Wish You Were Here (13 page)

‘Bet you're surprised to see me here, kid,' said Hernan.

‘No, not particularly. Why?'

- And that was another thing; seventeen years Hernan Piranha had been calling him ‘kid', and only last week he'd found out that the sonofabitch was actually three weeks younger than he was. At the time, he'd merely requisitioned another propane torch and barrelful of six-inch nails for the customised Hell he'd been designing for Hernan since the first day they'd met. Here and now, he felt a more immediate response was called for. Like calling him ‘gramps' or something equally mordant.

‘Because I don't usually hide under rocks in picturesque valleys is why, Cal. Or hadn't you noticed?'

Calvin smiled warmly. ‘Jesus, Hernan, you know I'd never question your judgement on anything. If hiding under rocks is the right thing for you just now, then go for it.' He turned up the smile a volt or so, in his mind imagining those extra volts added to an already plentiful supply going up into the seat of Hernan's trousers from the electrodes of Old Sparky. ‘I know you never do anything without a darned good reason,' he added. ‘Oh, did Niedermeyers call back about that railroad thing?'

Herman shook his head, not even bothering with an old ploy like that. For the first six years of their association, Calvin had managed to keep Hernan permanently twitching by asking him throwaway questions about entirely non-existent cases. The way in which Hernan ignored the question convinced Calvin of one thing, at least; this was his partner, in person, and not just some jerk from an agency made up to look like him.

But Piranha, damn him, was grinning all over his overfed-Chinese-god face. ‘Admit it, Cal,' he said, ‘you're just burning up inside to know what I'm doing here. But you're such a stubborn old cuss, you'll never ask in a million years. Am I right?'

‘You go ahead and tell me, if it'll make you feel better. You know, it often does help to talk about these things.'

‘Yeah. Well—'

‘And you know, Hernan,' Dieb pressed on ruthlessly, ‘that whatever happens, I'll always be here for you. Whatever happens.'

‘Sure, Cal,' Piranha replied, eyes twinkling. ‘With a knife up one sleeve and a sharpened stick behind your back, you old coyote. But it so happens that today,
I'm
here for
you
.'

‘That's good to know, Hernan.'

‘Because,' Hernan continued, holding up something small and shiny, ‘I know you want these.'

The car keys, goddamnit!
For a split second Calvin Dieb lost his cool, and grabbed. By the time his hand had moved the eighteen inches separating his fingertips from the keys, they'd vanished. Not that Hernan had perceptibly moved; his hand just wasn't there any more.

‘Perhaps it'd help,' he said, ‘if you thought of me as Jacob Marley.'

Thirty-two feet per second per second; eventually the penny dropped. When it did, Calvin Dieb took a step back, crossed his arms and said, ‘Actually, I preferred you when you were an otter.'

Piranha shook his head, and turned into a beautiful young girl with hair the colour of freshly laid Tarmac. ‘Took you long enough,' she said. ‘I thought you lawyers were supposed to be smarter than that.'

‘I was humouring you,' Dieb replied as best he could. ‘Can I have my keys now, please?'

The girl shook her head, so that her hair swung. ‘Nope,' she said, sitting down on a rock and crossing her knees. ‘Here, come and sit beside me.' She patted the rock beside her and smiled a dazzling smile.

‘You can forget that, by the way,' Dieb said, doing so. ‘Now that I've seen you as Hernan, there's no way it's going to work. So, you're gonna Scrooge me, are you? Well, you're welcome to try, but as your legal adviser I have to tell you, you're wasting your time.'

‘Not my time,' replied the girl sweetly. ‘Yours. Your time, which costs two thousand dollars an hour. If I were you, Mr Dieb, I'd co-operate.'

Dieb shrugged. ‘OK,' he said, ‘I'll co-operate. What've I got to do?'

‘Find your car keys,' the girl said. ‘That's all. A smart guy like you ought to be able to manage something simple like that. Hey, do you know that talking to you in your office for
one second
costs fifty-five cents? I mean, what can you possibly tell me in one second that's worth as much as a pint of milk or a game of pinball?'

‘Easy,' Dieb replied wearily. ‘In one second I can tell youYes, or No. My yes or no could make you a fortune or save you millions. More to the point, whoever you are, what can
you
do in a second that's worth - oh shit, no, I didn't mean that—'

‘Oh yes you did.'

‘No, please, forget I—'

You could have skewered chunks of barbecued lamb on the look in the girl's eyes. ‘One second, Mister Dieb? You wanna see what I can do in one second?'

‘No,' Dieb replied with uncharacteristic honesty.

‘Tough. You ready?
Now
. . .'

 

One second later, Calvin Dieb opened his eyes, to find himself surrounded by bears.

Funny what a few hours can do to a man. Earlier that morning, if you'd offered him a choice of being surrounded by bears or having lunch with his ex-wife, he'd have chosen the bears so fast you'd scarcely have seen his lips move. Now, however, he'd have welcomed Thelma with open arms. For one thing, she'd scare off the bears.

Jesus, he made a mental note, but they're
big
fuckers. And how come they've got such big, sharp teeth? All his life, Calvin Dieb had lumped bears together with cashmere scarves and English tea and detective stories where the little old lady solves the mystery before the cops have even taken their hats off, all falling into the category of soft, cuddly things that you can only afford if you're hard and mean, really. Hard, mean bears were something entirely outside his experience; and something told him that these were seven hard, mean bears.

Hungry, too, by the look of them.

‘Help?' he suggested, looking round for the girl. But she wasn't there. For all he knew, she was one of these goddamn wild animals. Not that the thought was comforting; rather, the reverse.

‘There now,' he muttered. ‘Good bears.'

The second largest bear growled at him; a low, rumbling noise like some horrible machine. Its eyes were small, circular and hostile, and it was paying him full attention. Inside its head, he could almost hear the wheels turning as it asked itself the only question it knew:
Food/notfood?

There were six more like that. Great.

‘However,' said a squirrel on a branch above his head, ‘they do eat otters, so that's all right. If you had an otter problem, you'd be real glad to see these guys.'

‘HELP!'

‘Don't shout,' cooed the squirrel, ‘it excites them. Movement, too. Now, I bet you're wondering how seven hungry bears are going to help you find your car keys.'

Having been advised to stay still and quiet, Calvin Dieb neither nodded nor spoke. Instead he concentrated on emitting inedibility vibes.

‘Well,' continued the squirrel, ‘here's the deal. There's an old Iroquois legend that a warrior who kills a bear in single combat and eats its heart raw gains great wisdom. If you had great wisdom, you might be able to find your keys. Well, what're you waiting for?'

The third largest bear straightened its back and rose up on its hind paws, rumbling ominously. One swat of its front paw would turn Calvin's head into bonemeal and jam. It opened its mouth and licked its lips.

‘I know,' said the squirrel. ‘You're waiting for me to let you have the magic tomahawk. Coming through!'

Something fell at Calvin's feet; or, to be precise, something fell on Calvin's big toe, just exactly where he had the bunion. It speaks volumes for his self-control that, instead of screaming and leaping in the air, he merely said, ‘Eek!' in a muted whisper and stayed put. Meanwhile, the largest bear of all put its ears back and growled.

Calvin had a very unpleasant feeling that it was saying grace.

‘The tomahawk, dummy,' the squirrel was yelling at him. ‘C'mon, for Pete's sake, it's magic, you won't really have to do
anything
and there'll be bits of delicatessen-style thin-sliced bear all over the place. Ah, come
on
!'

The biggest bear's shoulder muscles tensed; and here it comes . . .

But it didn't. Instead, there was a shrill, ear-splitting yodel that turned Calvin's blood to yoghurt, and something crashed through the trees on the end of a long rope. The something turned out to be a tall, slim, striking-looking woman with fiery red hair, a severe black pin-stripe suit with massively padded shoulders and a skirt that came up to her chin, and eyes of cold blue flame. As soon as her feet touched the ground she whirled round, kicked high in a manner that would have made Bruce Lee's eyes water, slammed the megabear in what Calvin assumed was its nuts, punched out the two bears to its left and right with knife-hand blows that sounded like pistol shots, swooped to gather up the tomahawk with her left hand, threw it spinning through the air and caught it backhanded with her right, jumped and landed in a perfect axefighter's stance, threatening not just the cowering bears but the whole world.

‘Hi, Thelma,' Calvin squeaked.

‘You're pathetic, Cal,' his ex-wife replied, not looking at him. She was staring down the bears so ferociously that at any moment you'd expect them to melt into little pools of tallow. ‘God, you haven't changed one bit.'

‘That's right, Thelma.You chase away those goddamn bears and I'll be as pathetic as you like.'

‘Hah!' By the time the echo of her shout died away, even the biggest of the bears had lumbered away, moving at lightning speed despite its obvious agony. The squirrel, meanwhile, had retired to the very top of the tree and was hiding behind a thick branch.

‘Way to go, Thelma,' Calvin sighed, pulling himself up from the heap into which he had subsided. ‘How's life in Chicago, anyway?'

‘Hell of a lot better since I dumped you,' Thelma replied, tossing the tomahawk up and catching it again. ‘Shit, Calvin, I've been tracking that big fucker for
hours
. Trust you to mess it all up for me.'

‘Sorry, Thelma. Don't let me keep you.'

‘I don't suppose you happened to notice which way it went. Or were you too busy pissing your pants?'

‘I made the time, Thel. It went that way, up the slope and left by that fallen tree.'

Thelma nodded, stooped to pull the strap of her shoe back over her heel, flicked a blood-red lipstick round her mouth and stalked off up the slope. ‘You know what, Cal?' she threw back over her shoulder. ‘You always did lack that killer instinct. That's why you'll always be nothing.'

‘Very true. Be seeing you.'

‘I hope not, Cal.'

A moment later, she was gone. Calvin gazed after her with a mixture of horror and respect in his eyes, as the squirrel tentatively made its way down the branch.

‘There,' Calvin said reverently, ‘goes the best damn divorce attorney in the state of Illinois.'

‘Hey.'

‘Which is a big state, but not nearly big enough. Sorry, you were saying?'

‘The bear,' said the squirrel. ‘Actually, it went down the slope and into those bushes.'

Calvin nodded. ‘I know,' he replied. ‘But hell, what harm did it ever do me?'

‘Admit it, Chief,' said Mr Snedge. ‘We're lost.'

Captain Hat didn't answer. Instead, he sat down on the ground, took off the flamboyant, ostrich-feather-trimmed hat that was his trademark, and spun it slowly round his finger, as his eyes strayed out over the silver waters of the lake. They were about two hundred yards away, and they'd been trying to reach them for four hours.

‘This,' he said eventually, ‘is silly.'

‘You bet, Chief. The lads and me, we were just saying . . .'

‘Maybe,' Hat mused, ‘we're going about this the wrong way. Maybe we should stay here and let the damn lake come to us.'

They sat in silence for ninety seconds; after which time, Mr Squab cleared his throat and said, ‘Hasn't moved yet, Chief.'

Hat shrugged. ‘Maybe it's shy or something. Everybody close their eyes, quit staring at it.'

They shut their eyes. Seventy seconds later, they opened them again.

‘OK,' said Hat, ‘at least we tried it, so we can eliminate that as a possibility. Any other suggestions?'

Just then, something large and heavy crashed past them, bulldozing a straight path through a briar patch. A moment or so later, something else followed it, leaving behind the impression of ferocious energy, short skirts and flaming red hair.

‘Hey, Chief,' said Mr Snedge. ‘What was that?'

‘I think,' Hat replied, his chin rested on his hands, ‘it was a huge bear being chased by an attractive older woman with some kind of axe.'

‘Not an axe, chief. A tomahawk.'

‘Really?' Hat sighed, without looking round. ‘How come you're so sure?'

‘I nicked it from her, Chief.'

Captain Hat closed his eyes. ‘Snedge,' he muttered, ‘I wish you'd stop doing that. One of these days it's going to get someone really pissed off with us, you know?'

‘Sorry, Chief.'

Hat shrugged. ‘Yeah, well. Neat piece of work, though. You sure she didn't notice?'

‘They never do.'

‘Pass it over, then, and let's have a look at it.'

A simple tomahawk it proved to be; knapped flint and pine and elk sinew, nothing more. Hat looked at it for a while, then closed his eyes, tossed it up in the air and caught it.