The Iggy Chronicles, Volume 2 Read online

  There were a few cars in the lot, but no people around. Then a small red car came zipping in and parked at the far end of the motel. A young woman hopped out and headed right to the nearest door.

  “Whoa,” Bernie said. “Is that Sherry?” He took off his shades, squinted at her. “Nope,” he said. “But an awful lot like her, especially how Sherry must have looked ten or twelve years ago.” The woman took out a key, let herself into the motel room, Bernie snapping a picture just before the door closed.

  Bernie put his shades back on. I really wished he wouldn’t, shades on humans bothered me in general, and in particular on Bernie. “How about we call her Sherry Three Point O if you see where I’m going with this, big guy.”

  I did not. Did that frustrate me? Not a bit!

  A breeze rose up, blew a tumbleweed ball across the lot. I’ve chased after tumbleweed in the past, always successfully. But then what? That’s the problem with chasing tumbleweed, so I stayed put. Another tumbleweed went wafting by. Tumbleweed? How exciting! I was getting all set to jump out of the Porsche and show that tumbleweed what was what when another car rolled into the lot, and not just any old car but an enormous yellow SUV.

  “Here we go,” Bernie said.

  The yellow SUV parked beside the small red car, and Ric Teitelbaum got out. He hitched up his belt—hey! One of those concha belts, maybe the most glittering I’d ever seen. Wouldn’t it look nice on Bernie? I checked Bernie’s belt, saw he wasn’t wearing one, his blue jean belt loops empty. Meanwhile, Teitelbaum took out a key—click went the camera—and let himself into the same room Sherry Three Point O had entered, if Sherry Three Point O was indeed the name of the young woman. An odd name, but if Bernie said she was Sherry Three Point O that was that.

  Bernie checked his watch. “Six Cs, Chet, record time.” He was putting the camera back in the glove box when a shiny black sedan turned into the lot and parked at the far end, nose out, just like us. The dude at the wheel just sat there, also just like us.

  “Could it be?” Bernie said.

  Yes, a familiar-looking dude—you didn’t see sideburns like that every day. I was just about to place him when a member of the nation within rose into view on the passenger seat of the shiny black sedan, gazing around kind of blankly, like a napper emerging from a long spell of shut-eye. This particular napper had his upper lip stuck on one of his teeth in a way that twisted up his whole face, not the most appealing face to begin with.

  “Maxie Bonn,” Bernie said. “And what’s the name of his pal? Barko?”

  Yes, Barko. We came across each other from time to time, Maxie “Auto” Bonn and Barko being in the business. Once Barko had almost got up the nerve to challenge me. He was smarter than he looked.

  “Wasn’t aware they worked this far south,” Bernie said. We sat where we were, in the shade. Maxie “Auto” Bonn and Barko sat where they were, in the sun. “If they’re working,” Bernie continued after a while. “But what else would they be doing?”

  I had no idea. All I knew was that neither of them looked our way, not once. Was that the way to run things in this line of work? I’m sure you know the answer to that one. Meanwhile, Maxie’s head was tilting down and down, until his chin rested on his chest.

  “Ever think of them as a mirror image of us, big guy?”

  I most certainly did not. Barko yawned a huge yawn, finally freeing his upper lip and untwisting his face. He sank back down out of sight.

  “A funhouse mirror,” Bernie said, losing me completely. He took a picture of the small red car and the yellow SUV and was pointing the camera at the door Ric Teitelbaum and Sherry Three Point O had entered when it opened and Teitelbaum came hurrying out, fully dressed except for the concha belt. He strode red-faced over to Maxie’s car. Now was when Barko would spring into action, waking Maxie up at the very least. But no. Maxie slept on, Barko remaining out of sight.

  Teitelbaum went to Maxie’s side of the car, pounded on the roof. Maxie’s head jerked up and he looked around wildly. Barko rose slowly into view again, licked his muzzle.

  “Goddamn peeper!” Teitelbaum shouted. He glanced around, maybe saw us, and lowered his voice. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Maxie said something unfriendly, but the wind had come up, and I couldn’t make out the words. Teitelbaum grabbed Maxie by the throat and said something even unfriendlier. Maxie raised both his empty hands nice and high and changed his tone completely. They had some chitchat. Bernie snapped some more pictures. Then Teitelbaum took out his wallet, counted out a wad of money, and kind of threw it at Maxie. Teitelbaum turned, strode back toward the motel, and was almost there when he realized his zipper was still undone. He zipped it back up and went inside the room.

  “His timing’s off,” Bernie said.

  Maxie got the money all straightened out, counted it—his lips moving, though I couldn’t hear him—and stuck it in his inside jacket pocket. At that moment, Barko suddenly looked our way, saw me, and began barking his head off.

  “Shadap,” said Maxie, starting his car and driving out of the lot, not once glancing in our direction. Barko kept up the barking until they were out of sight, and even after. I’d forgotten that bark of his. There was something metallic about it, rather unpleasant to my ears. Bernie let go of my collar. When had he taken hold of it? Why? I could feel this case, whatever it was, taking a strange turn.

  “Easy, big guy.” How nice, the way Bernie said that! I sat up tall, a total pro, on the job, ready for whatever was coming next, which turned out to be Bernie cranking the engine and driving us out of the Wagon Wheel Motel parking lot, the same way that Maxie and Barko had gone. I could see the shiny black sedan far ahead on the long, straight desert road. We got a little closer, but not too close. That seemed right to me. Bernie was the best wheelman in the Valley, as I may have mentioned already.

  • • •

  “Ripples,” Bernie said after a while. “You throw a pebble into the water and the ripples start up. But which one do you follow? Ever think of our job that way, chasing after ripples?”

  What was this? We were going swimming? A bit of a surprise, but a very good one. Not long ago we’d been out in San Diego on a case about which I remembered nothing except for the afternoon we’d spent at the beach. We’d surfed, me and Bernie! I loved swimming, which is simply trotting through the water. Did you know that? Anyone can do it! Other than the fact that there was no water in sight, we were cooking.

  We followed the shiny black sedan up into some hills, interesting scents flowing by at high speed—greasewood, javelina, snake, and all kinds of poop, which I won’t bother sorting out for you now, although I lost myself in sorting them out at the time, not snapping out of it until we came down out of the hills and onto the freeway. Maxie, a few cars ahead, checked his rearview mirror from time to time but didn’t see us, two lanes over on the other side, just one of our techniques at the Little Detective Agency. Barko was out of sight, except for the tip of a pointy little ear, pressed against the passenger-side window. Soon we were back in Pottsdale again, Maxie driving slowly down the street where Livia Moon had her place. And what was this? Maxie was stopping in front of it? Bernie pulled over real fast, parked behind a truck. Maxie walked into Livia’s Friendly Coffee and More, Barko left behind, pawing at the glass, the window cracked open but not much.

  “How about we go around to the back?” Bernie said.

  Sounded good to me. We’d had success with going around to the back in the past, except for once on a movie set where the bar actually hadn’t had a back. Bernie drove down an alley and turned into the small parking lot behind Livia’s place. We hopped out of the Porsche, me hopping, Bernie maybe limping just the slightest bit, which sometimes happened after a long drive. It was all on account of his war wound, which he never talks about, so I won’t mention it either.

  We knocked at the back door of Livia’s place, Berni
e doing the actual knocking. A round blue eye appeared in the peephole and then the door opened quickly, revealing a friendly-looking young woman in a small black dress.

  She clapped her hands together. “Oh my goodness—Chet! And even more gorgeous than I remembered.” And then she was giving my head the kind of pat that stops time in its tracks, if that makes any sense.

  “Hi, Tulip,” Bernie said.

  Tulip—the best patter I’d ever come across, with the possible exception of her coworker Autumn—looked up at Bernie. “Barnie, was it?”

  “Bernie,” said Bernie, looking not too pleased about something, but I couldn’t think what. “Is Livia around?”

  “I’ll check.”

  And not long after that we were in Livia’s comfortable living room, me lying on a soft rug and working on a thick chewy, the top of my head still all tingly, Bernie on the couch, and Livia—who’d given Bernie the longest welcoming hug I’d ever seen—over at the bar fixing drinks.

  “You’re looking just great, Bernie,” she said over her shoulder.

  “You, too,” said Bernie.

  “With all this weight I’ve put on?”

  “It suits you. Uh, I mean, um, of course you haven’t, but if you did one day in the future put on a pound or two, then . . .”

  Livia laughed, a lovely booming laugh that filled the room. “Still the charmer,” she said, bringing the drinks—bourbon for Bernie, something with gin for her, gin being one of the easiest smells out there, and water for me.

  She sat down beside him, quite closely beside him. They clinked glasses.

  “How’s life?” Livia said.

  Bernie sipped his drink, said nothing.

  “Divorce come through?” Livia said.

  “While back.”

  “And?”

  Bernie shrugged.

  “What’s your boy’s name? Charlie?”

  Bernie nodded. She gazed at the side of his face. He looked down at his drink.

  Livia patted his arm. “A nice name,” she said. “Solid. I’m no fan of these crazy fly-by-night names.”

  “Like Tulip?” Bernie said. “And Autumn?”

  “Those aren’t their real names, silly.”

  “No?”

  “Marketing, Bernie, for God’s sake! We’re selling something here.”

  Just as I’d always suspected. But what was it? I waited for Livia to fill me in.

  “I knew that,” Bernie said. “I just didn’t realize . . .”

  She patted his arm again, higher up this time. “Of course, we’re not selling to you, Bernie,” she said. “Anything you want is on the house.”

  “Uh, very hospitable of you,” Bernie said.

  “Hospitable, hell. You saved my ass that night back in Texas.”

  “A long time ago.”

  “I don’t forget.”

  Bernie put down his drink. “Truth is, I’m interested in a customer of yours. I think he’s here at the moment.”

  Livia put her hand to her chest, strings of pearls looping over her fingers. “Not the mayor!”

  “No.”

  “Phew.”

  “Actually someone in my line,” Bernie said. “Name of Maxie Bonn.”

  “Auto?” said Livia. “He’s in number three.”

  “A good customer?”

  “Only when he’s flush, which is hardly ever. Do you want me to . . . interrupt?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Livia checked her watch. “He won’t be long.”

  • • •

  We went upstairs, walked past a couple of doors. Bernie opened the next one, and there was Maxie, alone in a bedroom that was pretty much all bed, humming to himself and zipping up his pants. Zippers done up and undone seemed to be a feature of this case, not an entirely new development in our business.

  Maxie stopped humming and whipped around to us. “Bernie Little? What the hell are you doing here?” He glanced past us, out into the hall. “You’re, uh, next?”

  Bernie closed the door. “Feeling flush, Auto?” he said.

  “Huh?” said Maxie. “And I prefer Maxie, all the same to you.”

  “Livia runs a class establishment, not cheap. So you must be doing well these days.”

  “Up and down,” Maxie said.

  Bernie nodded his enjoying-himself nod. What was enjoyable at the moment? I had no idea, but went into enjoyment mode anyway. Why not?

  “Working on anything in particular?” Bernie said.

  “This and that.”

  “This and that ever take you down to Ocotillo Springs?”

  “Ocotillo Springs?” Maxie said, putting on his jacket. “Haven’t been there in years.”

  “Then maybe we’re in a time warp,” Bernie said.

  “Not following you, Bern.”

  Uh-oh. Bern? We didn’t like that at the Little Detective Agency. Bernie took the camera from his pocket, moved toward Maxie. I went with him, actually a bit in front.

  “What’s going on?” Maxie said. “Is this damn dog of yours about to attack me?”

  “His name’s Chet,” Bernie said. “And why would he want to attack you? For leaving Barko in the car with the window barely cracked open?”

  “Huh?”

  I was with Maxie on that. I really didn’t know why I wanted to attack him; it just seemed like a good idea, pure and simple. Isn’t that enough?

  “All we want is for you to take a look at this,” Bernie said, fiddling with the camera. He turned it so Maxie could see the screen.

  Maxie’s eyes shifted to the screen. Then they narrowed, and they were narrow to begin with—extra-unfortunate considering those sideburns, a bad combo for some reason.

  “Where the hell were you?” Maxie said.

  “That’s not the question,” said Bernie. “The question is, what were you doing there?”

  “Why is that any of your business?”

  “Also not the question. Start with how much money changed hands in that parking lot.”

  “Who said money changed hands?”

  “You can see it in the photo, Maxie.”

  Maxie batted the camera aside with the back of his hand. “Nice running into you, Bern, but I’m running late.” He took a step toward the door. Bernie put his hand on Maxie’s chest and gave him a push—nowhere near a hard push, compared to what Bernie can do, but Maxie fell backward on the bed.

  He—how to put it? Cowered, maybe? Close enough. Maxie cowered on the bed, a bed on which I now seemed to have my front paws. “Lay a hand on me and I’ll call the cops,” Maxie said.

  “So they can arrest you for blackmail?” Bernie said.

  “Blackmail?”

  “Isn’t that what we’re seeing in the photo? A payoff?”

  Maxie licked his lips. He had one of those whitish tongues you sometimes see in a human, not my favorite. Whitish tongue, narrow eyes, long, bushy sideburns: it was adding up in a way that made me suddenly pukey. But I’m a pro, and pros get a grip. “I’m not sayin’ nothin’,” Maxie said.

  “Have it your way,” Bernie said. “I’ll go right to the source.”

  “Source?”

  “Meaning Ric Teitelbaum, Maxie. This is one of those times in your life when you’ve got to try to keep up.”

  “You, uh, like, know Teitelbaum?”

  “What do you think?” said Bernie. The what-do-you-think? technique! One of my very favorites, and I hadn’t seen it in way too long! Who wouldn’t love Bernie?

  Maybe Maxie Bonn, from the look on his face. “I’m no blackmailer.”

  “Come on, Maxie. What about that time with the cross-dressing blacksmith down at the Old Western Studios?”

  “No charges got filed,” Maxie said. “And how do you even know about that?”

  “I’ll
have to check the statute of limitations on blackmail in this state,” Bernie said. “Unless you’ve got it at your fingertips.”

  I checked Maxie’s fingertips. Kind of soft-looking compared to Bernie’s. Relying on Maxie’s fingertips had to be a dead end, unless I was missing something.

  “Okay, okay,” Maxie said. “I wasn’t blackmailing Teitelbaum.”

  “Then why the payoff?”

  Maxie opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “This has to be confidential.”

  “A common preamble, Maxie. You must have heard it yourself. It means nothing.”

  Maxie sighed a big sigh, pulled himself up into a sitting position. “Why is the world so fucked up?”

  Bernie said nothing. He glanced over at me. Did a quick little smile cross his lovely face, there and gone? My tail started up, not in that wild way where it takes over, more of a gentle flicking back and forth. Bernie turned back to Maxie, watched him in a patient sort of way.

  “The payoff was for dropping the case,” Maxie said.

  “You were sitting on Teitelbaum?”

  Maxie nodded.

  “Who’s the client?”

  “Can’t ask me that, Bern. I’ve got my professional pride.”

  “Sherry One Point O?” Bernie said.

  “Huh?”

  “Meaning Mrs. Teitelbaum.”

  Maxie was silent for a moment or two. Then he said, “If you know, why ask? And her name’s not Sherry whatever. It’s Annika.”

  Bernie made a little clicking sound. That meant we were out of there. As we headed for the door, Maxie called after us, “Hey! I cooperated. That’s gotta be worth something.”

  “We’ll slip Barko a treat,” Bernie said over his shoulder.