Dog On It (31 page)

“Everything you’re doing now will only make it worse for you in the end,” Bernie said.

“I have no need for the like of you to do my thinking,” Mr. Gulagov said. “I hope you are smart enough to know I always take
the necessary action, take it quickly and with no regret.” A drop of blood appeared on Maddy’s neck.

Bernie dropped the guns.

“Now free Olga,” said Mr. Gulagov.

Bernie turned and, as he turned, shot me a quick look. Mr. Gulagov’s eyes were still on Bernie, hadn’t left him. Bernie took a step back into the mine and, in a low voice, almost inaudible even to me, said, “Go.”

Did I hesitate? That wouldn’t have been me. I took a huge spring, my hugest ever, leaping right over Maddy’s head. Mr. Gulagov’s gaze, a bit late, swung over from Bernie to me, and filled with fear. Yes, he was scared of me and my kind—I’d known that all along—and his fear took over. He forgot about Maddy, thought only of survival, and slashed at me with the razor. I felt the blade rip through the tip of my ear, and then I was on him, knocking him backward to the ground, the razor falling from his hand. After that came a cloud of dust, me rolling in the dirt, Mr. Gulagov fumbling for the razor. He got a grip on the handle. I got ready to lunge. And then Bernie stepped in front of me, in one motion sweeping up Maddy and stamping on Mr. Gulagov’s hand. I heard a cracking sound, and Mr. Gulagov cried out in pain. That confused look I’d seen in Harold’s eyes? Now Mr. Gulagov’s had it, too. Bernie kicked the razor away.

At that moment I became aware that Ms. Larapova had run out of the house. She jumped in the BMW and started driving away. Cars were coming from the other direction, one of them Suzie’s, the rest with flashing lights on top. With all that going on, and Maddy sobbing in his arms, Bernie took his eye off Mr. Gulagov. That was where partnership came in. Mr. Gulagov began to wriggle away, toward the mine. What was he planning now? No idea. I grabbed him by the pant leg. Case closed.

* * *

The worst thing that happened after that was on the ride back, when Maddy begged Bernie to keep her father out of the story and Bernie had to tell her no. The best thing was seeing Cynthia’s face when we brought her daughter home—seeing both their faces, actually. The second best thing was the box of high-end treats Simon Berg, Cynthia’s boyfriend, sent from Rover and Company. Two UPS guys could barely carry it up to our door. Also good was the big check Simon cut, big enough for Bernie to buy the Porsche from Nixon Panero—even older and more beat up than the one we’d lost, muddy brown in color, except for the doors, which were yellow—and still have some left over for straightening out our finances, at least a bit. Rick Torres brought Bernie a bottle of bourbon and said he was sorry. He and Bernie emptied the whole thing in one sitting. When it got to looking like they were about to crack open another and maybe even start into a bit of arm wrestling, I went to bed.

What else? Metro PD collared most of Gulagov’s gang. Anatoly Bulganin got picked up at the airport, trying to catch a flight to Russia. Boris spent time in the hospital on his way to jail. The DA slapped conspiracy charges on Damon Keefer, and no one went his bail. Keefer broke down in front of the judge, said he hadn’t realized the kind of people he was dealing with, loved Maddy more than anything, had tried his hardest to raise the money to pay back Gulagov, had only needed a little more time. The judge was not impressed. Then there was Harold. Harold cut a deal and walked. Bernie let him know that remaining in the state or ever returning would be bad ideas. We dropped in on Mr. Singh for the watch and some curried lamb. I lost the tip of one ear, but mismatched ears are no big deal, in my opinion—have I mentioned that already? We took a long walk together, me and Bernie.

The monsoons came—I’d forgotten all about them!—and put Bernie in a very good mood. One night we went camping, backyard-style: me, Bernie, Charlie, and Suzie. She came over quite a bit, but don’t ask me exactly what was going on with that. At times when she was around, I caught a careful look in Bernie’s eyes; other times something else. On this particular night, we built a fire, roasted hot dogs—Hebrew National, my favorite—and Bernie brought out the ukulele. He taught Charlie to play it a little. More than a little, in my mind—the kid was a musical genius. They sang “Up a Lazy River” and “When It’s Sleepy Time Down South.” I joined in on “Hey, Bo Diddley.” Soon after that, Suzie left, and Bernie said, “’Night, big guy,” and Charlie gave me a pat, and they went into the tent to sleep.

I lay by the fire, watching it slowly die. I could watch fires forever. The night grew quiet, quiet as it ever gets in the Valley. I was falling asleep myself when all at once I heard the she-bark. And not just the she-bark but the she-bark sounding closer than before, much closer. Was that wishful thinking—an expression I’d heard Bernie use from time to time—on my part? Couldn’t tell you. It was just the way I think, that’s all. I rose, ran to the back fence, and leaped over, soaring into the night.

Many thanks to my editor, Peter Borland, and my agent, Molly Friedrich.