The Iggy Chronicles, Volume 2 Read online

  Whoa! What was this? A treat for Barko? Or had Bernie said Chet the Jet and somehow I heard Barko instead? I got a bit . . . agitated. Wouldn’t you? Maybe you’d try to think of something else, but how could you when all that was going on in your head was treat, treat, treat?

  And then out in the parking lot behind Livia’s Friendly Coffee and More—treat, treat, treat—things went from bad to worse, an expression I finally understood when Bernie popped the trunk on the Porsche and took out my extra-large-size box of extra-large-size biscuits. He walked around to the street, went up to the shiny black sedan where Barko now had his nose poked through the narrow window opening and said, “Hey, Barko!”

  Was this really happening? Or was I in a dream, the very worst dream of my life, even worse than the one where I leap over our back gate on Mesquite Road, on my way to that she-barker across the canyon, only to land in a deep pit writhing with snakes. And why did I have to remember that horrible snake pit dream now, at a time when I was already . . . agitated? Yes, agitated, I admit it. But not as agitated as I got the next moment when Bernie reached into the box, said, “Here you go, fella,” and stuck one of my extra-large biscuits—the biggest and tastiest in the box, I just knew it!—through the window. Barko grabbed it faster than any biscuit grab I’d ever seen, then whirled around and settled on the driver’s side, out of range of any possible character who had a mind to snatch that biscuit away. I’d have done the same thing myself. That wasn’t the point. The point was that Barko was chewing on my biscuit. They were all my biscuits! Sometimes you don’t think. You just do. So I did.

  “Chet! What the hell?”

  Things have a way of suddenly speeding up in this life, or at least in mine. By speeding up I mean going faster than you yourself—meaning me, in this case—can actually go, if you see what I mean. No problem if you don’t: I don’t either, really.

  “CHET!”

  And then you’ve just got to go faster than you can go. What choice is there? So that’s what I did out on the street in front of Livia’s Friendly Coffee and More. Somehow I had that whole box of biscuits in my mouth. Have I mentioned that already? More like an edge of the box, to be more accurate—no way a mouth, even a big one like mine, could take in a whole extra-large-size box of extra-large-size biscuits. My plan was to . . . was to . . . Never mind plans! Full speed ahead! I zoomed my very fastest, claws ripping into the pavement, the air full of biscuits streaming by. What a life! Had I ever . . . Biscuits streaming by? I came to a shuddering stiff-legged stop, looked back, and saw a trail of biscuits leading all the way down several blocks to Livia’s Friendly Coffee and More.

  Not long after, I was in the car. The top was up, kind of strange since the monsoons were long gone and the sky was clear. Also the windows were up, not fully closed, of course, and Bernie had left much more than a mere crack, so fresh air flowed pleasantly in, but still: what was going on? I had a nice big yawn, eyed the activity outside, which was all about Bernie—plus Autumn and Tulip in their little black dresses and stiletto heels—picking up a whole bunch of what seemed to be biscuits that had somehow scattered themselves around. My eyelids got heavy.

  • • •

  Back at Senor Breakfast at what I now thought of as our table, me, Bernie, and Sherry the client. Bernie didn’t say anything, just spread the new blowups on the table.

  Sherry gazed at them. She picked one up. She put it down. She picked it up again. “These are real?”

  “Afraid so,” Bernie said.

  “What’s her name?”

  “I can find out if you want.”

  “I don’t care,” Sherry said. “But what can he possibly see in someone like her?”

  “Because she’s so young?” Bernie said. There’s a little wince that sometimes crosses Bernie’s face—the best face in the world if you like a certain kind of rough-looking face, and I do—when he . . . how does he put it? Wishes he had that one back? Something of the sort. I saw that wince now.

  “Who said anything about young?” Sherry said, her voice rising sharply. “Can’t you see what a piece of trash she is?” She shoved the photo at Bernie.

  “Well, um, eye of the beholder and . . .”

  “Trashiness is in the eye of the beholder? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Maybe not,” Bernie said. “Sorry this didn’t have a happier . . .”

  “Not your fault, for God’s sake,” Sherry snapped at him. “In fact—” She reined in her voice a bit. “In fact, you did your job, just as Stine said you would. What do I owe you?”

  “You paid six hundred. It took a day. So we’re done.”

  “What about expenses?”

  Bernie shook his head. Bernie! The fill-up? Lunch? But he didn’t go there.

  “I thought I’d want to kill him,” Sherry said. “But I don’t.”

  “Good,” said Bernie. “He’s not worth it.”

  “How the hell would you know?” Her voice rose again. “I suppose you think I was just after his money?”

  “Oh, no, certainly not,” Bernie said. “Never crossed my—”

  “I’ve got news for you—that was only part of it. Ric’s the most vital man I ever met.”

  “Vital?”

  “Alive, Bernie. He built an empire.”

  “What empire?”

  “Worldwide Recycling Solutions. I already told you. They’re in thirty-nine countries.”

  “He’s all about recycling,” Bernie said.

  “Huh?”

  Bernie rose. “You can keep the photos.”

  “Don’t want to kill him,” Sherry said, “but how much for you to shove them down his throat?”

  “Ten billion,” Bernie said.

  Wow! This was it, the big score at last! But it didn’t happen. We walked out of there with the photos, and that was it.

  • • •

  “Not a bad day’s work, Chet,” Bernie said. Back at home that evening, enjoying an after-dinner drink, water for me and a nice big bourbon for Bernie. “If a little confusing at times. I’m getting a strong feeling that I’ve never understood the first thing about men and women.” He took a sip, actually more like a pretty big hit. “And even more than that—starting from zero, I’m now going backward. Take me and Leda, for example. Sure, she had her problems, but did I—”

  There was a knock at the door. And I hadn’t heard anyone approaching the house? When security was my job? I ran to the door, barking my head off.

  “Chet, easy, big guy,” Bernie said, coming up behind me. He opened the door.

  A woman stood outside. Some people just look and smell rich, especially women when it comes to the smell part. This woman was that type, dressed in dark slacks, with a creamy shirt that matched the color of her hair. Had we seen her before? Maybe wearing a baseball cap? I thought so.

  “Bernie Little?” she said.

  “That’s me,” said Bernie. “And this is Chet.”

  She gave me a quick look, but long enough for me to see something in her eyes I liked. Her gaze went back to Bernie. “My name’s Annika Teitelbaum. I’m interested in your services.”

  “My services?”

  “You’re a private detective, aren’t you?”

  “Correct.”

  “I tried another detective but . . . but he wasn’t satisfactory. Then Leda recommended you.”

  “Leda? My ex—former wife?”

  “Do you know more than one Leda?”

  “No.”

  “She really is one of a kind,” Annika Teitelbaum said.

  “Oh, yes,” said Bernie.

  “We’re in the same book group.”

  “Ah.”

  Then came a pause, Bernie perhaps shuffling from one foot to another. “So . . .” Annika said, looking over Bernie’s shoulder and into the house.

  “Um,” said Bernie
.

  Annika turned my way. “I had a dog once myself, name of Molly. Actually resembled this one here.” She took out her phone. Bernie gazed at the screen.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Come in.”

  “Thank you,” said Annika.

  • • •

  “Something to drink?” Bernie said.

  We were in the kitchen. Annika eyed the glass of bourbon on the table, shook her head.

  “What can I do for you?” Bernie said.

  Annika thought for a moment. “Is marrying young always a bad idea?”

  “No clue,” Bernie said. “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “How old were you and Leda?”

  Bernie gave her a long look, a long look that always meant no answer was coming. But this time Bernie surprised me. “I was thirty, and she was thirty-three when we met.”

  “Thirty-three?” Annika said, like something wasn’t adding up. “But that would make her—” Annika waved her hand like she was shooing flies away. “Doesn’t matter. The point is, Ric and I were high school sweethearts. So maybe it’s understandable if he’s cheating on me. But I don’t understand it anyway. Which is where you come in—I need to know one way or the other.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “What would be the point? If it’s true, he’ll just lie, and if it’s false, I’ll have poisoned the relationship.”

  “How about if it’s true and he admits it?”

  “Ric’s a highly successful businessman, let’s put it that way.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “No? Doesn’t matter. The point is, I’ve had suspicions in the past, but now actual evidence has fallen into my hands.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  Annika opened her purse and took out . . . what was this? A concha belt that looked familiar. She laid it on the table. “Arrived late this afternoon. I happened to be out gardening and saw a car stop out front. A man stuck it in the mailbox and drove off. I caught the plate number, not a number, in fact, but letters—WGN WHL. Suggest anything?”

  Bernie didn’t say yes or no, just waited.

  “Wagon wheel was what came to me. A little sleuthing on the net turned up a motel of that name in Ocotillo Springs.” She paused, and now seemed to be the one waiting. “You’re a strange kind of detective,” she said. “Are you even following this? You don’t ask any of the obvious questions, like am I sure this is Ric’s belt, and what kind of business is he so successful in. What’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry,” Bernie said. “I can’t help you.”

  Annika’s eyebrows—the thin, plucked kind, hardly eyebrows at all compared to Bernie’s, which had a language all their own—rose in surprise. “A negotiator? Leda hadn’t led me to expect that.” Annika whipped out her checkbook—kind of the way perps I’ve known have whipped out their .44s—and said, “Five grand do for starters?”

  Wow! Whatever a negotiator was, why hadn’t we tried it before? Except . . . except Bernie was shaking his head, just a slight shake, but it meant “game over.” “This isn’t a negotiation,” he said.

  No more talking after that. We showed Annika to the door.

  But then, as the door closed, we just stood there. Why? Was Bernie thinking about the five grand? I sure was. It sounded like a lot.

  “How could we take the case, big guy? We’ve already solved it for another client. And doesn’t that client’s interest take precedence?” Uh-oh. Precedence: that one derailed me every time. “On the other hand, what is Sherry’s interest now?” A long silence. He gave me a look. “Funny about Leda’s recommendation. I always thought she saw me as a failure.” What was that? Missed it completely. More silence. “The most difficult woman in creation, but did I give it my best effort? The honest answer to that has to be no. So maybe this is a time for paying back in some weird way, or paying forward, or paying sideways, or—”

  Out on the street a car started up. Bernie flung open the door and started running. When Bernie runs, I run. At a different speed, of course, meaning I caught up to Annika’s car when she was barely past the Parsonses’ house, the Parsonses being an old couple we don’t have time for now, and that also goes for Iggy—the member of the nation within who lives with them, and my best pal. Annika glanced over, saw me zooming along right beside the car, and stopped. Bernie appeared, panting just a little. Annika’s window slid down.

  “I’ll take the case,” he said. “In fact, it’s solved.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “Come on back to the house. I’ve got something to show you.”

  • • •

  “An engraved invitation,” Bernie said, opening an envelope that came a day or two or possibly more than two later. “Wonder who’s getting married.” He took a little card from the envelope. “ . . . cordially invited to a Celebration of the Porsche at the Teitelbaums’, where the entire collection will be on display . . . champagne, hors d’oeuvres, blah blah blah . . . and then in handwriting: ‘You don’t want to miss this—Annika.’ ” Bernie looked up. “What do you think, big guy?”

  What are hors d’oeuvres? That was my only thought.

  • • •

  We drove into the hills above Pottsdale, switchbacked up and up to where the very nicest houses stood, finally turned into the Teitelbaums’ long driveway—lovely flower smells flowing in from both sides—and parked in front of their big sand-colored house with the red tile roof. Two dudes—black pants, white shirts, little black bow ties—hurried over and . . . what was this? Opened our doors for us? I hopped out, actually sort of hopping right over the head of the dude who’d opened my door.

  “Oh my God!” he said, shrinking back, and maybe getting the message, whatever it was.

  “Barn’s around to the back, sir,” said the other dude.

  We walked around the house, a walk that seemed to go on and on, went by a swimming pool, cabanas, and some lemon trees, and came to a long, low building that didn’t look much like a barn to me. A waiter by the side door offered Bernie champagne from a silver tray, and then another waiter appeared and said, “Hors d’oeuvres, sir?” He held out a tray, an amazing tray. Why amazing? Because hors d’oeuvres turned out to be shrimp wrapped in bacon, and tiny sausages that smelled better than any sausages I’d ever come across, and slices of something that looked and smelled like salami, except to the nth degree, as Bernie says when . . . I’m not sure when he says that. What’s important is that he loaded up his napkin with a nice selection of everything. We went inside, Bernie slipping me a tiny sausage behind his back, one of our very best techniques at the Little Detective Agency. There’s nothing like learning new things, like what hors d’oeuvres were all about, for example. This party was off to the best kind of start.

  Had I ever been in a barn like the Teitelbaums’ before? Nothing close. All along one side stood Porsches, beautiful shiny Porsches of many kinds in many colors, making me think of a beautiful garden, for some reason. Made no sense, I know.

  “Wow!” said Bernie.

  On the near side of the barn were lots of little café-type tables, nicely dressed people at all of them, sipping champagne but not munching on the hors d’oeuvres with the energy you’d expect. We found a spot at one of the tables. The woman in the seat next to Bernie said, “You’re just in time.”

  “For what?” said Bernie.

  “The surprise.”

  “What surprise?”

  “Didn’t you know? It’s a surprise party for Ric. He’s due any moment.”

  “Oh, right,” said Bernie. “Is it his birthday?”

  “No,” the woman said, “but Annika says, who needs a reason? Don’t you just love her style?”

  Bernie was about to answer when the big door at one end of the bar rolled up and Ric Teitelbaum walked in. He saw all the people and stopped dead. Every
one rose to their feet—everyone except Bernie, who remained seated for reasons of his own, and me, because of him—and yelled, “Surprise! Surprise!”

  Ric Teitelbaum did look surprised. Then a big smile spread across his face, and he shuffled his feet a bit in an aw-shucks sort of way, like “who, me?” Always an amusing human move, to my way of thinking, and he hadn’t quite finished when the big door at the other end of the barn rolled up and an enormous bulldozer drove in. A slow silence fell, and everything that followed also seemed to be going slowly. But there was no stopping it.

  This particular bulldozer had a roofless cab, allowing a clear view of the driver, in this case Annika Teitelbaum. She wore a hard hat but otherwise looked dressed for the party, a huge sparkling pendant hanging from her neck. What else? A familiar-looking concha belt was somehow fixed to the dozer’s heavy blade. The dozer made a little turn and headed straight for the long line of gleaming Porsches. No one said a thing, but everyone’s mouth was open and open wide. The dozer picked up speed and barreled into the first Porsche in the line—a shining silver one, as it happened—knocking it right into the air. It landed on the next Porsche, and then the big blade crushed them both together, the dozer not even pausing, just churning along, smashing, flattening, and obliterating Porsches in a steady, workmanlike fashion. That was the expression on Annika’s face, workmanlike, the expression you see on the face of any experienced dozer operator earning his pay.

  No one else in the barn was looking workmanlike. Well, maybe Bernie. But it was hard to be sure about anything, the noise of all that metal getting shredded, twisted, and torn being hard to take, especially for a dude who hears the way I do.

  Bernie turned to me. “I think the party’s over.”

  It was? I didn’t see why, but if Bernie says the party’s over, the party’s over. We took our leave, more accurately hightailed it out of there, my tail raised its highest, and what was this? All at once Bernie had a tail, too, a real tail and raised up high just like mine? But it was only a shaft of light, shining at a strange angle through the trees. There’s all kinds of beauty in life, and sometimes it takes you by surprise.