A Fistful of Collars (23 page)

“Um,” said Bernie. “Ah. How’s Mrs. Parsons?”

“Stabilized,” Mr. Parsons said, “and thank you for asking. Also thanks for taking care of Iggy—hope he behaved himself.”

“No complaints,” Bernie said. “Iggy!” he called.

A moment or two passed and then Iggy appeared in the hall. He was chewing on . . . yes, a cigarette, but he swallowed
it quickly, possibly before anyone else noticed. Iggy saw Mr. Parsons. Iggy was one of those tail waggers who pretty much wag with their whole bodies.

Night fell, and the air cooled down some. Bernie took out the bourbon, started to unscrew the top, then stopped, and placed the bottle back on the shelf. He went into the office and made some calls. I lay under the desk and let the sound of his voice wash over me, very relaxing. After a while, he put down the phone and said, “How about a walk?”

I was at the door. One of the great things about our place on Mesquite Road—wouldn’t live anywhere else—is how we back right up on the canyon, pretty much wide open country, all the way down to the airport and up to Vista City. Bernie was opening the back gate when it hit me that while we’d taken a zillion walks in the canyon or even more, none had ever come at night. So: what a great idea! But that was Bernie.

He switched on a flashlight as we crossed the narrow gully beyond the gate and started climbing up the slope. Day or night doesn’t make much difference to me, but it’s a game changer for humans. They can’t seem to see at all in the dark, and what’s there to fall back on? Hearing? Smell? Please. So it’s no surprise to me that nighttime is when humans tend to land in trouble. Don’t get me wrong. I liked just about every human I’ve ever met, even some of the perps and gangbangers, but in my opinion they’re at their best right before lunchtime.

We reached the top of the ridge—Bernie huffing and puffing a bit already? How could that be?—and soon came to the big flat rock. I walked across it, felt the heat of the day, still there. Sometimes the earth itself seems . . . a thought starting out on those lines almost got going in my mind.

No time for that. We walked along the ridge, then took the trail that led to the lookout, highest point on our side of the canyon, and one of our favorite places, what with its nice stone bench and view of practically the whole valley. A javelina had been this way, and not long ago. I went into my trot, cut across the trail and down the slope, then back up, the scent strong at first, then fading out. That happened sometimes, and the go-to play was to circle back and—

“Chet.”

Maybe later.

We climbed to the top of the lookout and then came a surprise: a man, all shadowy, was sitting on the bench. Just as I was about to bark, I smelled who it was. I trotted over.

“Hey, Chet,” said Rick Torres, giving me a pat. “Didn’t hear you on the trail, not a sound.” He turned to Bernie. “You, on the other hand, are one goddamn noisy hiker.”

Bernie sat on the bench, stretched his bad leg. “Didn’t want to sneak up on you,” he said.

“Glad to hear that,” Rick said. He wasn’t in uniform, wore jeans and a T-shirt, but had a gun on him somewhere. It hadn’t been fired, but it had been lubricated—I’d watched Bernie lubricate the .38 Special plenty of times—and grease is a real easy smell to pick up. There are actually many grease smells—pizza grease and human hair grease, to name two—something I hope we can get into later, unless it’s happened already.

“Am I hearing a double meaning?” Bernie said, losing me completely.

“A funny place to meet, that’s all,” Rick said.

Hey! Were they not getting along? At the same time Bernie wasn’t getting along with Suzie, either? What was going on?

Bernie looked at Rick for a moment, then turned his gaze to
the faraway lights of the downtown towers. The lights were hazy and so were the stars, and I could see dust drifting over the face of the moon.

“Wish it would rain,” Bernie said.

“So does everybody,” Rick said. “But is that why you brought me here in the middle of the night, to discuss our weather patterns?”

Bernie turned back to him, then took out his cigarettes and lit up.

“A whole pack?” Rick said. “That’s a bad sign.”

Bernie blew out a stream of smoke, all silvery in the moonlight.

“Truth is,” Rick said, “you’re pissing me off. Big-time.”

Pissing. A huge subject. Where to begin? It was certainly something we’d done by the side of the road, me and Bernie, and more than once, but had there ever been any of that side by side stuff with me and Rick? Maybe something to look forward to.

“I know you, Bernie,” Rick went on. “You want something from me, but you’re hesitating to ask. Why? Possibility one: you’re implicated in some shit and you’re looking for an out. Meaning I’d get implicated, too, and that’s just not you.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Bernie said.

“Fuck you,” said Rick.

Then they both laughed, a surprise to me: I’d been pretty sure they were about to throw down. Quiet laughter, though, and it didn’t last long.

“Possibility two,” Rick said. “You don’t trust me. And I can’t come up with a possibility three. If it exists, let’s hear it.”

Bernie said nothing.

“There you go,” Rick said.

Where? This wasn’t easy to follow. In the not-as-far-as-downtown
distance I could see the airport, the runways lit up, planes circling, landing, taking off, soaring away with blurred orange trails slowly dissolving behind them. The whole city hummed and muttered in the night like a living thing. A disturbing thought. I tried to forget it, couldn’t, then tried again, and succeeded with whatever it was.

Bernie took a deep breath.

“Stop with the deep breathing shit,” Rick said. “You saved my goddamn life—think I’d ever forget that?”

“Happened to be there,” Bernie said.

“It cost you your job, asshole,” said Rick.

Bernie shrugged. “Things worked out all right.”

Well, of course: just think of the Little Detective Agency, for starters. Who was better? The Mirabelli brothers? Georgie Malhouf? Ha! But whoa. Bernie got canned on account of Rick? News to me. This felt like the kind of puzzle to take on from different angles, a project for later.

They sat in silence. Fine with me. I sat in silence, too. Rick gave me a little pat. Bernie smoked his cigarette down to practically nothing, then ground the practically nothing under his heel, ground it out extra-hard.

“I need a cold case file from Central Records,” he said.

“In an informal sort of way,” said Rick.

Bernie nodded.

H
e’s wearing eye makeup?” Bernie said.

“Bernie, please,” said Leda.

We were back at the movie set, me, Bernie, Leda, and Charlie, all by ourselves in one of the trailers. Leda wore tight jeans, a tight little top, and lots of jewelry. Bernie was dressed like Bernie. I had on my brown leather collar—the black one’s for dress-up, in case that hasn’t come up yet. Charlie wore a sort of cowboy outfit—cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and one of those long duster coats. Bernie had one, hanging in the closet back home, a gift from Mr. Teitelbaum, who owned clothing stores, although not as many after the Teitelbaum divorce, a case I’ll never forget. Mrs. Teitelbaum driving that earthmover right through the garage where Mr. Teitelbaum kept his antique car collection? And then back the other way? That kind of thing stays in the mind. It was also on that case that I first discovered kosher chicken, proving there’s good in everything; one of my core beliefs.

But back to Charlie. There was no doubt that he was wearing eye makeup, dark and kind of purple. Also his face had whitish
stuff on it, making him look pale, like he wasn’t feeling well. Plus he seemed so small in that long duster.

“My son,” Bernie said, “is wearing eye makeup.”

“God almighty, it’s for the camera,” Leda said. “John Wayne wore eye makeup. Humphrey Bogart wore eye makeup.”

“I don’t believe it,” Bernie said.

Charlie glanced up from a sheet of paper he was staring at. “I’m trying to memorize this.”

“Memorize what?” said Bernie.

“His line,” said Leda. “Why are you not getting this?”

All of a sudden it felt like old times. I preferred new times, especially if old times meant going back to the Leda days. In some ways—this occurring to me for the very first time, funny how the mind works—she was like Mrs. Teitelbaum. But unlike Mrs. Teitelbaum, Leda couldn’t drive a stick—would I ever forget the time Bernie tried to teach her?—so the earthmover episode would never have happened to us.

“What’s the line, Charlie?” Bernie said.

“Don’t disturb him,” Leda said. “He’s internalizing it.”

“Huh?” said Bernie.

“The artistic process is a complete blank to you, isn’t it, Bernie?” Leda said. That tone: hard to describe, sort of like Bernie was one of those butterflies our pal Professor Bokov from the college gazes at through his magnifying lens. Once we worked a case that came down to a certain kind of butterfly; that’s all I remember of it, except for Bernie losing the check on the way home.

“Artistic process?” Bernie said. “He’s six years old.”

Charlie, who’d gone back to gazing at the sheet of paper—his lips moving silently, an interesting thing you saw sometimes in humans, no time to go into it now—looked up again, paused for a moment, and said, “How can I concentrate in this atmosphere?”

Bernie’s mouth fell open. When was the last time that had happened? For a moment, he seemed about to speak, but nothing came out. He turned and stalked out of the trailer, slamming the door after him, so hard the door opened again, good thing since now I could get out, too. We walked down the movie Western street and into the movie Western bar. No one around. Bernie grabbed a bottle from behind the bar, twisted off the cap and drank, then banged the bottle down on the bar.

“Tea, for Christ sake. Cold goddamn tea.”

Tea? And some had splashed down onto the floor? Water’s my drink, but I didn’t mind tea. I licked it up.

“Atmosphere?” Bernie said. “He said atmosphere? What the hell is going on?”

No clue, on my part. I wouldn’t have minded if more tea got spilled. Bang the bottle again, Bernie! Keep spilling! And maybe he would have—there’s no end to what Bernie can do—but at that moment the light, all of which was flowing in from the street, dimmed. I turned and saw Jiggs at the saloon doors. The doors swung open and Jiggs walked in, bringing the light with him.

“Trying to sneak in a quick snort?” he said, coming over to the bar.

Bernie slid the bottle toward him. “Help yourself.”

Jiggs shook his head. “Not a tea drinker, myself.” He sat on the stool beside Bernie’s, pointed his chin at the bottle. “That’s so the studio can tell the Wall Street boys how careful they’re being with their money. Meanwhile, Lars gets his meals flown in every day from some restaurant he likes in Barcelona.”

“And how about Thad?” Bernie said.

“How about him?” said Jiggs.

“What are his special requirements?”

Jiggs looked down at Bernie. “Not sure where you’re going with that.”

“Don’t be so cautious—I’ve got no connections on Wall Street.”

“You’re just curious about his meals?” Jiggs said.

“Sure,” said Bernie.

“He’s a normal guy, eats normal food, like you and me.”

“I’m partial to caviar, myself,” Bernie said.

Caviar? A new one on me. Oh, wait, not quite. I came very close to remembering a party at the Ritz, possibly the Romanoffs’ anniversary. What a nice old couple, and we’d brought their runaway daughter back from Reno for them safe and sound, and at that party had there been an icy bowl—on a sideboard but well within my reach—full of tiny round black glistening things, that didn’t look like food but turned out to be . . . ? No. I couldn’t quite remember.

“You’re a funny dude,” Jiggs said, although he didn’t laugh. “A funny dude who’s good with his fists. Don’t see that every day.”

“So?”

“So it’s a kind of surprise,” Jiggs said, “and I’m wondering what other surprises you’ve got in store for us.”

“Who’s us?” said Bernie.

“Me and Thad, who else?”

“You’re very loyal to him.”

“We’re cousins—I told you.”

“How does that work?” Bernie said. “Where’s the family connection?”

“My mother and Thad’s father were brother and sister.”

What was that? Something absolutely impossible to follow, that was all I knew.

“Where was this?” Bernie said, meaning maybe he was somehow staying in the picture. That Bernie! I just loved him.

“Back in Kansas City,” Jiggs said. “The whole family’s from there originally.”

“Where are they now?”

“Pretty much dead and gone.”

“Any family connections here in the Valley?” Bernie said.

Jiggs gave Bernie a long look. “Nope,” he said.

“How about old friends?”

“Nope.”

“Mere acquaintances, ships passing in the night?”

“What are you driving at?”

“You tell me,” Bernie said. You tell me: one of my favorites! We’ve closed a case or two with Bernie’s you-tell-me move; not actually closed, because that happens when I grab the perp by the pant leg, but just about.

“Got nothing to tell, my friend,” Jiggs said. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Whoa. Had I heard that one from the mouths of humans before? You bet, and it used to floor me every time, but finally I realized they just don’t know much about chasing little critters, because what would be the point of barking up the tree where the critter isn’t? No member of the nation within would ever do that. Plus after the critter’s in the tree, it’s too late for barking. And why bark when you’re in chasing mode in the first place? Here I come, critter? What sort of technique is that? One more thing: humans don’t bark. Except for Mad Dog Dutwiller, of course, a perp I never want to think of again, so I won’t.

“Whatever you say,” Bernie said. “As long as you’re aware of your legal position.”

Jiggs went still, but not the relaxed kind of still. One of the
legs of his stool creaked, sort of on its own, if that makes any sense. “Legal position?” he said.

“Specifically relating to the statute of limitations,” Bernie said.