Thereby Hangs a Tail (31 page)

“One little problem,” Bernie said. “Rui’s had two chances to see the car—at our place and at the strip, so we can’t count on—” At that moment a van swerved over from the next lane and got in front of us. Normally Bernie doesn’t like that one little bit, sometimes honks the horn, a sound I can’t stand. But not this time. This time he said, “Thanks, buddy.”

We shadowed the limo, with the van in between, and sometimes other cars as well. Kind of tricky, with all the traffic lights, but Bernie’s a real good driver, if I haven’t mentioned that already. After a while, the limo took a freeway ramp, and so did we. Stop-and-go traffic on the freeway, the limo a few cars ahead in the next lane, Bernie’s hands relaxed on the wheel, not usually the case in stop-and-go. Once in a stop-and-go situation this huge trucker had shaken his fist at Bernie: big mistake, buddy boy.

We rode away from downtown, passed the giant longhorn bull sign, got onto another freeway, even more packed than the first one. “They’re talking another million people in the next ten years,” Bernie said. “See where this is headed?” I had no clue. The sun was setting. Everything, including Bernie’s face, got red and hazy. “Only one aquifer for the whole valley,” he said. “When that dries up, we die of thirst, end of story.” Oh, no. That was scary, especially with Bernie’s hazy red face. I got thirsty right away.

Traffic thinned out. Night fell, a hazy night in the Valley, but clear once we climbed into the hills. The limo had big red taillights, easy to see. On the far side of the hills, the limo slowed and pulled into a gas station. “Check those prices,” Bernie said, voice low. “No limo driver gasses up at a place like this.”

Did I know what Bernie was getting at? Not at all, but no problem: he had his job and I had mine. The limo went by the pumps and around to the side of the building where it was all shadowy. Bernie cut the lights and kept going, parking by a tow truck in a dark corner of the lot. From there we had a good view of the limo, building, pumps, everything.

At first, nothing happened. Then the window of the limo slid down and cigarette smoke came drifting out, and almost at once I could smell it. Bernie got fidgety, reached toward the glove box— forgotten cigarettes sometimes lay crumpled up in the back—and stopped himself. After that we just sat still, watching the cigarette smoke rising in tiny clouds. Hard to beat this, me and Bernie on a stakeout, although exactly why we were running a stakeout on Rui the limo driver with the bad guys already in the can wasn’t clear.

All of a sudden a bright light shot across the sky. The sight made Bernie smile. “Shooting star,” he said. “Not a star at all, of course,” he added, losing me right away. And a while later: “Number of stars in the Milky Way Galaxy—two hundred billion, give or take. Number of galaxies in the universe—at least a hundred billion. See what this means?” No one can be expected to make sense all the time, especially on long stakeouts. I was about to put a paw on Bernie’s knee when a dusty SUV appeared, driving past the pumps and around the building, where it parked cop-style beside the limo, driver’s door to driver’s door. Rui wasn’t a cop: that was my first thought; and only.

The SUV driver’s window slid down. A hand reached out. Rui’s window slid down a little more and I caught a glimpse of him, cigarette glowing between his lips. He laid the big padded envelope on the waiting hand. The windows rose; the limo and the SUV started up and headed toward the road, limo going one way, SUV the other. We tailed the SUV, Bernie’s decision, but I agreed: who was in there?

The SUV wound down through the hills on the other side of the Valley. Bernie kept a few cars between us at all times, but then the SUV turned onto a back road, paved but narrow, with no traffic at all, and Bernie cut the lights. No problem for me: I could still see fine, but Bernie leaned forward, squinting, and his hands gripped tight on the wheel. The SUV seemed to be pushing a cone of light through the darkness; just a little light in all the great big darkness, and we were part of that darkness. That made me sneeze for some reason, and then I felt great, wide awake and rarin’ to go.

After not too long, the lights of a town glowed off to one side. “Nowhereville,” said Bernie. The SUV came to a crossroads, headed toward Nowhereville, with us in the darkness behind. A few houses appeared by the side of the road. The SUV slowed and swung into the driveway of one of them. Bernie pulled over and stopped, switching off the engine. It got real quiet. I heard a door close, and then a light went on in the house with the SUV.

We got out of the car, walked along the side of the road, entered the driveway, Bernie glancing inside the SUV on the way by. The pavement felt warm beneath my paws, but the backyard was cooler, hard-packed, scrubby. Light shone in a window at the back of the house. We crept up to it—Bernie crouching, me at my normal height—and peered over the sill.

Beyond the glass—cold against my nose—lay a kitchen. A man sat at the table, sideways to us. He opened the big padded envelope, took out wads of cash, and began counting, his lips moving silently. A lean man with pale eyes and a cowboy hat: I’d already gotten to know him a bit—Earl Ford, sheriff of Rio Loco County.

TWENTY-NINE

W
ads of cash, and the counting took a long time. After a while, Sheriff Ford squirmed in his chair a bit, like he was uncomfortable, and took off his gun belt. He laid it on the table, went back to counting. I got bored and glanced at Bernie. His face was hard. He didn’t look at me, only laid his hand on my back, very light. That meant: get ready. But of course I was ready already, just not sure for what.

Bernie took his hand away and drew our .38 Special from his waistband. The .38 Special meant business. I felt the hairs standing up on the back of my neck, a real good feeling. Bernie rose, slow and calm. We’d taken down a lot of bad guys, starting in ways like this. But a sheriff was a kind of cop, right? And so—

I hadn’t gotten any further than that when the sheriff suddenly glanced up at the window. His eyes opened wide, mouth, too. At almost the same time, his hand darted toward the gun belt. Bang. Smash. Bernie fired through the glass. The gun belt shot off the table and fell to the floor. Bernie’s a crack shot: I know I’ve mentioned that, but maybe you didn’t believe me. Nickels spinning in the air—I’ve seen him drill a whole bunch, ping ping ping, just the two of us out in the desert, having fun.

But no time for that now. Earl Ford dove for the gun belt. Bernie kicked out the window and we both leaped through, me first. All this action, plus gunplay and shattering glass: who could ask for more? Not this dude, amigo.

The sheriff turned out to be pretty quick, grabbing the gun belt, rolling over and ripping off one shot—CRACK, louder than the .38 Special—the gun still in the holster but the muzzle sticking out, before I was on him. I got his wrist, made him drop the gun belt, heard a real scary growl, realized it was coming from me. Earl Ford cried out in pain and fear, and I had no problem with that: I could smell him now and he had the bad guy smell and lots of it. I looked at Bernie, expecting him to be right beside me with the .38 Special, and—oh, no. Bernie, still only partway across the kitchen, was slowly sinking to the floor, the .38 Special loose in his hand, and blood coming from one side of his head.

I forgot everything I was doing and ran to him. Oh, Bernie! He was on his knees. I started licking at the blood, trying to make everything all better. “No, Chet,” he said, leaning away from me, feeling his head. “Grazed me, that’s all.”

Then came more commotion from behind. I swung around and there was the sheriff, grabbing the gun belt again, whipping out the gun. What had I done? I got ready to spring, but way too late. The sheriff aimed right at Bernie. Up came the .38 Special. Bernie shot first. The sheriff staggered backward and dropped his own gun. A red hole appeared high up on the inside of his gun arm. He didn’t make a sound, only gazed down at the wound, and as he did red came spurting out, a little spurt, and then another. “Oh, God,” he said, clamping down on the wound with his other hand. Blood leaked out from between his fingers, dripped down on the wads of cash. He looked up at Bernie, now rising to his feet. “Help me, man,” he said. “I’m gonna bleed out.”

“Then you’ll have to talk fast,” Bernie said. “Where’s Suzie Sanchez?”

Earl Ford was turning white, blood trickling from his arm. Bernie was bleeding, too. I got a real bad feeling, but what to do? The next thing I knew I was barking.

“Letting me die?” the sheriff said.

“Up to you,” said Bernie. And then, “Easy, boy.” I went quiet.

The sheriff sat in the chair, landing hard, like his legs had given out beneath him. He kept pressing on the wound, but it did no good. “Can’t stop this by myself,” he said. “What kind of man are you?”

Bernie stuck the .38 Special in his waistband, went to the sink, tore a strip off a dish towel. “Where is Suzie Sanchez?” he said.

“Jesus Christ,” said the sheriff. His voice got high and small, like a whimper.

“You live or die,” Bernie said. “Your call.”

The sheriff licked his lips, his tongue bone white. “She’s dead.”

Bernie’s face, so hard already, hardened some more. He almost didn’t even look like Bernie now. “Who killed her?”

“I don’t know.”

Bernie dropped the strip of dishrag on the counter.

The sheriff ’s gaze switched to it. “I swear I don’t know,” he said. “I swear on my mother’s memory.”

“Didn’t know her,” Bernie said.

The sheriff gazed at Bernie. Those pale eyes, so tough and full of rage: but all of a sudden they changed completely and tears rolled out. I kind of understood what was going on, had seen and been part of a lot of one-on-ones in my world, the nation within the nation. Humans had an expression for this, an expression I understood pretty well: top dog.

“Don’t know who killed her,” Earl Ford said. “She was already dead by the time we got to Clauson’s Wells.”

“Is that where the body is?”

“But I had nothing to do with it.”

Bernie was silent for a moment. Then he said something that made me feel cold all over. “Here’s a nasty thought—I could put a slug in your other arm.”

The sheriff spoke quickly. “Les took care of all that, the body and so forth. But I can show you.”

Bernie stood motionless by the sink, his eyes on Earl Ford.

Blood all over the place now—the money, the table, dripping over the edge and onto the floor. Bernie picked up the dishrag strip, crossed the room, and tied it tight above the wound. At the same time, he looked the sheriff in the eye. “This comes off just as fast—remember that,” he said. Bernie swept up most of the bloody money, stuffed it back in the padded envelope, and said, “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Clauson’s Wells.”

“But what about my arm? I know a doc just down the road.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Bernie said. “Trust me.” He dabbed at the side of his head with his sleeve, checked it: hardly any blood at all; his own bleeding had almost stopped. He took the sheriff by the back of his collar and lifted him to his feet. “That SUV an automatic?”

The sheriff nodded. “Why?”

“You’re driving.”

The sheriff drove, although Bernie, in the shotgun seat, had to turn the key. I rode in back with the padded envelope. No problem, not being in the shotgun seat myself, hardly any problem at all. I could do this. Lots of room in the backseat, couldn’t complain about that, and what was this, wedged under the armrest? A flip-top box, the kind fast food burgers came in? Fast food: one of the greatest human inventions. Humans could rock sometimes, for sure. But I wasn’t thinking about all that in the backseat of the sheriff ’s SUV, too busy flipping open the flip top, and there, inside, a nice grayish burger, no bun, with only a bite or two missing. A moment later: no burger at all. Very tasty; at the same time, eating it made me realize how hungry I was, kind of strange how that works. I sniffed around for more burger—more anything in the food department—detected none.

Meanwhile, there was talking in the front seat. “Start with the money,” Bernie said. “Payment for something you already did or that you’re going to?”