Heart of Barkness Page 2

  I headed over to Bernie, standing by the lift.

  “Know who that is?” Nixon said, pointing his chin—one of my favorite human moves—at the white convertible.

  Bernie looked that way. “No clue.”

  “Lotty Pilgrim.”

  “The country singer? I didn’t even know she was still alive.”

  “Blast from the past,” said Nixon. “And still on the road. She’s at the Crowbar tonight.”

  “The Crowbar?” Bernie said. “It’s a dump.”

  “The arc of showbiz,” Nixon said.

  Bernie nodded. “My parents danced to that song.”

  “‘How You Hung the Moon,’” Nixon said. “Went platinum. But underneath the paint job that Caddy of hers is a clunker.” He and Bernie watched it drive out of the yard, onto the street, and away. Nixon took two tickets from his pocket. “The boyfriend or manager or whatever he is comped me. I got a meeting.”

  “With your PO?”

  “Six more months,” Nixon said, “till I’m free as a bird.”

  Nixon was a good buddy, but before that he’d been a perp. We were buddies with lots of perps we’d busted, just another perk at the Little Detective Agency.

  Bernie took the tickets. Not long after that, the Porsche was good to go.

  “Put a new battery in there for you, Bernie. Eight hundred and fifty cold cranking amps.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Take you to the moon.”

  “Sounds pricey.”

  “No charge.”

  “Huh?”

  “Fact is,” Nixon said, looking down and toeing at the dirt, “I, um, won a nice chunk of change. They run a sports book over at the Buffalo Head Casino.”

  “Football?”

  “Not exactly,” Nixon said. “Sometimes they feature what you might call one-of-a-kind specials.”

  Bernie gazed at Nixon. Nixon kept looking down. “You bet on whether I’d live?”

  “Hunnert to one against.” Nixon shrugged. “Gotta like those odds on practically anything.”

  “What’d you stake?”

  “Five Cs.”

  “Nice,” Bernie said. “But if you really believed, you could’ve been set for life.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Nixon. “Been kickin’ myself ever since.”

  Two

  “Should’ve bet on myself, Chet,” Bernie said as we took our Porsche up into the hills on back roads that got more and more back-roady until it was just us. “How come no one told me there was all this action?” We rounded a bend, and through the space between the branches of a fire-blackened tree saw the whole Valley spread out below us. Bernie slowed down to almost nothing. “Tell you a secret. There were times back in the hospital when I might have bet the other side.”

  We came to a stop, got out of the car, gazed at the view. Bernie took a deep breath, let it out slowly. I felt something from inside him, something peaceful combined with other things I didn’t know. All I knew was that his secret, whatever it was, exactly, was safe with me. As for betting, we’d once slapped down ten grand we didn’t have on a horse named Billie Holiday even though the only reason we’d gone to the track was that Cus “Crybaby” Babitsky had told us that his horse Stomper was a stone-cold lock on account of something he planned to slip into the feed bags of all the other horses. “How can I bet against Billie Holiday?” Bernie had said, when we got to the track and he checked the Racing Form. The memory of Stomper ambling across the finish line with the rest of the field still on the back stretch and Billie Holiday dead last was one of the clearest I had. That was the day I learned that when you bet ten grand you don’t have and lose, you end up not having much more than you didn’t have before. Got that? I sure don’t.

  As we drove away from the lookout, I studied Bernie’s face, hoping to see some sign that our betting days were over. All I saw was his beauty: Could that jaw have been any stronger? And how about those thick eyebrows with a language all their own? And the unforgettable nose—not quite straight as the result of some long-ago dust-up but all the lovelier because of that, life being hard to explain at times—plus other good things too many to mention. Especially his eyes. Was there a new line or two around them? All the better. My Bernie.

  * * *

  Back home a taxi sat in the driveway. “I wonder…” Bernie said, and then a woman stepped out of the back—a woman I didn’t recognize at first, even though I knew her very well.

  “Suzie,” Bernie said quietly.

  And yes, it was Suzie, although her hair was shorter and she seemed taller and also more … forceful, if that was how to put it. There was always a lot of force inside Suzie Sanchez, of course, except today it was showing on the outside, if that makes any sense. But was that enough to make me miss that it was her? I’d known Suzie for I didn’t know how long. I actually never really do when it comes to that kind of thing, but that wasn’t the point, the point being that Suzie was Bernie’s girlfriend. At one time, she’d been a reporter for the Valley Tribune. Now she worked out of London for the Washington Post, and before that terrible saguaro case—did we even get paid? and if so by who?—she’d asked us to come live with her in London. Where London might be was a mystery. I knew London Flats, a fleabitten town down near the border with actual fleas that actually bit, but I was pretty sure Suzie meant something else, on account of the fact that she never scratched herself on any of her visits to the hospital, not even once.

  We walked over to her, me more or less running. Let’s call it more. Suzie gave me a pat. What a great patter she was! Bernie came up. Suzie put her hands together.

  “Oh, this is wonderful,” she said. “You look terrific.”

  “Um,” Bernie said. “Pot.” And then, “Er, kettle.” Was he offering tea? They were both coffee drinkers. That was as far as I could take it before Bernie wrapped his arms around Suzie and held her close. Normally I don’t let that sort of thing go on for very long before squeezing myself in between, but this time I just stayed where I was. Why? Because of the expression on Suzie’s face? She was looking my way over Bernie’s shoulder and yet I got the feeling she might not have been seeing me. Her eyes—always so deep and dark and shining like our countertops—weren’t shining now, a first, in my experience. Instead they were cloudy, like there was bad weather on the way. Meanwhile she was holding on to Bernie so tight that her knuckles were the color of bone. I had a strange thought: maybe knuckles were in fact made of bone, so no problemo. But here’s something I’ve come across in life: sometimes you can think your way to no problemo while you still keep feeling yes problemo. So there I was, going back and forth—not actually, but in my mind, although—Whoa! I turned out to be doing some back-and-forthing in the driveway after all—when Bernie said, “Come on inside. Wish you’d told me—there’s nothing to eat.”

  Nothing to eat? Yes problemo, and for sure.

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Suzie said. “I … I just had to.”

  They looked at each other. Then Bernie glanced at the taxi, which seemed to be taking a long time to hit the road. “Where’s your stuff?”

  Suzie shook her head.

  “You came all the way from London with no luggage?”

  For a moment Suzie’s face started to lose its shape, like some sort of falling apart was going on, but she gave her head a quick shake—always a why-not move, in my opinion—and stood very straight. “It’s a bad time for this, but there’ll never be a good time,” she said. “I’m so … beyond happy, beyond relieved, to see you back to you. It’s like the world is just, after all.”

  “But?” Bernie said.

  Suzie took a deep breath. “We have to decide, Bernie. I need to get on with my life. I can’t think of a non-cliché that says it.”

  “You want to get married?”

  “That’s not it,” Suzie said. “Well, yes, I do. But that’s not the issue—which is I plan on being in London for at least the next three years, and whatever happens after that won’t
be happening here in the Valley.”

  “So for us to stay together I—” His eyes shifted to me. “—we have to move to London, no dodging around it?”

  “Yes,” said Suzie.

  Bernie just stood there. His gaze rose up over Suzie’s head, over the houses across the street, maybe all the way to the Comanche Mountains, where the sun went down every day.

  “Oh, Bernie,” Suzie said. “You can’t help it. You’re just not a modern man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s one of the best things about you. You have roots. The Valley, this desert, this street, the canyon out back. You’d never be happy in London.”

  “I could try.”

  Suzie shook her head. “It—your conscientious effort—would dominate our lives, even with the best intentions.”

  Bernie opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but no words came. Instead he looked over at the taxi driver, caught his eye, waved him away. The taxi drove off. Bernie took Suzie’s hand. We went in the house.

  First we were in the kitchen, where Bernie poured water for him and Suzie, and topped up my bowl. We all drank, me the noisiest, Suzie the quietest, Bernie in between. After that they went into the bedroom, meaning our bedroom, mine and Bernie’s. I didn’t follow. Through the closed door I heard talking, hard to understand. For example, Suzie said, “Sometimes I wish I was stupid—we wouldn’t even be in this situation. Except then you wouldn’t love me.” “Sure I would,” said Bernie. “We’d have more in common.” That made Suzie laugh, but it turned out to be one of those laughs that ends in tears, which sometimes happens with women and never with men, in my experience. Puzzles on top of puzzles! I was much happier when they went silent. After that came sounds of movement, kind of rhythmic, reminding me of humans exercising at the gym, and then silence again. Maybe I nodded off for a while. I’m an excellent napper—world class, Bernie says. Were there napping competitions? Heads up, world!

  Some time later, the bedroom door opened and Suzie came out. Now her eyes were blurry, her face damp, everything about her miserable. I couldn’t stand seeing her like that, so I pressed against her leg. She bent down and hugged me, then whispered, “I’m going to miss you every day.” I felt her tears in my fur. Miss me every day? Why? What was going on?

  I followed her to the front door. She opened it. Outside a car pulled into the driveway, one of those black cars that were like taxis but not. Was it some kind of racket? All I knew was that lots of our perp buddies were doing the driving.

  Suzie wiped her face on the back of her sleeve. “Why is life so goddamn complicated?” she said.

  Was it? Oh, no! I’d completely missed that.

  Suzie bent again and kissed the top of my head. “Take good care of him, Chet.” Of course! Went without saying.

  She walked out and closed the door. I heard her footsteps moving from the stone path to the paved drive. A car door opened and closed. The car drove off. I listened to it until the sound faded down to nothing, which was quite a long time, maybe enough for me to sort out whatever had just gone down. My takeaway? It was all about her having no luggage. That meant she’d had to go buy some things—clothes, toothpaste, a comb—and would be back soon. An idea with lots of parts, way beyond my usual, so it had to be on the money. Wow! I’d thought my way right back to no problemo.

  * * *

  I stood outside the bedroom door and listened to Bernie breathe. Nice and even, the kind of Bernie breaths I like to hear. After a while there came a bit of muttering. Muttering is one of those strange human things. Why do they do it? No idea, but it never sounds happy.

  Bernie and I had done a lot of work on doorknobs, although not lately. Doorknobs are a big deal in our line of work, and there are some I can handle easily now. The round kind gives me trouble. We’d been working on them before that terrible saguaro case. You had to stand up, like this and … what came next? Gotta use both paws on the round ones, big guy.

  Both paws! That was it! So hard to remember, for some reason. One goes here, just like this, and the other one here. Atta boy! And Bernie would put a hand on each of my paws and kind of move them like I was … was steering a steering wheel! What a thought! Brand new to me and as exciting as it gets! Because … because was it possible? Could I actually drive the car? What would my life—already perfect—be like then? More perfect than perfect? Chet the Jet scores again!

  Meanwhile I seemed to be inside the bedroom, so I must have figured out the doorknob trick at last. I tried to remember the details, but none came. No matter. I deserved a treat, big-time.

  I moved toward the bed. Bernie lay on his back, eyes closed, breathing quietly, fast asleep. Humans give off a sleepy smell when they’re sleeping, maybe a new little fact for you. I knew two things for sure. One—he needed his sleep. Two—I needed a treat. Right there is why it’s usually better to know just one thing. I raised a paw—actually it pretty much raised itself—and rested it on the covers, not touching Bernie at all. Or only very slightly.

  His eyes opened. First they were blank. Then they went very dark and Bernie … flinched? Yes, like someone was about to hit him. Which could never happen, not with me around, amigo. I put my paw on his chest, let him feel a bit of my strength. His eyes shifted my way and brightened, at least a bit, and he smiled a small smile.

  “What’s up, big guy? Need to go out?”

  No. Well, now that he’d raised the subject, I did sort of need to. Funny how just thinking about peeing can make you want to pee. Even pee desperately. Which was where I suddenly was.

  Not long after that we were taking a nice walk in the canyon that runs back of our place. I peed in several locations—against a palo verde I knew very well; on a red rock marked by another member of the nation within, unknown to me, his presence now covered by mine, always a nice feeling; and beside a thorn bush where a javelina had lurked, and not long ago. Normally I’d have set out on a search for the critter, but Bernie was huffing and puffing a bit, so I headed for home.

  “Really? That’s it? I can keep going, you know.”

  Of course he could! But I had to take care of him, end of story.

  It was getting dark when we entered the house. Bernie switched on the kitchen lights. On the table were the tickets Nixon had laid on us. Bernie picked them up.

  “‘The legendary Lotty Pilgrim—her only Valley appearance. Fifteen dollar cover, two drink minimum.’” Bernie gave me a look. “What do you say?”

  I couldn’t. But if I could have, my answer would have been: “The same as you.”

  Three

  “A dump,” Bernie said as we parked in front of the Crowbar. “But a dump with a history. Hank Williams, Buck Owens, Lefty Frizzell—they all played here, Chet.”

  Hank, Buck, and Lefty? I knew a Hank, a Buck, and several Lefties, all of them now breaking rocks in the hot sun up at Northern State Correctional. I sat up straight and tall, on high alert. A single dim light shone on the Crowbar’s sign. What was this? A faded picture of a crow hoisting a drink at a bar? That made no sense to me. Plus I was no fan of birds, and crows were just about the worst. That caw-caw-caw! You can’t imagine what it does to my ears. I got ready for anything.

  We hopped out of the car—me actually hopping—and walked up to the swinging doors, a kind I knew well from a movie set case we’d once worked. An unusual case—the shot glasses in the movie saloon had been filled with tea, for one thing—where we’d made some Hollywood connections including a cat named Brando, who I sometimes had bad dreams about. Did we end up getting paid? I was trying to remember, when an enormous dude stepped out of the shadows. He had a mean, lumpy face and squashed-up tough-guy ears. He stared down at us and then smiled. And stopped looking mean at once! Amazing what the human smile can do. Is it … is it like tail wagging? What a thought! Not me at all. Was it someone else’s thought? But in my head? Yikes! I was getting close to scaring myself.

  “Well well,” he said. “My buddies Bernie and the Chetster!”


  What do you know? Shermie “Shoulders” Shouldice!

  “Hey, Shermie,” Bernie said. “What are you doing on the loose?”

  Exactly! Hadn’t we sent him up the river not so long ago? No water in that particular river, but not the point. Why wasn’t he in an orange jumpsuit and doing whatever they do up at Northern State when the hot sun goes down and they have to stop with the rock breaking?

  “Early parole,” Shermie said. “On account of overcrowding. This is a civilized country, don’t forget.”

  “It’s hard sometimes,” Bernie said.

  Shermie laughed and slapped his knee. It sounded like a gunshot. “You can say that again.”

  Bernie did not. Instead he went with, “You’re the bouncer here?”

  “My mom’s tight with the owner,” said Shermie. His face pinkened a bit. Was Shermie blushing? I’d seen plenty of human blushing, but never on a face like that. Right away I knew it was one of those once-is-enough things.

  “Everybody loves somebody sometime,” Bernie said.

  “Wow!” said Shermie. “That’s so true!”

  Bernie handed Shermie the tickets and we went inside.

  Yes, a dump, but the kind of dump we liked, me and Bernie. Dirty? Sure, but old dirt, dirt going way back, worn deep into the old, uneven walls and floors. Plus we had a nice mix of greasy smells—greasy food, greasy hair, and some interesting greases I couldn’t pin down right away. What else? A bar along one side, a small stage at the other end, a few tables. As for how many customers, don’t ask me. But even though the Crowbar was a small place, we had plenty of room.