Thereby Hangs a Tail (30 page)

“That’s possible, but it’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what?”

“Do one thing for me,” Bernie said. “The Rio Loco sheriff gets nowhere near either of them, Crash or Thurman.”

“Can’t promise that,” Cedric said. “But I’ll be in the room.”

“And let me know if he or the deputy even asks to see them.”

“Taking the little scrap you had with them personally?” Cedric said. “That won’t help you think straight.”

Silence. Bernie stuck his chin out a little; Cedric did the same. “Also,” Bernie said, “if that rifle turns up, I need to know.”

“That’s three things, Bernie. You said one.”

I went behind a trash barrel and puked up what was left of the tennis ball, felt better.

We drove in silence for a while. Then Bernie said,
“Like two or
three mil.
Christ. That’s the whole story right there.” It was? I didn’t get it, waited for more. But no more came. How about some music? But that didn’t happen either. Bernie’s hands were tight on the steering wheel, knuckles sticking out. “Gotta stand back,” he said, “see the big picture. Why do I always have to keep reminding myself of that?” Bernie was great at asking questions, could make people squirm, always good for us. Sometimes, though, like now, he made himself squirm. That was bad. I shifted a little, put a paw on his leg. “Chet—I’m driving.”

I took it off.

“Sorry, boy,” he said, and gave me a pat. “This case is just so . . .” His voice trailed off. Outside the shadows of the downtown towers slanted across the street, making me feel hemmed in. “Big picture,” Bernie said, as we turned a corner and came to a huge domed building I recognized: the Metro Arena. “Big picture—Suzie wasn’t in that car. Meaning she’s out there, Chet, I can feel it.”

I’d been in the Metro Arena once, back before the hockey team left town, me and Bernie working on a case involving some crazed fan. Hockey: the strangest game I’ve ever seen, made no sense, plus all the fans turned out to be crazed, and we maybe didn’t even end up finding the right one and clearing the case, which hardly ever happens. Also, I got to go on the ice, supposedly a treat. Ice! Once was enough, let me tell you. Plus the players smelled very bad and the puck was none too tasty.

The Metro Arena parking lot was huge, almost empty at the moment, with rows of tall metal lampposts going on and on. For some reason the sight of all those lampposts made me uneasy. As soon as we got out of the car, I marked one of them, then another and another and an—

“Chet! For God’s sake.”

We walked toward the big doors at the front of the arena, but before we got there a small door opened and out came Aldo. He carried a suitcase, wore a jacket and tie. Ties were interesting, especially swinging freely the way they did sometimes, kind of inviting. Bernie had a tie for wearing to court, a nice tie decorated with saguaro cactuses. It hung in the closet, just out of reach.

Aldo saw us and paused.

“Going on a trip?” Bernie said.

He nodded. “They canned me.”

“The count?”

“And Nance,” Aldo said. “Mostly Nance. They’re inside now.”

“Doing what?” said Bernie. “Things don’t start till tomorrow.”

“Rehearsing the opening ceremony,” Aldo said. “The whole show’s being dedicated to Adelina’s memory. I heard—” Aldo’s voice went funny and his eyes got wet; a bit surprising, what with Aldo being a big strong guy. “I heard you caught the killers,” he said. “Thank you.”

Bernie nodded. He had all kinds of nods; this one meant nothing, just moved the conversation along.

Aldo brushed his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “A botched kidnapping? Is that the story?”

“There’s a confession to that effect.”

A taxi pulled up. “Will they get the death penalty?”

“I’m the wrong one to ask,” Bernie said. “But probably not.”

“Life in prison?” Aldo said.

“That’s more likely.”

Aldo looked up at the sky, the normal downtown sky, hazy blue. “Knowing that doesn’t make me feel any better,” he said. “Not even if they got the death penalty.” He brought his gaze down to Bernie. “Does it make you feel better?”

“Punishment for criminals?” Bernie said. “Yes.”

Aldo watched Bernie for another moment or two, then looked at me. I was standing at Bernie’s side, remembering my only ride in a taxi, a ride that would have gone much better if the driver hadn’t left his lunch lying out on the front seat; my first encounter with pepperoni—the smell turned out to be too much for me.

“Your dog is great,” Aldo said. Hey! What a guy after all! He opened the back door of the taxi. And damned if I didn’t smell pepperoni right away!

“Where’re you headed?” Bernie said.

“The airport,” Aldo said. “I’m moving back east.”

“Suppose I need to get in touch with you,” Bernie said.

“For what?”

“Maybe you’ll think of something you forgot to tell me.”

“That won’t happen.”

“What if I think of something I forgot to tell you?” Bernie said.

Aldo took out a card and handed it to Bernie. Then he got in the taxi and rode away, pepperoni scent lingering in the air. Bernie and I went into the arena.

TWENTY-EIGHT

W
e went down a long, dark tunnel—not too fond of tunnels—and came to a railing high above the arena floor, rows and rows of empty metal seats all around. A blue floor, no ice. I was just noticing that when a horrible sound filled the air, part blare, part squeak.

“It’s all right, boy,” Bernie said. “Just feedback.”

The sound faded at once; had Bernie somehow made it go away? And feedback? Did that have anything to do with food? How was that possible? Food was one of the best things going. I didn’t get it, but strangely enough at that very moment, with my mind on food, I spotted part of a pretzel, one of those big soft ones, under a nearby seat. Easy pickings, and I picked it—not quite as soft as I remembered, but I hadn’t had a pretzel in way too long—and joined Bernie at the railing.

Down below on the arena floor stood a small group of people, more than two, plus one of my guys, whom I recognized partly from her being such a little fluffball, more from how she held her head in that determined way: Princess. And the people? I picked out the count, with that big nose—big for a human—and the mustache beneath it; and Nance standing beside him, somewhat taller, holding the end of Princess’s leash.

Another tall woman, this one blond, had a microphone in her hand. Her lips moved, and just after that a voice boomed out through the arena, her lips and the words not quite lining up, making it hard for me to understand. “I’ll just say, and now to open the Great Western Dog Show, please welcome our mayor, blah blah, blah blah. Then the mayor will take the mic—”

“After the boos,” Bernie said, very quiet.

“—and he’ll say this year’s show is being dedicated to the memory of Adelina Borghese and—”

The count leaned forward and his lips moved although I heard no sound.

“My apologies,” said the blond woman. “Countess Adelina Borghese, and after that, he’ll pass the mic to you. And then—”

The count reached out, took the mic from the blond woman. “The Countess Adelina
di
Borghese,” he said. “She would appreciate very much this show. The countess was a famous friend to the world of dogs and—”

The blond woman reached out for the microphone. I heard her say, “No need to for the whole speech now, sir, we’re only—”

But the count pulled the microphone away from her, and went on. “And so in her name, I, Count Lorenzo di Borghese, officially am the opener of the Great Western Dog Show. Let the competition begin!”

Down of the floor, everyone just stood there, looking kind of uncomfortable in a way that’s hard to describe; everyone but Nance, who clapped her hands, making a very faint sound. The count returned the mic, made a little bow to the blond woman.

“When that’s done,” she said, “I’ll introduce the—”

Bernie backed away from the railing. I backed away, too, stopped listening. Bernie had spotted a man sitting at the end of the arena nearer to us, but lower down. A small, white-haired man dressed in black, with a stud sparkling in one of his ears: I’d seen him before, but where? He rose, started walking down an aisle toward the arena floor.

“Rui Santos,” Bernie said, “the driver.” Down on the floor, Nance had moved away from the others, was walking toward Rui. “How come we didn’t interview him already?” Bernie said. Couldn’t help him with that. “I’m losing it,” he said.

Bernie losing it? No way. We were doing great on this case, had cracked it, in fact. Weren’t the perps behind bars? But where was Suzie? That was a worry. Perps in the can meant the case was cracked, yes or no? My mind went back to me and Princess with Adelina in the cabin, and Thurman with the choke chain, and some other things a bit too dim to remember, and I thought maybe we hadn’t cracked the case after all but couldn’t get past that.

“Hey, Chet, what’s wrong?”

Nothing. Nothing was wrong. I realized my tail had drooped down low, got it raised up high again, stiff and ready for wagging.

Rui waited at the end of the aisle by the lowest row of seats. Nance, still crossing the floor, started to raise her head, maybe to look up into the stands. Bernie ducked behind a seat; I didn’t have to, was pretty much down at that level already. We peered over the top of the seat. Nance reached Rui, handed him an envelope, the big padded kind. That padding doesn’t turn out to be edible, a story for another day. Nance turned and walked away. Rui turned, too, and began climbing the stairs. We stayed down, eyes on Rui. He came to our level, but at the next aisle over, and headed into one of those tunnels leading out of the arena, not glancing in our direction.

Very quiet, Bernie made this little sound, kind of tchk-tchk. We rose and headed toward the same tunnel, me completely silent, Bernie as silent as a human could be. Just before we entered the tunnel, I glanced back down at the floor, saw Princess’s big dark eyes. They seemed to be looking in my direction.

Following people without them knowing was one of the best things about our job. Once we tracked this real bad guy deep down into Mexico, maybe not strictly legal, whatever that means. Mexico! Let me tell you. Gunfights—I’d never seen so many. And my guys, not all but some, are different in Mexico. They run in packs, stay away from humans except for getting food. Some real tough customers, red-eyed dudes, lean and mean. I tried to make friends, but they were having none of it. Got into some scraps down in Mexico, and so did Bernie. The Mexican vet had to stitch me up; she stitched up Bernie, too.

We walked through the tunnel. It was dark, with Rui just a human shape against the light at the end, and then gone. “I think you know something I don’t,” Bernie said, his voice low.

Me knowing more than Bernie? No way. Well, no way except for possibly knowing more about how the world smells and sounds, and the taste of certain things, like sticks in the yard, chair legs, chew strips. Maybe not chew strips: I had this faint memory of a party sometime after we’d cleared the Gulagov case, a party with funny hats, popping corks, and Bernie gnawing on the end of a chew strip, just to give it a try. Was Bernie the best or what? I moved a little closer to him.

Some humans look back when you’re following them and some don’t. According to Bernie, the ones who don’t are toast, which I didn’t quite get. Toast is good, nice and crunchy on the outside, although the toaster itself can be pretty dangerous, especially this one time Bernie stuck a knife down inside it, not sure why. Where was I? Oh, yeah: Rui. He turned out to be the kind of human who didn’t look back.

We followed him down the tunnel, real easy guy to tail. No looking back, left behind an oniony breeze, and wore hard-soled shoes that clicked loudly with every step. Bernie wore old beat-up high-tops and hardly made a sound, and I, of course, was silent.

Rui led us down a ramp and into the parking lot, still practically empty. Bernie and I stepped behind the corner of a Dumpster. Dumpsters came up from time to time in our line of work, and I’ve got a story or two to tell about them, not now. I’ll just take a second to mention Dumpster smells: fascinating.

Meanwhile, Rui was on his way to a black limo, not far away, clickety click, clickety click. He opened the door, tossed the padded envelope inside, and got in. “Let’s go,” Bernie said, and we ran to the Porsche, also not far away but in the other direction. It might surprise you that over a short distance Bernie can run quite fast for a human, even with his bad leg. True, I was sitting tall in the shotgun seat by the time he reached the car—eyes on the limo, which was now almost at the exit—but I hadn’t been waiting long.

Bernie turned the key. Love the sound of our engine, low and rumbling, almost like some powerful creature, all set to burn rubber. What a smell that is! But this time we didn’t burn rubber, instead drove slowly across the lot. Way too slowly, in my opinion. The limo had left the lot, was no longer in sight. “One-way street,” Bernie said. “And the day I lose a stretch limo is the day I hang ’em up for good.” I batted that one around in my mind, so confusing, and let it go.

We left the lot, drove onto the street, and picked up the limo right away, waiting at a traffic light; all my worrying for no reason. My money’s on Bernie, always was, always will be, although I don’t actually have any money and neither does he. What was the latest problem with our finances? I got that feeling in my head when I come close to remembering.