said, “is the lone wolf.” He leaned forward, wagged his finger at Bernie. “Headed for rapid extinction, Bern.” Sometimes things go by so fast you can’t keep up. For example, Georgie’s wagging finger had curly black hair on the back, always interesting, but there was no time to dwell on it, not if wolves were suddenly in the picture. I knew wolves, but only from Animal Planet. I glanced around the bar: no wolves, no creatures of any kind, except humans and me. But the fur on my neck was up and stiff.

“I’m offering you a job,” Georgie said. He looked over at me. “You and Chet, of course.”

“You mean you want to subcontract a case out to us?” Bernie said.

“Nope,” said Georgie. “I’m talking about a real permanent-type job, assistant VP Operations, Malhouf International Investigations, eighty-five K to start, plus benefits and two weeks’ paid vacation.”

Bernie shook his head, a very quick side-to-side. Charlie— that’s Bernie’s kid, who we don’t see nearly enough since the divorce—has the exact same headshake. All of a sudden Bernie looked younger.

Georgie sat back in his chair. His eyes, dark to begin with, darkened some more. “Not even going to think about it?” he said.

“I appreciate the offer,” Bernie said. “But it wouldn’t be a good fit.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Georgie said.

“See?” said Bernie, and he laughed.

Bernie has a great laugh, so much fun to listen to—the way it comes from deep down—but Georgie didn’t seem to be enjoying it. “Always considered you a serious individual, Bern,” he said. “Must be some reason you’re not taking me seriously.”

Bernie shrugged.

Georgie leaned forward. “I do my research. That means I know what you’ve been making. Or not making, to put it more accurately. Christ, I know about the tin futures. And even the goddamn pants. What else? You’re late on your kid’s tuition and you’re upside down on your house.”

Upside down on our house? I gave up on understanding Georgie. But whatever he was talking about seemed to have gotten to Bernie. When Bernie’s angry, a little jaw muscle starts clenching, and it was clenching now. He put down his drink and started to rise. “Thanks for the drink,” he said. “The answer’s no.”

Georgie shrugged; I always watch for that one. “Gotta do what you gotta do,” he said, rising too. He took something from his pocket, something that looked like another check, and held it out to Bernie.

“What’s this?” Bernie said, not taking it.

“Ten grand,” Georgie said.

“What the hell?”

“Not for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s for Chet.”

“I don’t understand,” Bernie said. Ten grand! Maybe it was a prize or something. I’d once won a whole box of Slim Jims at an agility contest, but no time to go into that now. All I thought was: take the money!

“I want to buy Chet,” Georgie said. “Have him come work for us.”

What was this? Something without Bernie?

“Chet’s not for sale,” Bernie said. His face had gone pale, practically white. “Not now, not ever.”

“Fifteen grand,” Georgie said. “Final offer.”

Bernie didn’t touch the ten-grand check. And as for the five-hundred-dollar check—this was getting pretty complicated, with two checks in play—Bernie dug it out of his pocket and dropped it on the table. I was sorry to see it go, but only a bit. We walked out of the bar, me and Bernie. Was I proud of him or what?

TWO

N
ext time,” said Bernie, “what if I lead with the joke?”

Sounded good to me, although if there’d been a joke I’d forgotten it. We went down a long line of cars, the Porsche near the end. It’s hard not to get excited when the Porsche comes into view. What beats riding shotgun? Nothing in this dude’s life, amigo. But I’m pretty good at controlling myself at times like this, a professional through and through, and—

“Chet? Easy, big guy.”

Oops. Racing around the parking lot in tight little circles, ears flat back from the breeze? That might have been me. I got a grip, walked in a dead-straight line at Bernie’s side, head up, tail up, beyond reproach, whatever that meant exactly. We were close enough to see our bumper sticker from Max’s Memphis Ribs, our favorite restaurant in the whole Valley—hadn’t been there in way too long—and the bullet hole in our license plate, can’t go into that now, when the door of the red car opened and the woman stepped out.

“Bernie Little?” she said.

Women of a certain type have an effect on Bernie. This was
that type of woman, easy to see just from the way Bernie’s mouth fell slightly open. Curvy shape: check. Big blue eyes: check. Face tilted up in his direction: check. Poor Bernie: that was all it took.

“That’s me,” Bernie said. “And this is Chet.”

She backed away. “He’s so big. I’m not comfortable around dogs.”

Not comfortable around me? True, I’m a hundred-plus-pounder, but she had nothing to be uncomfortable about, unless she pulled a gun or something like that. I watched her hands, square-shaped, a little plump, with bright red nails.

“You can be comfortable around Chet,” Bernie said.

“Why is he looking at me like that?”

Bernie glanced over at me. “Uh, not sure, actually. But he means well.”

Of course I did! But I kept my eyes on her hands, just in case. Funny how the mind works: mine was making some kind of connection between red nails and guns. Then I started thinking about the way women paint their nails—I’d seen Leda, Bernie’s ex-wife, do it many times—and men never did. Next I thought about what human nails were for, so small and dull-edged. And after that I lost the thread.

“My name’s Anya Vereen,” the woman was saying. “I heard of you from a friend.”

“Who?” said Bernie.

“You might not know her by her real name,” Anya said.

“No?” said Bernie. “What name would I know her by?”

“Autumn.”

Autumn! I knew Autumn. She worked for Livia Moon at Livia’s Friendly Coffee and More, over in Pottsdale—not in the coffee part out front but in the house of ill-repute part out back. Autumn was one of those humans who really liked me and my
kind—the nation within the nation, Bernie calls us—and she’s also a world-class patter. We’d interviewed her not too long ago, but the details of the case weren’t coming to me at the moment.

“Ah,” said Bernie. Then came a silence. Silences like that often happened when Bernie was getting to know women of a certain type.

“Ah?” said Anya. “Meaning what?”

“Nothing,” Bernie said. “Nothing at all—just that, yes, I’ve met Autumn.”

“And you’ve jumped to the conclusion that I’m in the same line of work.”

“No,” said Bernie.

He was right about that. I love Bernie, and he can do just about anything—you should see him in a fight!—but jumping is not one of them. That’s on account of his war wound. Bernie went to war in the desert—not our desert, but some other desert far away, and this was before we got together—and came back with his leg wound. He never talks about it, but he limps sometimes when he’s tired. When that happens I slow down a bit so he can keep up.