Woof Page 11

  The next time I looked around the forest was gone, and I had green fields on one side and a big lake on the other, with bright orange flares rising above whitish buildings on the far side. Up ahead some sort of canal flowed out of the lake, and over that canal rose a little humpbacked bridge, and on that bridge? Yes, the shiny black pickup! Did I have more left in me, what with my tongue all heavy and dried out and my panting so loud there was nothing else to hear? You don’t know Bowser if you can even ask that question.

  I surged ahead, or at least kept going, soon coming close enough to see someone standing in the bed of the pickup. The person reached down, raised up some very long and stiff black thing with a sort of tail at one end, and heaved it into the canal. Then he—I was close enough now to see the person was a he—sat down and the pickup sped off, faster than ever.

  By the time I got to the bridge the pickup was long gone. Not far away, the road split in two parts, one headed along the lake, the other across the green fields, both empty of traffic. I gazed down into the canal, saw blue water, the surface sparkling in the sun, and no sign of any long and stiff black thing. But that sparkling blue water looked good—beautiful, in fact—so I crossed the bridge, walked around to the bank of the canal, and lapped some up, the best water I’d tasted in a long time, maybe ever. I drank and drank. My tongue came back to normal, damp and flexible. What else? A faint scent of cigar smoke hung in the air.

  I climbed back on the bridge and headed for home. Nothing to it, really: All I had to do was follow my own smell, the best smell I’d come across in my life, so far. Birdie’s was second. After that came a big gap.

  I walked back the way I’d come, trotting from time to time. I can do that walk-trot-walk thing pretty much forever. My mind goes completely blank. What a peaceful feeling that is! I walked, I trotted, I didn’t think, and after who knows how much time, I looked up and found myself on a narrow two-rutted sort of alley with weeds growing down the middle, and a chain-link fence along one side. Did it seem familiar? I was turning that over in my mind when a kid appeared in the distance, a kid on a bike, a kid I knew, the best kid there was!

  “BOWSER!”

  Right away I was practically airborne. I closed the distance between us in no time at all and leaped into Birdie’s arms. That last part might not have been well thought out on my part, seeing as how Birdie was on a bike, and I’m too big for jumping into anyone’s arms, certainly hers. But after we got ourselves picked up and dusted off, we had the best hugs of my life.

  “Where have you been, Bowser? I was so worried! What did you do?”

  Where had I been? What had I done? It all came back to me, and as soon as it did I knew I had to take Birdie to that bridge over the canal. I turned back the way I’d come, barking and pawing the ground.

  “What, Bowser? What?”

  I did some more barking and pawing, even took a few steps in the direction I wanted her to go.

  “Bowser! Don’t even think it. Come right here!”

  I went over to her, a plan taking shape in my mind, all about getting behind her and herding her the way I wanted her to go.

  “Bowser?” She grabbed my collar. “What happened to your shoulder?”

  “Been in a dog fight is what,” Grammy said. We were inside Gaux Family Fish and Bait and Grammy was dabbing something that stung a bit on my shoulder, a real cold look in those washed-out eyes of hers.

  “Um,” said Birdie.

  “Um, huh?” Grammy said. “See this here? Dog bite, plain and simple.”

  Birdie peered at my shoulder. “Poor Bowser.”

  “Poor Bowser, nothing.”

  “Does he need stitches?”

  “Sure as heck better not,” Grammy said. “Think there’s money in the budget for fripperies like dog stitches? We’re not in that kind of financial position.”

  “What kind of financial position are we in, Grammy?”

  “No concern of yours.” Grammy dabbed at my shoulder again, dabbed pretty hard. But it didn’t really hurt and it was nice of Grammy to fix me up. She rose, her knees making a creaking sound. “This particular cur better not screw up again, that’s all I’ve got to say.” I could tell Grammy liked me, although explaining how wouldn’t have been easy.

  We headed for home, Birdie walking her bike and me walking me. On the way we went through the center of town. Nola was sitting out on the porch at Claymore’s General Store, fanning her face with a magazine.

  “Hey,” she said. “Cold drink?”

  “Sounds good,” Birdie said.

  And soon we were all on the porch together, Birdie and Nola sitting on rickety old chairs and sipping from glasses full of ice cubes, and me chewing on any ice cube that got thrown my way, which was turning out to be just about all of them. I got cooler and cooler inside, started to feel my very best. As a bonus, Nola was a first-rate ice-cube tosser, sending them in long arcs that ended up right in my mouth every time.

  “You okay?” she said to Birdie.

  “Why?”

  “ ‘Why?’ ‘Why’ is the answer to ‘you okay?’ ”

  “What’s with you?” Birdie said.

  “Nothing. My stupid sister.”

  “Solange?”

  “That’s my only sister.”

  “I’d love to have a sister.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. Trust me. And the reason I asked how you were is because you look like crud.”

  “Be more specific.”

  Nola laughed. Birdie threw an ice cube at her. Nola threw one back. I rounded up both ice cubes, made quick work of them.

  “You’ve got circles under your eyes,” Nola said. “Like you didn’t sleep.”

  Birdie nodded. “I didn’t get much.”

  “How come?”

  Birdie opened her mouth, paused for a moment, and then said, “It happens.”

  “Come on. I know you better than that. Cough it up.”

  Was Birdie about to cough up an ice cube? I’d coughed up a number of things in my time, including chicken bones and fast-food wrappers, but never an ice cube. I watched closely. Birdie didn’t cough up a single ice cube, coughed up nothing at all. Also, she didn’t speak.

  Nola frowned, a few lines appearing on her smooth forehead. Her voice rose. “What’s with you?”

  Birdie’s voice rose, too. “What’s with your sister?”

  “Huh?”

  “You—you’re mad at her or something.”

  “ ’Cause she’s so annoying,” Nola said. “But that’s not what you were going to say.”

  Birdie looked down at the floor.

  “So what kind of friendship is this?” Nola said.

  Birdie looked up. They gazed at each other in a way that didn’t seem friendly to me, but humans can be tricky about this kind of thing, could actually be tricky about all sorts of things.

  “All right,” Birdie said. “You win. But you can’t breathe a word of this.”

  “You’re starting to scare me.”

  “Then forget it.”

  “No way,” Nola said. “We’ll be scared together. I, Nola Claymore, solemnly swear never to breathe a word of whatever Birdie Gaux is about to tell me. Good enough?”

  Birdie nodded. She shifted her chair a little closer to Nola’s. Nola shifted hers a little closer to Birdie’s. I stayed where I was, comfortable in a nice patch of shade. Birdie glanced around. There was no one to see but us.

  “Who’s Des?” Birdie said.

  WHO’S DES?’ ” NOLA SAID. “ALL THIS buildup and that stupid loser Des Peckham is at the end of it?”

  “Why do you call him a stupid loser?” Birdie said.

  “Have you ever met him?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Des? A faint memory of our nighttime visit to old man Straker’s emporium flickered in my mind, just about out of range. With a real big effort there was a chance I could bring that memory into clear view, but lying on the shady porch at Claymore’s General Store and chewing any ice cubes that came my w
ay was about the extent of my ambition at the moment. There are times in life when you’ve got to kick back. There are other times—chasing black pickups with dark-tinted windows, for example—when you give it everything you have.

  “There you go again,” Nola said.

  “Huh?”

  “With your not-exactlies. How about a simple yes or no?”

  “Not everything’s simple,” Birdie said. “For example, I only know his first name.”

  “Des Peckham is the only Des around. He hangs out with that other stupid loser, my sister.”

  “That’s him.”

  “You saw them together?”

  “Not … I didn’t see them. I heard them.”

  “On the phone?”

  “No. Inside—inside old man Straker’s emporium.”

  “You were shopping? A Gaux spending money at Straker’s?”

  “I wasn’t shopping. In fact, the store was closed at the time.”

  “Then what were you doing there?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Stick to the high points.”

  “All right,” Birdie said. “Last night I broke into the place.”

  “Whoa! Are you making this up?”

  “Correction. Bowser and I broke in. I couldn’t have done it without him.”

  And then all eyes were on me. That was nice. I thumped my tail on the floor.

  “It’s almost like he understands what’s going on,” Nola said.

  “I’m starting to think there’s no almost about it,” Birdie said. “He’s actually a very good detective, in his own way. Take the cigar butts, for starters.”

  “Forget cigar butts,” Nola said. “Why did you break into old man Straker’s?”

  “Because of the cigar butts,” said Birdie. “At least partly. It’s all connected to Black Jack.” And then she started in on something very long and complicated, all about Stevie Straker, Solange, Des, Des’s crazy aunt Maybelline, a boat hanging from a ceiling, spray paint, flashing blue lights, a late-night swim, and lots of other adventures that seemed vaguely familiar. Nothing wrong with vaguely familiar, but no one can keep their eyes open forever. Least of all me.

  “Wow!” said Nola, more than once, and “I can’t believe that!” and “You’re amazing!” and maybe some more wows, all sounds growing softer and soothingly softer.

  “… Solange sneaks out at night all the time, so it’s not like you ratted her out,” Nola was saying.

  I emerged from a wonderful dream about bacon and opened my eyes. First thing I saw was Birdie. Life was good.

  “Does Solange know you know about her sneaking out?” she said.

  “She’s clueless,” Nola said. “But her bedroom’s right next to mine and her window squeaks when she opens it.”

  “What about your mom?” Birdie said.

  Nola started to answer at the very same moment that Mrs. Claymore came outside, a plate of cookies in her hand.

  “Yeah,” she said. “What about me, Nola—and it better be good!”

  Birdie and Nola whipped around in Mrs. Claymore’s direction. Were they surprised? I thought so—surprised, and not in a good way, a good way being like, say, when a passing motorist chucks a half-eaten roast beef sandwich out the window.

  “We were just discussing, uh,” Nola began, and then her gaze went to the plate of cookies, “which moms are good bakers! And I was about to say you!”

  Mrs. Claymore gave Nola a long look. “Despite the fact that I don’t actually bake?”

  “Um,” said Nola. “But didn’t you used to, like when I was a baby and stuff?”

  “Absolutely not. When you were a baby and stuff—whatever that might mean—I was getting run ragged by you and your sister.” Mrs. Claymore glanced around. “Any idea where she is, by the way? She’s supposed to be working on an essay for summer school.”

  “Did you call her?” Nola said.

  “Straight to voice mail.” Mrs. Claymore came closer, held out the tray. “These are from a wannabe supplier—not a mom.” Then came a pause where Nola looked everywhere but at her mother. “See what you think,” Mrs. Claymore said.

  The girls each took a cookie. What about me? Cookies aren’t my favorite when it comes to food, but that wouldn’t have kept me from having an opinion.

  “Mmm,” said Birdie.

  “Second that,” said Nola.

  Mrs. Claymore turned and went back inside the store. “Now you can get back to your plotting,” she called over her shoulder before the door closed.

  “Uh-oh,” Nola said. “Do I feel stupid or what?”

  “My fault,” said Birdie.

  “Nah.”

  They munched on the cookies. Not a single crumb fell my way.

  “Solange is in summer school?” Birdie said.

  “She flunked history.”

  “I thought it was impossible to flunk anything at the high school.”

  “Not for her. She’s got a gift. Actually, she does. My mom had Solange’s IQ tested on account of how bad she was doing. Turns out to be 130.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Apparently. So now my mom knows she’s not trying, which was already clear.”

  “Did you get tested, too?”

  “Nope. I mean, what’s the point? Whatever it is, it is what it is.”

  “Second that,” Birdie said.

  An incomprehensible back-and-forth, with one good result, namely a corner of Nola’s cookie breaking off and falling right in front of my face. Folks in this town treated you right.

  After that, they went back again to Black Jack, old man Straker, Stevie Straker, Des, Des’s crazy aunt Maybelline, and all sorts of other stuff that washed over me in a pleasant way. I had just made a surprise discovery of a bit of leftover cookie caught under my tongue, when Nola said, “How about we go talk to Des?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Birdie said, “but you don’t have to get involved.”

  “I’m involved,” said Nola.

  They high-fived each other. For some reason, high-fiving gets me excited.

  “Down, Bowser, down!”

  Excited, yes, but I’d never get carried away. That’s just not me.

  “BOWSER!”

  “Des lives here?” Birdie said.

  “Hilltop Estates,” said Nola.

  “But there’s no hill.”

  “It’s in their minds,” said Nola.

  We’d walked across the Lucinda Street Bridge but turned the other way from Straker’s emporium and come to this neighborhood with big brick houses built around a pond. All the lawns nice and green, flowers everywhere, plus lemon trees, the lovely smell of lemons in the air.

  “Des is rich?” Birdie said.

  “Don’t know about rich. His parents are shrinks down at Mercy Hospital.”

  “What do shrinks make?”

  “I don’t actually know,” Nola said. She pointed to what looked like the biggest house around. “That’s old man Straker’s place.” We turned up the driveway of one of the next houses, not quite as big as old man Straker’s, and Nola knocked on the door. No one came. Real cold air leaked out from under the door. Nola knocked again, louder this time. I heard footsteps on the way.

  “Guess no one’s home,” Nola said.

  “Guess not,” said Birdie.

  Both of them turned from the door. I stayed where I was. What bad guessers they were! How could you hear footsteps and guess no one was home? Unless … was it possible that …?

  “Come on, Bowser.”

  The door opened and a kid looked out, an older sleepy-looking kid, tall and bleary-eyed, with messy reddish hair and not much of a chin. Birdie and Nola turned in surprise.

  “Hey, Des,” Nola said. “Did we wake you?”

  He gazed down at us. “Huh?”

  “I’m Nola, Solange’s sister.”

  “Oh, right, yeah. Well, like, she’s not here.”

  “Why would she be here?” Nola said, her voice rising sharply.

&nbs
p; “Uh, no reason,” said Des.

  “And this is my friend Birdie. Birdie, Des, Des, Birdie.”

  “Hi,” said Birdie. “And this is Bowser.”

  “That’s the name of the dog? Bowser?”

  “Something wrong with it?” Birdie said, her voice also rising sharply.

  Des shrugged. Bowser? Probably the best name going, as Des was bound to realize when he was less sleepy.

  “So, ah, you’re not looking for Solange?” he said.

  “No,” said Nola.

  “But, just incidentally, when was the last time you saw her?” Birdie said. Nola gave her a quick look, probably not caught by Des, who was rubbing his face the way humans sometimes do after waking up.

  “Last night,” he said.

  “Yeah?” said Birdie. “Where was this?”

  He stopped rubbing his face, gave her a narrow-eyed look. “Not last night,” he said. “Yesterday, uh, afternoon. Down by Hector’s Ice Cream. But I thought you weren’t looking for her.”

  “We’re not,” said Nola, giving him a big, bright smile. “We’re actually working on a project and we need to speak to your aunt Maybelline.”

  “My aunt Maybelline?”

  “Correct,” said Birdie.

  “You need my aunt Maybelline for a project?”

  “Right again,” said Nola.

  “Like, about taxidermy or something?” Des said.

  Birdie and Nola exchanged a quick look. They were communicating in some soundless way. We do the same thing in my world.

  “Taxidermy’s about stuffing animals, right?” Nola said.

  “And fish,” said Birdie.

  “Yeah,” said Des. “And fish. My aunt owned the best taxidermy place around, way back when.”

  “That matches up with what we’ve learned so far,” Birdie said.

  “It, uh, does,” Nola said. “Matches up. Perfectly. An unbelievable matchup, really, maybe the very best I’ve ever—”

  Birdie cut in. “So we just need a quick interview with your aunt. Is she here?”

  “Here?” said Des.

  Birdie pointed to the house with her chin. I loved when humans did that, and do I even need to mention that Birdie’s chin point was the best chin point out there?