The Dog Who Knew Too Much (4 page)

Iggy stared at me. I stared at Iggy. After a bit of that, he turned and trotted away, wagging that stubby little tail of his. A few moments later, he returned. Now he had something in his mouth. It looked like … oh, no, was that possible? Iggy had a whole package of bacon? And I didn’t?

Iggy stared at me. I stared at Iggy. I recognized that wrapping, mostly see-through, with a gold band at the top: we had the same kind—excellent bacon, farm-fresh and organic, according to Bernie—in the fridge. I wanted bacon real bad, and not just any bacon, but Iggy’s bacon. He just stood there, the package in his mouth. Mr. Parsons appeared in the background, approaching Iggy slowly, on account of his walker. Iggy didn’t seem to be aware of Mr. Parsons at all: he was too busy making sure I got a nice long look at that bacon. And now Mr. Parsons was right behind him. Grab that bacon, Mr. Parsons, quick! Mr. Parsons reached down to grab the bacon, but not quick. Iggy saw his hand at the last moment and booked; also not quick, but quick enough. Mr. Parsons stumped after him, both of them vanishing from my sight.

I went into the kitchen and stood in front of the fridge. We’d worked on doors, me Bernie, and there were now some I could open, but fridge doors weren’t among them. So I just stood there. I could hear Bernie singing in the shower, some of his old favorites: “Born to Lose,” “Crying Time,” “Death Don’t Have No Mercy in This Land.” He was in a good mood.

* * *

We ended up having a quick breakfast, toast and coffee for Bernie, kibble and water for me—the fridge not even getting opened once. But no complaints. “Let’s go earn our money, big guy.”

I reached the door first, got outside first, hopped into the Porsche first. Bernie was opening the door—he doesn’t do much hopping, on account of his leg—when a big black SUV pulled into the driveway behind us. The driver, a neckless shaved-headed dude, stayed behind the wheel, maybe a good thing because that neckless look in a human sometimes got me going. The passenger, Georgie Malhouf, climbed out, some papers in his hand.

“Morning, Bernie,” he said.

“What’s up?” said Bernie.

“Looks like I just caught you,” Georgie said. “Headed anywhere interesting?”

“No,” Bernie said.

Georgie laughed. “Always loved your sense of humor,” he said.

“Yeah?” said Bernie. “We haven’t really spent much time together.”

“Maybe I’m a quick study.”

Bernie gave him one of those second looks. “Maybe you are.”

“Why I’m here,” Georgie said, “is to make sure we get past that little hiccup yesterday.”

Hiccups! I had them once. So weird. Bernie clapped his hands real loud, right in my face, and they went away. But hiccups yesterday? I had no memory of that.

“Already past it,” Bernie said.

I watched him closely. Was Georgie saying Bernie had the hiccups? I’d never seen him hiccup before, hoped he had no plans to start now.

“What I’d like is for you to accept the speaker’s check,” Georgie said.

Bernie shook his head.

“In that case, my lawyer wants you to sign this waiver.” He handed Bernie the papers.

Bernie riffled through them. “Saying I agree to accept no fee for the speech?”

“Legal verbiage to that effect.”

“This is a lot of bullshit, Georgie.”

“You know lawyers.”

Bernie dug in his pockets, failed to come up with a pen. Georgie gave him one.

“Sign there,” he said.

Bernie signed.

“And initial here. And here. And here.”

“For Christ sake.”

Georgie shuffled the paper. “And one last signature right there.” He stabbed his finger at the bottom of a page. Bernie signed, not even looking. “Much obliged,” said Georgie. He got in the SUV. The driver backed onto the street, turning his head. That gave me a real good view of his necklessness. I barked.

“What’s on your mind, Chet?” Bernie said, and then a nice pat pat.

Nothing really, besides wanting to give that driver a quick nip.

Bernie climbed in the car. “Know what I’m thinking?” I waited to hear. “Lawyers are an easy target.” I waited some more. “Do you want a nation of laws?” I didn’t know. “Then you’re going to have lawyers.” The only lawyer I could think of was Rex Lippican Jr., whom we’d brought down for doing something or other and was now sporting an orange jumpsuit up at Northern State. But if lawyers were okay in Bernie’s book they were okay in mine.

* * *

Anya Vereen lived in the North Valley. It was one of those developments Bernie hated where all the streets were cul de sacs and all the houses look the same. “How can this be sustainable?” he said as we pulled into her driveway. I wasn’t sure about that, but there was no doubt in my mind that someone was frying bacon, and not far away. Some days—has this ever happened to you?—bacon crops up over and over.

The door opened and out came Anya, wearing jeans, a tank top, and a small backpack. She hurried over to the car and paused, her eyes maybe on me, riding shotgun.

“Oh,” she said.

“Oh?”

“I’d forgotten he was part of this.”

“Chet?” Bernie looked confused. “He’s part of …” He glanced over at me. “… everything.”

Of course. We’re partners, me and Bernie, in the Little Detective Agency, if I haven’t made that clear already.

“Okey-doke,” said Anya. “I’ll just squeeze in behind.”

“Oh, no,” Bernie said. “That’s not necessary. Into the back, Chet.”

The back was this tiny little sort of bench. I’d sat there before, but only when Charlie or Suzie was coming along for the ride.

“Chet?”

I have this ability to make my whole body very stiff and immovable, but I hardly ever use it.

“That’s all right,” Anya said. “He’s bigger than I am anyway.” She sprang into the back and wedged her backpack between the front seats, all in one easy motion.

Bernie’s eyebrows rose. They were straightened out now after his shower, but Bernie’s eyebrows were always expressive, spoke
a language of their own. Right now they were saying he was impressed.

“I weigh ninety-nine pounds,” Anya said. “Soaking wet.”

Bernie looked thoughtful. I was thinking, too, along the lines of: I’m a hundred-plus-pounder. More or less than Anya? I’ll let you be the judge of that.

“How much do you weigh, Bernie?” Anya said as we pulled away from the curb.

Bernie’s weight: had that ever come up before? Not that I remembered. I waited to hear.

“Not actually sure,” Bernie said.

“Don’t be shy.”

“Haven’t stepped on a scale in a while,” Bernie said.

“How about at your last checkup?”

“That’s been a while, too.”

She gave him a long look, but he didn’t see it, now that we were on the road. We drove out of Anya’s development, went by some strip malls packed with fast-food joints. Humans come up with great ideas sometimes, fast-food joints being one of the very best.

Maybe Bernie was thinking the same sort of thing—not the first time that had happened to us—because he said, “Want to pick up something to eat along the way?”

“I packed some sandwiches,” Anya said, tapping her backpack.

Tuna, peanut butter, egg salad: old news.

“Hey, thanks,” said Bernie.

We took a ramp, hit the freeway.

“Too breezy?” Bernie said, glancing at Anya in the rearview mirror. The wind was blowing back her hair—short and kind of
reddish. Women often looked different with their hair sort of out of the picture like that. Anya, for example, looked older.

“I love the wind,” she said.

Me, too. Then I had a strange thought: so did Suzie. Where had that come from? What did it mean? No idea. I pushed the whole thing out of my mind. That was easy. Nothing sets you up better for the day than a clear mind.

“Good thing,” Bernie said, “because the top’s gone.”

“What happened to it?” Anya said.

We merged into light traffic, got in the fast lane. We like the fast lane best, me and Bernie. He started telling the story of how we lost the top, a long story I’d heard many times, involving a perp named Fishhead Hobbs, a heist he was planning at the jewelry store in the Downtown Ritz—this was the same case where I ran into trouble at the fountain in their lobby—and a bee sting, which was when Fishhead’s whole plan started coming apart. Bernie’s words streamed by in a very pleasant way. City smells grew weaker; country smells grew stronger; and at last we were out of the Valley and into the desert. Hills rose in the distance, the zigzag foot trails up their slopes shining like silver in the morning light. I’ve been on trails like that before, wanted to be on them again, like right now, and real bad.

“Easy, big guy,” Bernie said.

“What got into him?” said Anya.

“He likes open country, that’s all,” said Bernie.

Doesn’t everyone?

We left the freeway, took two-lane blacktop, rose higher, the air getting fresher and cooler. Did Bernie say something about crossing a state line? Maybe, but that was around the time I
spotted a roadrunner. This little bugger, like all roadrunners, thought he was fast. Well, get ready, amigo, to see what real speed—

“Chet?”

Soon after that, we took a lunch break. Bernie parked by a long flat-topped rock at the side of the road, just like a bench. Peanut butter for Bernie; egg salad for Anya; tuna for me—the chunky kind, my favorite. Mountains rose, not too far away, greener than the mountains I was used to.

“Tell me about your ex-husband,” Bernie said.

“What do you want to know?” Anya said.

“Start with the investment business.”

Anya gazed at the distant green mountains. A cloud or two hung over them, not dark clouds, but the fat, golden kind.

“This used to happen to me a lot as a kid,” Anya said.

“What’s that?” said Bernie.

“Wishing that time would stop.”

Whoa. She was wishing time would stop right now, leaving us with the crusts of one egg salad sandwich? At that moment I knew one thing for sure: Anya was a risk taker.

She turned to Bernie. “Do you ever think that?”

“No,” said Bernie. Phew. We were on the same page, meaning dinner was still in the plans, and possibly a snack before that.

Anya’s face flushed. That’s something I look for. You see it in kids and in women, hardly ever in men. It has something to do with feelings inside; I haven’t gotten farther than that—every time I try I come up against the thought: does that mean kids and women have more feelings than men? And stop right there, on account of knowing Bernie the way I do.

“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to—”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Bernie said. “Back to the investment business.”

Anya took a deep breath, her color returning to normal. “Guy handles money for some private investors,” she said.

“Are these the people you don’t want around Devin?”

“Maybe that wasn’t fair,” Anya said. “I don’t really know them.”

FOUR

B
ack in the car. So quiet, except for the wind, and even the wind was sort of quiet. There are lots of different quiets: this one was all about everybody thinking to themselves. No idea what was on Bernie’s mind or Anya’s, but I was thinking: we’re dealing with a guy named Guy on this job? That couldn’t be good.

We drove into green mountains, tall trees unlike any I’d known standing by the side of the road. A fast-flowing creek also appeared at times, the water frothing over shining rocks and looking delicious.

“Has Guy ever been violent with you?” Bernie said after a while.

“Not really,” Anya said.

“I’ll take that for a yes,” said Bernie.

Anya gazed at the back of his head. From the way I was sitting in the shotgun seat—where I belonged—angled and facing Bernie, I could easily watch both of them without turning my head. Humans have to turn their heads much more than we do, in the nation within, to keep their eye on things.

“You’re a smart man,” Anya said. “Autumn mentioned that.”

Bernie looked surprised but didn’t say anything.

“He pushed me, but just once,” Anya said. “That was the night I made up my mind to separate. There’s a line, you know? Especially with someone the size of Guy.”

“Does he carry a gun?” Bernie said.

“I don’t know about now, but back when we were together, no,” Anya said. After a silence she said, “I notice you didn’t ask how big he is.”

Bernie shrugged.

“Wouldn’t most men in your position?”

“What position is that?”

“My—air quotes—friend,” said Anya, kind of losing me.

Bernie shrugged again. This was about the size of the guy named Guy? Who cared about stuff like that? Not me and Bernie.

“Are you armed, Bernie?” Anya said.

“Nope.”

Oh, too bad. A little gunplay is always exciting, and the .38 Special is often in the glove box. So: this wasn’t a real job, more like a vacation trip. All of a sudden my eyelids got real heavy. Does that ever happen to you, so fast that you barely have time to get comfortable before they slam shut?

“… actually a pretty good father,” Anya was saying. A dream I was having—all about chasing a chubby javelina in the canyon behind our place on Mesquite Road, a chubby javelina that from out of nowhere sprouted a rattlesnake rattle on its twisted little tail in that way dreams have of abruptly getting away from you—broke in tiny pieces that zoomed away and vanished, like spaceships in those sci-fi movies when Bernie and I went through a period of watching sci-fi movies, over pretty quickly, one good thing about it.