Thereby Hangs a Tail (24 page)

After a only few moments, we’d caught up, were right on their tail—just a way of talking we have in the PI business, since of course there was no real tail around except for mine—but then the RV sped up some more and opened a bit of a gap. Bernie laughed. “Planning to lose us in that rattletrap?” Hey! Was this a chase? Loved chases. Bernie stepped on the gas and then we were right behind them again. The RV went faster, jerking and shaking now. A bicycle came loose and fell off the side, and then a propane tank. It hit the track and bounced right over us, not missing by much.

“Enough,” said Bernie. He swung out, shot past the RV, held up his hand, and pointed sideways. The RV slowed and pulled over. Bernie circled back, parked in front of it, nose to nose. Crash and Disco stared down at us from the cab; my buddies— they’d given me water and Slim Jims—but they didn’t look happy to see me.

“Hippies?” Bernie said, gazing up at them. His hand moved toward the glove box, like he was going for the .38 Special, but he hesitated, ended up leaving the glove box unopened. “Desert’s crawling with hippies,” he said. “Why is that?” He lost me there—were we going to get Crash and Disco to crawl around on the ground? Sounded like a fun idea. I hopped right out. Bernie got out, too, and we closed in on the RV, Bernie on one side, me on the other, the way we’d practiced so many times. Practice was great—it almost always ended with a treat—but I’ll have to go into that later.

TWENTY-TWO

T
he side windows of the cab rolled down. Right away I smelled sweat, leather, pot, toe jam. Disco, wearing a bandanna covered with stars, looked down at me—no, not friendly at all, what was up with that?—and turned away. Disco, who’d given me Slim Jims, and what else had we done together? Couldn’t remember at the moment. I stood up, front paws on the RV door so I could look through the open window; hated not seeing what was going on. My buddy Disco shrank away from me.

“Mind switching that off?” Bernie said.

“You referrin’ to Iron Butterfly?” said Crash, behind the wheel.

“Got it on the first try,” said Bernie.

“He wants us to lose the music?” Disco said.

“Seems like it,” said Crash.

“How come, bud?” said Disco. “You don’t dig ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’?”

“I’m crazy about it,” Bernie said. “But we’ll have a better talk without the distraction. And probably best if you guys step outside.”

“You a cop or somethin’?” Crash said.

Bernie flashed his badge. “Cooperating with them,” he said, his usual answer, beyond me—and I kind of think beyond most of the humans who’d ever been on the receiving end. But I loved when the badge came out. Bernie was a deputy—honorary, whatever that meant, but something good, better than a normal deputy— in a little town down across the Mexican border where we’d helped clear a case involving stolen tequila. Bernie’s hangover the next day: let’s say my head ached just looking at him and leave it at that. But they’d sent two badges, so I was an honorary deputy, too, even if my badge had gotten a bit chewed up somewhere along the line.

Bernie tucked the badge away.

“What do you want with us?” Crash said.

“We weren’t botherin’ nobody,” said Disco.

“Who said you were?” said Bernie. “Just a couple quick questions and you can be on your way.”

“What questions?” Crash said.

“Yeah,” said Disco. “What questions?”

“Concerning an investigation,” Bernie said. “Hop out and we’ll clear it all up.”

Crash and Disco glanced at each other.

“Uh,” said Disco.

“We’re in kind of a hurry,” said Crash.

“Big hurry,” Disco said.

“Yeah?” said Bernie. “Where you headed?”

“No place,” said Disco.

“No place
in particular,
” Crash added.

“Then time’s not really a factor, is it?” said Bernie.

“Um,” said Disco.

“And just to head off any misunderstanding,” Bernie said, “this investigation has nothing to do with weed.”

“No?” said Crash.

“Or any other substance, legal or not.”

“In that case . . .” Crash opened his door and climbed out.

Disco turned toward the handle of his door, saw me, up close and personal. “How am I sposta get out with the fuckin’ dog leanin’ in like this?”

“Language,” said Bernie.

“Huh?”

“His name’s Chet,” Bernie said.

“Huh?”

“Say—how am I sposta get out with Chet leanin’ in like this.”

“Huh?”

“Say it,” Bernie said, his voice pleasant, the look he was giving Disco anything but. “No sense in getting off on the wrong foot.”

Disco said it the way Bernie wanted.

“See how easy that was?” said Bernie. “Chet?” he said. “If you please.”

I dropped down on all fours, backed away from the door. “‘If you please’?” said Disco. “Like, to a dog?” He opened the door and stepped out.

“Probably as good a place to start as any,” Bernie said. “With Chet, here.” He motioned for Disco, and Disco walked around to the other side of the RV. I followed. We stood on the Old Trading Post Highway, me and Bernie facing Crash and Disco. “How come you know him?” Bernie said.

“Know who?” said Disco.

“Believe he’s talkin’ about the dog,” Crash said.

“This dog right here? Never seen him before.”

“Me neither.”

“That’s funny,” Bernie said. “He knows you.”

“What do you mean, he knows us?” Crash said. “You can read his mind or somethin’?”

Disco laughed and slapped his thigh. “That’s a good one.”

“Not only that,” said Bernie, “but he likes you.”

Disco and Crash looked at me. I wagged my tail; not a lot: I was starting not to like them so much, no idea why.

“See?” said Bernie. “So let’s not spoil it.”

“Maybe he likes us—” Crash began.

“Dogs always like us,” Disco said. “Hell, all animals do— remember that mule down at Arrowhead Junction?”

“—but that don’t mean we know him,” Crash said. “’Cause we don’t.”

Bernie gazed at them for a long moment. “Happened to notice a couple Slim Jims on the console in your rig.” He had? And I’d missed them? How was that possible? “I’m going to take a wild guess that you guys shared a Slim Jim or two with Chet.”

“You’d be wrong,” Crash said.

“Yeah,” said Disco. “So how much you wanna bet?”

“Wouldn’t have taken you for a betting man,” Bernie said.

“That an insult?” said Disco.

Bernie smiled. “Let’s bet.”

“Yeah? Like what?” said Crash.

“If you win,” Bernie said, “we go away and stop bothering you.”

“Sounds good,” Crash said.

“If you lose, we get the Slim Jims,” Bernie said. “And you have to destroy the Iron Butterfly CD.”

“No way,” Disco said.

“Then just the Slim Jims,” Bernie said.

“You’re on,” said Disco.

“So hit the road,” Crash said. “You lose. We ain’t never seen this dog before.”

“Have to prove that,” Bernie said.

“Prove?” said Crash. “No one said anything about prove.”

“How are we gonna do that?” Disco said.

“The difficulty of proving a negative?” Bernie said. “You’ve got a point.”

“Damn straight I do.”

“So we’ll have to work on this together,” Bernie said. Disco and Crash both had their mouths hanging open, kind of loose, always a good sign for us, although apart from that and the promise of Slim Jims coming soon, I wasn’t too sure what was going on. But I did notice one interesting thing: way in the back part of their mouths, Crash and Disco were both missing teeth, lots of them. For some reason that made my own mouth feel weird for a moment or two. Life could be strange.

“Work on this together?” said Crash.

“What the hell does that even mean?” said Disco.

“Let’s start with Clauson’s Wells,” Bernie said.

“The ghost town?” said Disco. “What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?”

Eggs? What was on Disco’s mind? Some combination of eggs and Slim Jims? That would sure taste great. I loved eggs, had one every day, mixed in with my morning kibble. For my coat, Bernie said, but no matter how hungry I might be I’m a pretty careful eater, never slobber anything on my coat, so I’d never really understood the whole egg and coat thing.

“Clauson’s Wells was where Chet and I got separated,” Bernie said.

“So?” said Disco.

“So it would be interesting to know the last time you guys were there.”

“Never,” said Disco. “Never in our goddamn lives.”

“What’s the closest you’ve come?”

“To Clauson’s Wells?” said Crash.

Bernie nodded.

Disco scrunched up his eyes, something certain humans did when they were trying to think really hard. “Asides from right here, Red Butte, I guess.”

Crash elbowed him in the ribs. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“Ooof,” said Disco. And then, straightening up, “Red Butte, for Chrissake, where we park the goddamn—” Disco saw that Crash was glaring at him and cut himself off, clamping his mouth shut.

“Red Butte?” Bernie said. “Think I’ve seen it on the map.”

“Don’t know about no maps,” said Crash. Disco, lips pressed tight together, shook his head.

“One of those isolated buttes,” Bernie said, “sticking up all by itself.” Yes: I could see it, all red in the sunset, with the little red glare at the bottom. “My memory makes it thirty or forty miles northeast of Clauson’s Wells.”

“Whatever,” said Crash.

“Thirty or forty miles,” Bernie said, turning to Disco. “That’s doable for Chet.”

Disco shrugged.

Bernie took a step toward him. “What’s the matter?” he said. “Cat got your tongue?”

Say what? Cats? Bernie? He’d never mentioned cats before, not once. Everything had been going along so smoothly and now this. I curled my own tongue deep inside my mouth, safe from the short but sharp and nasty teeth I’d learned about on a cat-chasing adventure or two that hadn’t ended well.

“No problem,” Bernie said. “I’ve got a good map in the car. We’ll figure this out in no—”

He turned, looked down the Old Trading Post Highway. A car—no, a pickup—was coming, shimmering the way things sometimes shimmered in the desert, engine noise already loud and clear. And somehow Bernie had noticed first! Cats did bad things to me.

We all watched the pickup. It drew closer: a dirty white pickup moving fast, then slower, finally stopping right beside us, dust swirling around. That pickup looked familiar. The door opened and a big guy with long hair and a bushy beard got out. I knew him, too. The big guy was all red in the face, looked mad about something. He strode over to Crash and Disco—didn’t seem to notice me and Bernie at all—and said, “Where the fuck have you assholes been? I want my money back. A hundred and seventy-five bucks, right now.” He held out his hand.

Disco began shaking his head very fast.

“No?” said the big guy. “You’re telling me no?” He was wearing a T-shirt; the muscles in his arms—huge ones—started twitching. One of his eyes twitched, too. I remembered that from before.

“Easy now, Thurman,” Crash said. “We got company.” Crash’s eyes slid in the direction of me and Bernie.

Thurman turned toward us, his glance passing quickly over Bernie, settling on me. His face got even redder. “The fuckin’ dog,” he said.

Talking to Crash and Disco, Bernie had been smiling quite a bit, but now he wasn’t. He turned to Thurman. “His name’s Chet.”

“Huh?” Thurman said. “They’re tryna sell him to you now? What a scam.”

“Chill, Thurman,” said Crash. “You’re gonna screw up the whole—”

“No one tells me to chill,” Thurman said. And all at once he took a big roundhouse swing at Crash. I wouldn’t have thought Crash capable of moving real fast, but he was. He ducked, just like that, almost quicker than I could see. I’ve only had one encounter with a duck, and it didn’t duck at all, attacked me, in fact, so I don’t get the ducking thing; but that’s another story. Thurman swung. Crash ducked. And Thurman’s huge fist caught Disco square on the chin. He toppled over and lay still.

Thurman moved on Crash. Crash backed away, ending up against the RV, no place to go. “A hundred and seventy-five bucks or you’re next,” he said.

“Don’t have that kind of bread right now,” Crash said. “And this is a real bad time for you to—”

“Then I’m takin’ the dog,” Thurman said. He wheeled around toward me. I growled. I hated the choke chain and never forgot things like that.

“Not an option,” Bernie said.

Thurman faced Bernie. “You stay out of this,” he said. “The dog’s bought and paid for.”

Bernie moved slightly, stepping between me and Thurman. “When did this happen?” he said.

“None of your business. Take my word for it.”

“And where?”

“Don’t hear too good, do you, pal?” said Thurman.

“Anywhere near Red Butte, by any chance?” Bernie said.

“You lookin’ for trouble?” Thurman’s eye twitch got going.

“Trouble’s already here,” Bernie said. “Now the only question is how it gets handled.”

Down on the ground, Disco moaned and began to stir.

“You’ll get handled, you don’t get out of my way,” said Thurman.

Bernie didn’t budge. “And I hear just fine, by the way,” he said. Huh? Bernie really thought that? “Sharp enough to pick up the sound of a loser.”