Thereby Hangs a Tail (2 page)

“Never heard of it,” Bernie said.

“I’m surprised,” said the lieutenant. “There’s been a lot of publicity.” Bernie shrugged. I loved that shrug of his. If only I could do that! I gave it a try, but all that happened was the hair on my back stood up on end. “. . . coming to the Arena end of next week,” the lieutenant was saying. “Used to be in Denver, but the mayor lured them here.”

“Why?”

“For the money it’ll bring into the Valley, what else?”

“What money?”

“Hotel bookings, food and drink, all the tourist shit,” said Lieutenant Stine. “The flowers alone come to a quarter mill.”

“Flowers?” Bernie said.

“Exactly,” said the lieutenant. “The Great Western crowd is a certain class of people—happens to be the mayor’s favorite class, actually.”

“I thought he was the reform guy.”

“You’re not alone.”

“So what does he want me to do?” Bernie said, knocking back more bourbon. “Give the welcoming address?”

Lieutenant Stine laughed. There was something metallic in the sound; it gave me a bad feeling, deep inside my ears. “Not quite,” he said. “In fact, he didn’t single you out per se—it’s even possible he’s never heard of you, believe it or not—he just wants someone like you.”

“To do what?”

The lieutenant lowered his voice some more. “Bodyguard duty.”

“Nope.”

“Nope? Just like that?”

“We don’t do bodyguard duty.”

“What about the Junior Ramirez case?”

“That’s why.”

“This is different. First, it pays two grand a day. Second, next to a psychotic like Junior Ramirez, this client’s a walk in the park.” Lieutenant Stine laughed that metallic laugh again. “Just about literally,” he said.

“Two grand?” Bernie said.

“And a bonus at the end wouldn’t be a stretch.”

“Who’s the client?” Bernie said. And, despite my memories of guarding Junior Ramirez—especially that incident with the ice cream and the razor blade—I was glad. Our finances were a mess, and two grand was two grand, and a whole week of two grands was . . . well, I’ll leave that to you.

Lieutenant Stine reached into his jacket pocket, took out a photo.

“What’s this?” Bernie said.

“That’s her long name on the back,” the lieutenant said. “‘Kingsbury’s First Lady Belle.’ But for every day I think they call her Princess.”

“The client is a dog?”

I sat up. Bernie was gazing at the photo. I could see it, too. One of my guys was in the picture? Where? And then I spotted her: a tiny fluffball with huge dark eyes, reclining on a satin pillow. I knew satin pillows on account of Leda having had one, although it got chewed up in a kind of frenzy, the details of the episode not too clear in my mind. But that satin taste: so strange and interesting, a vivid memory. I glanced around the Dry Gulch bar: no satin in view.

“Not just any dog,” said Lieutenant Stine. “Princess is one of the top dogs in the country. She won best in show at Balmoral.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t know Balmoral? It’s on ESPN2 every year, Bernie—the biggest dog show in the country.”

“Never heard of it,” Bernie said.

Lieutenant Stine gave Bernie a sideways look. I’d seen other friends of Bernie’s do the same thing, Sergeant Torres at Missing Persons, for example, or Otis DeWayne, our weapons guy— but didn’t know what it meant. “So you don’t want the job?” the lieutenant said.

Job? What job? Making sure that a fluffball on a satin pillow stayed out of trouble? That was free money, not a job. Come on, Bernie.

“Who’s the owner?” Bernie said.

“Woman name of Adelina Borghese.”

“Where from?”

“Italy, I think. But she owns a spread over in Rio Loco.”

“Rio Loco?” Bernie said. “I’ll talk to her.”

The lieutenant nodded. “Knew you wouldn’t say no to that kind of green.”

The Hawaiian shirt man glanced over again.

Bernie’s eyebrows went a little jagged. “I’ll talk to her, that’s all. I can still say no.”

Lieutenant Stine went away. I polished off my steak tips, stretched out on those cool tiles, chilled out. What a life! The final chase through the warehouse ran pleasantly through my mind. And then again. After a while, I grew aware that the Hawaiian shirt guy had moved next to Bernie and struck up a conversation, at first about Hawaiian shirts, then about something else.

“What I run,” he was saying, “is what you might call a hedge fund for the little guy.”

“Little guy?” said Bernie.

“Not little in terms of intelligence or ability,” the Hawaiian shirt man added quickly. “But for one reason or another, men of distinction who don’t happen to be Wall Street insiders. I’ve had some nice play in commodities lately. You’re familiar with the basics of tin futures?”

Bernie motioned for another drink, overturning the salt and pepper. “Can’t be that complicated,” he said.

“Exactly,” replied the Hawaiian shirt man. And to the bartender when Bernie’s drink came: “I’ll get that.” Then came a lot of back and forth about tin, puts, calls, Bolivia, and other mysteries. My eyelids got heavy, way too heavy to keep open. I let them close, drifted off. Harmless talk was all it was. As long as the checkbook didn’t come out of Bernie’s pocket, we were in good shape.

Sometime later I awoke, feeling tip-top. I got up, gave myself a good shake, looked around. The bar was empty except for me, the bartender, the man in the Hawaiian shirt, and Bernie. The only completely sober one was me. Then came the bartender, the man in the Hawaiian shirt, and Bernie, dead last. Also, the checkbook was coming out.

TWO

I
n the old days, when Leda was still around, I used to sleep out in the front hall, my back against the door, on account of Leda not wanting me in the bedroom for some reason. Now I like to sleep at the foot of Bernie’s bed, on this nubbly rug we got at a yard sale, me and Bernie. Those nubbles feel great in a way that’s hard to describe. But on nights when Bernie snored—such as the night after our dinner at Dry Gulch—I moved back to the front door, which was why I heard a car pulling up outside just as the first light of day pushed in at the darkness.

I got up, went right to the tall, narrow window by the door, looked out. A limo was parked on the street, long and black. The driver, dressed in black, got out and opened a rear door. A blond woman got out. She wore black, too. Lots of blackness, all of a sudden. I started barking, not sure why. From next door came a high-pitched yip-yip-yip. Hey! Iggy was up. I barked louder. So did he. Iggy was a great pal. The fun we’d had, back before the electric fence guy had made a sale at Iggy’s place—I could tell you a story or two. Iggy had had trouble getting used to the electric fence, now stayed indoors most of the time. No electric fence at our place, mine and Bernie’s, of course. Bernie had grabbed the collar from the electric fence guy and walked right through the zapper, taking the shock, and had then shaken his head and sent the man on his way. Who needed an electric fence? I wasn’t the wandering type, except if it just so happened the back gate was open, or the smell of fox or javelina was in the air, or a strange car went down the street, or I picked up the sound of—

The woman in black was coming up the walk. She moved fast; the sun, popping up over the rooftops, glittered on her jewelry. That sparkly one on her finger—wow! Leda had a ring like that, but not nearly as big. Leda had
had
one like that, I should say. Just before the breakup with Bernie, there’d been a bad incident where I got blamed for losing the ring. Why would I want to bury a ring? Did I have even the slightest memory of ever doing anything remotely like that? No. My mind was absolutely guilt-free on that subject.

The woman leaned forward to press the bell, but it had stopped working sometime back and was on Bernie’s list of things to fix. Every so often the toolbox came out and he took a crack at shortening the list. Those were exciting days! That time the toaster blew up, for example, or when the toilet—

Knock knock. The woman in black had figured out about the bell, quicker than most. Something about the way she knocked rubbed me the wrong way. I barked again. Iggy picked up on me and did his yipping thing. The woman knocked harder, not a heavy knock, exactly, more a sharp ratta-tat-tat, like high heels on a polished floor. She spoke, and there was sharpness in her voice, too. “Anyone in there? Open up.”

I turned and ran down the hall, past Charlie’s room, empty, meaning this wasn’t every second weekend or Thanksgiving or whatever Bernie and Leda had agreed on lately, and into Bernie’s room. Bernie lay on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, the covers all twisted up. I smelled bourbon and cigarette smoke, plus the smell of Bernie when it was time for a shower.

I barked, but not too loud; the poor guy. I knew what he needed, had seen the whole routine plenty of times—a lot more sleep, then Advil, coffee, cold wet towel on his forehead. Knock knock knock. There wasn’t time for any of that. I barked again, louder this time.

“Uh,” said Bernie, his voice weak. “Gah.”

I moved to the side of the bed, pulled at a corner of the sheet. From down inside the twisted covers, Bernie pulled back. Bernie was a big, strong guy, but not at the moment. I ripped the sheets right off him.

Bernie, arm still over his face, groaned, “Chet, what the hell?”

Somehow I’d got all tangled in the covers. I couldn’t see—and that’s a thing I hate. I struggled, clawed, rolled around—nearby something came crashing down on the floor—and burst free at last. Bernie was sitting up now, one eye open. It had turned red overnight.

“Sleep,” he said, his voice a bit stronger now, maybe what you’d call a croak. “I need more—”

Knock knock knock.

Bernie’s other eye opened, this one even redder. “What?” he said. And then: “Who?”

I barked.

“Someone’s at the door?” He turned to the bedside clock, maybe a painful movement because he winced and said, “Ow.” Then he squinted at the clock, rubbed his eyes, squinted again. “But it’s only—”

Knock knock knock knock—and even more knocks. That sharp ratta-tat-tat was driving me crazy, and maybe Bernie, too. He put a hand to his head, rose, leaning sideways slightly as though the room was spinning in the other direction, and staggered into the bathroom. Then came peeing sounds—which reminded me I had to go too, in fact, pretty soon—running-water sounds, and the interesting clitter-clatter that happens when a bottle of pills gets spilled. Not long after that—and meanwhile more knocking, plus Iggy’s muffled yipping—Bernie emerged wearing his polka-dot bathrobe, face scrubbed and hair combed, except for a small stick-out hornlike thing on one side, not very noticeable. Then, holding the robe together with one hand—the belt, I remembered, had been part of a fun tug-of-war game we’d played on Charlie’s last visit, me, Charlie, and Bernie ending up in a heap on the floor (but I had the belt, meaning I was the winner, right? Wasn’t that the point of tug-of-war?)—then—where was I?—oh, yeah: Bernie moved toward the front door.

Knock knock knock. “Christ Almighty,” Bernie said. “I’m coming.” He turned the knob and pulled—maybe more forcefully than he’d intended—flinging the door open; Bernie lost his grip and the knob thumped hard against the wall. At the same time, he also lost his grip on the polka-dot robe, which fell open.

The blond woman’s eyes, pale green, I thought, but don’t take my word for it—Bernie says I’m not too good with colors— dipped down, widened very slightly, then rose up and took in Bernie’s face, her eyes now narrowing fast. “Perhaps I’ve made a mistake,” she said. Once on the Discovery Channel Bernie and I watched a show about polar bears—hoo, boy—and there’d been this picture of a long, pointy icicle, slowly dripping. No icicles in the Valley, of course, but for some reason, the sound of the blond woman’s voice made me think of that picture. Funny how the mind works.

Meanwhile, Bernie was blinking and saying, “Um.”

“I was looking for a private detective named Bernie Little,” the woman said.

“Bingo,” said Bernie.

“I beg your pardon?” the woman said.

“Meaning you found him. Me. I’m Bernie Little. And this”— he turned and gestured at me, polka-dot robe opening again, but only for a moment—“is Chet.” She gave me a look, actually quite a careful one. My tail started wagging. “What can I do for you?” Bernie said.

“I’m Adelina Borghese,” the woman said.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Bernie, extending his hand. Adelina Borghese’s hand remained at her side.

“Didn’t that policeman mention me?” she said. “I thought this was all set up.”

“Ah,” said Bernie. “The client with the ridic—” He stopped himself. “Uh, come in. Please. The office is—” He motioned down the hall. Adelina’s gaze followed the movement, paused on a pair of boxers lying on the floor. Bernie noticed. “Um, on vacation,” he said. “The maid.”

We had a maid? So many things I liked about Bernie, and that was just one of them: you learned something new every day. But no time to think about that now. I bolted outside, raced to the rock at the end of the driveway, and lifted my leg. At the same time, I heard that yip-yip-yip, and, leg still up, turned my head— I can turn it practically right around backward if I have to—and there was Iggy at his window. Good to see Iggy, but—uh-oh, what was that? He was lifting his leg, too.