Dog On It (26 page)

“Let go of me.”

“First the truth.”

“The truth is on that tape. I don’t know any more than you.” And then Keefer started to cry, fat tears with even some sobbing: a revolting spectacle, to my mind, and probably Bernie’s, too. He let go of Keefer. Keefer’s feet hit the ground. He staggered, almost fell. A feather floated down from the balcony.

Bernie gazed at Keefer. Keefer looked away, dabbed his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. “Last chance to get on the good side, Damon,” Bernie said. “What made you think I’d been killed in an accident? Take your time—a lot is riding on your answer, whether you know it or not.”

I went and stood right beside Bernie. I had no clue what he was talking about, but I knew mastery when I saw it.

Keefer’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. He licked his lips and said, “I got an anonymous call.” Up on the balcony, Prince was licking a paw with his pointy little tongue.

We turned and walked away. Keefer was on the bad side. I’d known that the first time I’d caught a whiff of him, of course. Sometimes I was ahead of Bernie, mastery or no.

Nixon Panero was one of our best sources, kind of strange because we’d put him away for a year or two. He had an auto-body shop at the end of a long line of auto-body shops in a flat, treeless part of town where guys slouched on every corner, up to no good. My old buddy Spike was slouching, too—sprawled, in fact, with splayed-out paws—by Nixon’s gate when we drove in. He saw me and raised his tail. Spike was one scary-looking dude, part Rottweiler, part pit bull, part unknown, and had been in many scraps, including one with me the night we’d taken Nixon down, but he was getting on now, less belligerent, his warrior face turning white.

Nixon was sitting in a chair in the yard, watching one of his workers spray-painting flames on a black fender. The air filled with paint smells, sweet and harsh at the same time. “Hey, boys, been a while,” Nixon said. “Where’s the Porsche?”

Bernie shook his head.

“Finally crapped out on you, huh?” said Nixon, sounding happy about it. His eyes were too close together, even for a human, always a disturbing sight for me.

“Something like that,” Bernie said.

Nixon spat in the dirt. “I can get you another one, even more beat up.”

“Yeah?” said Bernie. “How much?”

“Don’t have it yet,” said Nixon. “I’m just saying the possibility’s out there.”

Or something like that. I wasn’t really listening, on account of Nixon being a tobacco chewer, which made his spit pretty interesting. I went over and sniffed at the dirt where the glob had landed. It smelled like Bernie’s breath in the morning, if he’d been smoking the night before and hadn’t brushed his teeth yet, but even stronger, with an added bitterness. Normally at a moment like this, I’d move on to an experimental lick or two. Not this time, amigo.

“Supposing,” Bernie was saying, “a guy had to borrow some money.”

“No need—us two, me and you, we got a history,” Nixon said, and started laughing, a laugh that went on too long, got a little crazy, ended in hacking, and then another glob horking out, splatting down nearby. “You can pay me by the week, the month, whatever.”

“I’m talking hundreds of thousands,” Bernie said. “Maybe even more.”

“For a thirty-year-old Porsche?”

“This isn’t about the Porsche.” Bernie pulled up an overturned trash can and sat down; I sat, too. “This is about a developer type in the middle of a big project who gets cut off by the banks and has no other resources, at least that I can find.”

“We’re not talkin’ about you?”

“Do I look like a developer type?”

Nixon’s close-together eyes examined Bernie. “Maybe with
some cleanin’ up, haircut, new shoes. Shoes tell the tale, Bernie—can’t believe you don’t know that by now.” He opened a flat can, stuck another plug of dip in his mouth. “So this developer type goes huntin’ for street money?”

“That’s my theory,” Bernie said. “I want to find the lender, whoever it is.”

The second glob was bigger than the first and had an even stronger smell. I went over and was lowering my head for another sniff when something bumped me from behind. I turned and there was Spike. He bumped me again, away from the glob, and gave it a sniff himself. I bumped him back, barely moved him at all—Spike was so heavy, and still strong. But it was my turn at the glob, so I bumped him again, harder this time. Spike faced me, showed his teeth, all yellow and brown now, and growled. I showed my teeth and growled back.

“Hey, knock it off,” Nixon said.

What was this? Spike actually knocking it off just because Nixon said so? Spike walked around in a circle and lay down in the shade of Nixon’s tow truck, his white face much more visible than the rest of him; for some reason, that made me sad. I backed away from the glob.

“More orange at the tips of those flames,” Nixon said. “Make a fuckin’ statement.” The painter nodded, sprayed more orange. Nixon turned to Bernie. “This developer of yours got a name?”

“Damon Keefer.”

“Don’t know him,” Nixon said. “He’s into some shylock for mid–six figures?”

“Educated guesswork on the exact amount,” Bernie said. Nixon scratched his head. Mine got itchy right away, so I scratched it, first with a front paw, then harder with a back paw, which always did the trick.

“Serious green,” Nixon said. “Kind of narrows the list.” He took a pencil stub and a grimy spiral notebook from his chest pocket and began writing. “We got the Spirelli brothers down in Modena.” He licked the pencil; all of a sudden I wanted to lick it, too, so bad. “Then there’s Albie Rose, but they say he’s close to retirement now, maybe wouldn’t want to mess with something like this. You know Albie?”

“Heard of him,” Bernie said.

“Been married eight times.”

“Didn’t know that.”

“All showgirls from Vegas, each and every one, three of them named Tiffany.”

“Vegas keeps coming up in this case.”

“Then maybe you should try Albie. He does some business in Vegas.”

“Any chance he owns a movie theater up there?”

“Wouldn’t put it past him—he’s the cultured type.”

Bernie gave Nixon a look.

“An intellectual, is what I’m saying,” Nixon said.

“Heard of them,” said Bernie. “Anyone else?”

Nixon scrunched up his face. Some humans did that when they were trying to squeeze out a thought; I wished they didn’t. “There’s Marcellus Clay in Sunshine City, kind of diversified these days—aliens, coke, identity theft—but he’s always got money on the street.” Nixon opened his eyes, blinked a couple times, wrote in the notebook, stuck the pencil behind his ear. Was there any way to grab it? “That’s pretty much the list,” Nixon said. He tore off a sheet of paper, handed it to Bernie.

“Any Russians?” Bernie said.

“Don’t know no Russians,” said Nixon. “Don’t know and don’t wanna know. Do I start checkin’ out old Porsches?”

“Depends on the price,” Bernie said.

“Money, money, money,” Nixon said. “Stickin’ my nose in, I know, but maybe you should raise your fees.”

“I’ll think about it,” Bernie said.

Please do. Right now we were charging zero. What kind of business plan was that?

Albie Rose lived in the biggest house I’d ever seen, more like a palace, surrounded by high walls. A guy with big shoulders and a gun on his hip led us across vast green lawns to a huge swimming pool. On a deck chair by the pool lay a fat old man in a tiny bathing suit. His skin was oiled and deeply tanned, just about the color and texture of a turkey Leda had left too long in the oven one Thanksgiving. I tried not to look.

“Mr. Rose?” said the guy with the gun.

The old man opened his eyes, hard eyes I didn’t like at all. “You Bernie Little?” he said.

Bernie nodded.

Albie Rose waved the guy with the gun away. He strolled to the end of the pool and stood by the diving board, probably way too hot in his all-black outfit. I was pretty hot myself; the pool looked inviting.

“Did some checking up,” Albie Rose said, still flat on his back. “You have an interesting reputation.”

Bernie nodded again.

Albie Rose glanced over at me. “Not one of those trained attack dogs, is it?”

“Not trained, no,” said Bernie.

An it? I was an it? I moved a little closer to poolside.

“I don’t like violence,” Albie Rose said.

“Me, either, Mr. Rose,” said Bernie.

“Call me Albie. Only my wives called me Mr. Rose. But as for violence, sometimes there’s no other way—am I right, Foster?”

“Yes sir,” said the man with the gun.

“I’m sure this isn’t one of those times,” Bernie said.

“Take a seat,” said Albie.

Bernie pulled up another deck chair, sat on the end. “I understand you’re a kind of financier.”

“Not kind of,” Albie said. “How much are you looking for?”

“None,” said Bernie. “I’m just trying to find out how the business works.”

“Why?”

“To better serve my clientele,” Bernie said.

Albie gave Bernie a long look, then sat up. “Foster,” he called. Foster came over, raised the back of Albie Rose’s deck chair, returned to his post by the diving board. The old man wiped some sweat off his flabby chest, flicked it away with the edge of his hand. It smelled like this old cheese Bernie had brought home once. For a few moments I could smell nothing but old cheese, rising off Albie in waves. “Go on,” Albie said.

“Suppose someone came to you for money, five hundred grand, just to name a figure—what happens next?” Bernie said.

“I say yes or no.”

“Based on what?”

“Could be anything.”

“Like?”

Albie shrugged. “Won’t look me in the eye, or looks me in the eye too much. A crier—don’t lend to criers. Or he’s not wearing a tie.”

“Not wearing a tie?”

“Come to me for money you wear a tie. I’m old-school.”

“What about the purpose of the loan—is that a factor?”

“Purpose of the loan?”

“What the money’s for.”

“Survival,” said Albie. “They come to me for survival. It’s always the same.”

“Suppose you say yes to the five hundred grand,” Bernie said, “and the borrower turns out to be slow making the payments.”

“That would be stressful,” Albie said. “I don’t get involved. Handling stress is Foster’s department.”

Foster stood motionless by the diving board.

“What’s his approach?” Bernie said.

“Foster was a promising baseball player at one time,” Albie said. “Drafted in the sixth round by the Dodgers. He still has his bat.”

“Louisville Slugger,” Foster said. He spoke in a normal voice, but it carried across the pool.

“Had one myself,” Bernie said. “Any stressful situations recently?”

“Nah,” said Albie. “Not for years. Man of Foster’s talent—word gets out.”

Foster made a little bow. “But it’s more the philosophy that keeps things running smooth, boss,” he said. “You don’t mind my saying.”

“Philosophy?” said Bernie.

“In five words,” said Albie. “Deal with cash businesses only.”

“For example?”

“Dentists,” said Albie. “I love dentists. They make good money, look around for investments, always pick wrong, get buried.”

“What about real estate developers?” Bernie said.

“Wouldn’t touch ’em.”

“Why not?”

“What I just said—cash business. Developers got no cash flow at all. Dreamers, sure, I rely on dreamers, but what’s the one thing they gotta have besides their big stupid dreams?”

“Cash flow,” Bernie said.

“Now you’re cooking,” said Albie. “No charge for the lesson.”

Bernie made one of his nods that could have meant anything. Albie’s hard eyes watched him closely.

“I got a question of my own,” Albie said. “What developer’s paying you?”

“I’m not working for any developer,” Bernie said. “There’s a developer in the case.”

“Name?”

“Damon Keefer—he’s got a big project going up at Puma Wells.”

“Puma Wells,” said Albie. “My wife—one of ’em, Tiffany, it might have been, or that other Tiffany, with the tits—used to ride up there, ride for miles, nothing but open country. You ever think about shit like that?”

“Every day,” said Bernie.

Albie nodded. “Too many goddamn dreamers,” he said. “That’s what’s wrong with the American dream. As for your guy, never heard of him.”

Way down at the bottom of the pool I saw a shiny ring, plastic or rubber, one of those pool toys. I liked pool toys. Have I mentioned I’m a pretty good diver?

“Are all your competitors like you?” Bernie said. “Philosophically, I mean.”

“What competitors?”

“The Spirelli brothers. Marcellus Clay.”

“The Spirelli brothers? Marcellus Clay? Now you insult me.”

“Not intentionally,” said Bernie. “But would they do business with developers?”

“The Spirellis, never. That’s not where they go wrong. Marcellus Clay’s capable of anything.”

Bernie rose. “Thanks for your time,” he said.

“Headed out to Sunshine City?” Albie said. “I’d be—Hey! What the hell’s he doing in the pool?”

Bernie looked over at me. “The dog paddle,” he said. “It’s his only stroke.”

And there might have been more back-and-forth, but I missed it, hearing nothing but bubbles streaming past my ears as I dove down through lovely cool water and snagged the shiny ring. Rubber: I gave it a good squeeze and swam—swimming is like a fast trot, only in the water, nothing to it—to the surface.

Albie was laughing at something Bernie must have said. “You’re a funny guy,” he said. “Funny guys are smart. I like having them around, if you get my meaning.”

“I have a job,” said Bernie.

“The dog’s kind of funny, too,” Albie said. “What’s his name?”

“Chet.”

“Good name. How much do you want for him?”

“You’re funny, too,” said Bernie.

I got out of the pool, shook myself off, water spraying everywhere, the very best part of swimming.

“Drop it,” Bernie said.

Aw, did I have to?

“He can keep it,” said Albie.

I dropped the shiny rubber ring by the side of the pool. Albie gazed at it for a moment, then looked at me, and finally at Bernie. “There’s maybe one other guy,” he said. “Kind of a newcomer, don’t know him at all. Name of Gulagov.”