Tender Is the Bite Read online

  She handed Bernie the sheet of paper. “Mickey Rottoni,” she said.

  “So you served him?”

  Weatherly nodded.

  “What was his reaction?”

  “Didn’t say a word. Just took the papers. He watched me drive off. I had him in the rearview. The bastard kept watching.” Weatherly’s eyes, dark to begin with, darkened some more.

  “Got a picture of him?” Bernie said.

  “Nope. He’s a big shaved-headed type like so many others.”

  Right then, the cop with the receding red hair strolled in. “Sounds interesting, Sergeant. Who are we discussing?”

  Bernie turned to the red-haired guy. Their eyes met. The room got very still. Two facts—not merely one—came to me immediately. They knew each other. But were not buddies.

  “Uh, Lieu—Captain Ellis,” Weatherly said. “I didn’t hear the knock. This is Bernie Little, a private—”

  “Oh, I know Bernie,” said Captain Ellis, waving his freckled hand. “We go way back, served together in our misbegotten youths. How are things, old buddy?”

  “No complaints.”

  “That’s what I hear, not since the dog came along.” He glanced at me. “So this is the famous Chet.”

  A nice thing to say, you might think, but there was nothing nice about his voice. Some people have a constantly teasing voice that can land on the unpleasant side, especially if there’s a grating sound mixed in, like in the voice of Captain Ellis.

  Bernie nodded a very slight nod, hardly visible. “They actually made you a captain?” he said.

  Ellis smiled a big smile, although his eyes, a dull golden color, seemed to get smaller. “I know you’re happy for me,” he said. “Deputy director of Missing Persons—a big responsibility. I’m humbled.”

  Bernie rose, pocketing Weatherly’s note. Ellis’s eyes followed his every movement. And I followed every movement of his.

  Bernie turned to Weatherly. “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” she said.

  “You two know each other?” Ellis said.

  “Getting to,” Bernie said.

  We walked out. I could feel Ellis’s gaze on the back of my neck.

  Seven

  Captain Stine was climbing into a squad car, but he climbed back out when he saw us leaving HQ. The sun was in one of its real hottish moods, and sweat shone on Stine’s lower lip.

  “Productive visit?” he said.

  “Not bad,” Bernie said.

  “See anyone in particular?”

  “Weatherly Wauneka. And don’t grill me.”

  “What did you think of her? Or would that be grilling?”

  Grilling? Specifically grilling Bernie? I’ve been around many grills in my time, and here’s one thing about them: they’re hot. Stine was a friend. Why would Bernie think he’d want to do something so horrible? But did I need to know the reason? Never! I changed my position slightly, got Captain Stine into perfect striking distance.

  “She’s very good,” Bernie said.

  Stine nodded. “Potential chief in twenty years. In a world that’s not upside down.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I was with Bernie on that. Just imagine! We’d be lying on our backs in the sky! And the birds would be—well, I couldn’t even picture what the birds would be doing, and actually don’t care. Would I have such angry eyes if I could soar around on the breeze day after day? Birds!

  Stine glanced around, maybe lowered his voice a little. “It’s the goddamn building.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You know what it cost?” Stine said. “I’m talking about the real cost?”

  “No.”

  “Join the club. There’s been so much maneuvering that no one will ever know. But that’s not even the point. You don’t get a building like this without some big quid pro quos.”

  Quid pro quos? You hear that from time to time in our business, but the meaning never comes, at least not to me. I don’t worry about things like that. What I worry about is … for what seemed like ages I couldn’t come up with any worries, and then I hit pay dirt. Food! Food is my only worry. When is the next meal? Will it be enough? Why not a treat? A treat right now! Suddenly, I was starving. But other than that, no worries.

  “Such as?” Bernie saying.

  “Figure it out,” said Stine.

  “Where do I start?” Bernie had a thought, one of those real powerful ones I can feel, although I can’t see inside them. “With Ellis?” he said.

  “Our Ellis? Why would you say that?”

  “They made him a captain, Lou. Deputy director of Missing Persons means he’s running it, day to day. How the hell did that happen?”

  “I know the two of you had some issues back then, but—”

  “Issues? He should’ve been locked up for what he did.”

  “Not gonna get into all that. It was the tail end of the Wild West days around here. We’ve got to move on.”

  “Maybe you,” Bernie said. “Not me.”

  What was this? We were staying put in the Wild West? You can count on Bernie to make the right decision.

  * * *

  “Ellis,” said Bernie as we drove away from HQ, “how is it—”

  The phone buzzed.

  “Hey,” Bernie said.

  “Hey,” said Rick, his voice coming from all around in the car. “Heard you were downtown.”

  “We’re still downtown,” Bernie said.

  “But you’ve left HQ.”

  “Are you watching from a drone?”

  “I have other sources,” Rick said. “How was your visit?”

  “I found out why you’re in such a pissy mood.”

  Rick was in a pissy mood? Wow! How could Bernie know something like that over the phone? Pissy moods give off a very distinctive smell—you don’t need me to tell you that—but I’ve never picked up that smell over the phone. Or any other smell, come to think of it. Was it possible I hadn’t been trying hard enough?

  “Hang on a minute, Rick,” Bernie was saying. “Chet? Big guy?”

  “What’s he doing?” Rick said.

  “Kind of pressing his nose into the speaker for some reason,” Bernie said. “Denting it, in fact. Chet! Cool it!”

  Wow! Was this interesting or what? Things changed big-time when you got your nose inside this—what was it called? Speaker, maybe? It really didn’t matter. The point was that on the inside I could actually feel Rick’s voice! I could feel his breathing! And buried down a layer or two in that voice and that breathing, I could feel a pissy mood! Could I even…? Yes! I could! I could smell piss! The real thing! I’d been missing so much! From now on, every single time without exception that we were in the car, I was going to plant my—

  “CHET!”

  * * *

  Not long after that when I … came to, you might say, I found we were in a time-out. We have them on occasion, me and Bernie. They’re all about catching our breath, Bernie says, although my breath is always right here with me, so it takes no time at all to catch it. In a time-out, we just sit for a bit like we were doing now, parked near the college. The kids are gone in summer—which is too bad, college kids being so much fun to watch, with their weed and their Frisbees, not to mention their funneling, a game I don’t understand at all—so this time-out was on the boring side. I gazed ahead at nothing. Bernie gazed at me.

  “You okay, big guy?” he said.

  Me? Couldn’t be better. Except for the boredom part. Soon—possibly very soon—I’d be needing some action.

  “I’d like to finish that call with Rick,” he said. “But it won’t be easy if someone’s tearing the car apart.”

  Someone tearing the car apart? Outrageous! On no account could that be allowed to happen, not on my watch, amigo, not now, not ever. Who’s in charge of security at the Little Detective Agency? You’re looking at him. I sat up my very tallest, my eyes, ears, nose, all on highest alert, waiting for trouble to arrive. Good luck, buddy boy.


  Meanwhile, Bernie got back on the phone.

  “Everything all right?” Rick said.

  Bernie shot me a sidelong glance. “I think so.”

  “Maybe he wants a T-R-E-A-T,” Rick said.

  While I was on highest alert? Forget about it!

  “We’re in a brief interlude between them at the moment,” Bernie said. “How did you find out about Ellis?”

  “It was in the dailies.”

  “No one talked to you ahead of time?”

  “Like who?”

  “The chief, for example.”

  “Hell no. Why would he?”

  “Because you were the obvious candidate.”

  “Not obvious enough,” Rick said.

  “I disagree,” Bernie said. “Heard any scuttlebutt about a quid pro quo?”

  “What kind of quid pro quo?”

  “Involving Ellis.”

  “Nope. What are you getting at?”

  “I thought Stine was dropping a hint,” Bernie said. “Maybe it was about something else.”

  “How can someone like Stine put up with all this shit?”

  “He takes a long view.”

  “Good for him,” Rick said. “But not for me.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I’m hanging them up, Bernie.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just wait it out. I’ve got a feeling.”

  There was a silence. Rick said, “Oh, well, then.” That made Bernie laugh. Then Rick laughed, too. A bit of a surprise: it hadn’t sounded like a funny conversation to me.

  * * *

  “Three people who are proving hard to find,” Bernie said as we passed the last condo development, the smell of fresh paint in the air, and came to open country. “First, Mavis. Second, Johnnie Lee Goetz, whose car Mavis was driving, a car she claimed was stolen although she didn’t report it. Third, Mickey Rottoni, small-time criminal and former boyfriend of Johnnie Lee.”

  Wow! Bernie had all that in his head? Just incredible! I took a good close look at his head, beautifully shaped but not the biggest you see out there, in fact just the right size. Did that mean it was crammed full? What if some new idea came to him? Where would it go? I worried a little, but then the answer came to me: Bernie would figure it out like he always did. Did I also wonder how could he figure it out if his head was already full? No, I did not!

  We took an exit, hit two-lane blacktop, drove up into the hills, the sun lower in the sky now and behind us, and the Valley shimmering below like it was underwater, impossible of course, with our aquifer problem. Bernie checked Weatherly Wauneka’s note. “EZ AZ Desert Tours and Mini Golf, second left after the Zinc Town stoplight.” We drove on, Bernie’s face darkening a bit, which sometimes happens when he’s thinking his deepest thoughts. “Walking tours or ATV tours?” he said at last. Uh-oh. Walking tours, please, the ATV kind being bad for the desert, although that was hard to understand, the desert so much mightier than any ATV. All the same, I sort of had a peek into our next interview, the strangest sensation. I didn’t like it one little bit. I prefer the here and now.

  We climbed a hill, saguaros just sort of standing there as we passed by. You can’t help being reminded of humans when you see them. Not the patient standing part but the shape.

  “Damn,” said Bernie.

  That meant he’d spotted a bullet hole or two in one of the saguaros. I didn’t even need to check. I know Bernie.

  We entered a little desert town—general store, bar, diner, cowboy art shop, Indian art shop, and no one around. “Zinc Town,” Bernie said. “A total swindle way back when. The investors took off half the mountain, never found an ounce of zinc.”

  I thought about that. We’d dealt with a swindler in the past, an English fellow name of Sir Royce Bentley, who was selling luxury island getaway homes, or possibly the islands themselves. In the end it didn’t matter, the homes and the islands not real, and Sir Royce was up at Northern State Correctional, breaking real rocks in the hot sun. He was called something else up there, his name also not turning out to be real. Was Bernie saying Sir Royce was on the loose and back at it? Right away, I was on the lookout for a dude in what I believe is called a bowler. A bowler is a kind of hat that turns out to be excellent chewing material. I’d kept possession of Sir Royce’s bowler after we closed the case—so we didn’t end up with nothing, Bernie said—but it didn’t last as long as I’d hoped.

  Now in Zinc Town, no one wearing a bowler appeared. We passed a stoplight, turned onto a road that went from pavement to potholes to dirt, and all of a sudden came to a whole lot of fun stuff, normally big but here little, like windmills, lighthouses, tugboats, castles, a Santa Claus, all connected with narrow strips of green carpet. Mini golf! I knew it at once. I loved mini golf, had gone with Bernie and Charlie on several occasions, although my next visit might not be anytime soon.

  We pulled up in front of a small sort of ranch house with a sign over the door and … and a bunch of dusty ATVs parked out front.

  “Damn,” said Bernie again.

  We got out of the car and headed toward the ranch house. The door opened, and a barefoot kid stepped onto the porch. He wore jeans and a cowboy hat and looked like a very small cowboy. The kid eyed me right away, just like every kid I’d ever met.

  “Hi, there,” Bernie said.

  “We’re closed,” said the kid. “Your dog’s big.”

  “His name’s Chet,” Bernie said. “He likes kids.”

  “Chet’s big,” said the kid.

  “I’m sure he’ll let you pet him if you want,” Bernie said.

  “I don’t know,” said the kid.

  “No problem,” Bernie said. “Is your mom or dad around?”

  The kid shook his head. Then he came down off the porch and sidled over my way. I lay down. No particular reason. It just seemed right. The kid put his little hand on my back and went pat-pat.

  “My name’s Bernie,” Bernie said. “What’s yours?”

  “Lukie.”

  “How old are you, Lukie?”

  “Almost seven.”

  “I’ve got a son who’s almost seven.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Charlie,” Bernie said. “Will your mom and dad be back soon?”

  Lukie shook his head.

  Bernie squatted down on my other side, so I was between him and Lukie. “Does a guy named Mickey Rottoni work here?” he said.

  The pat-patting stopped. “He was mean to me,” Lukie said.

  “Yeah?” said Bernie. “How come?”

  “I played with his putter.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “It’s a special putter,” Lukie said.

  “What makes it special?” Bernie said.

  “It’s just special. Mickey said if I ever touch it again—”

  A man shouted from inside the ranch house, “What the hell’s goin’ on out there?”

  Lukie rose and scrambled away from me. I rose, too, and stepped in between Bernie and the house. The screen door slapped open, and an old man in a wheelchair rolled out onto the porch. You saw this type of old man out in the desert from time to time: beaky-faced, wispy-haired, leather-skinned, irritated. His gaze went to Bernie, then to me, and back to Bernie.

  “We’re closed,” he said. “Didn’t you tell ’em we’re closed?”

  “Yes, Poppop,” said Lukie.

  “When do you open?” Bernie said.

  “When there’s customers,” said Poppop. “And there ain’t none, not in this heat.”

  “We’re customers,” Bernie said.

  “You want a tour? None of the ATVs is gassed up.”

  “We can take care of that if you’ve got a pump,” Bernie said.

  Poppop nodded.

  “But,” Bernie went on, “we want a guided tour.”

  “I don’t do no guided tours no more.”

  “I understand you have a guide named Mickey Rottoni.”
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br />   Poppop’s eyes narrowed down to just about nothing. “You understand wrong.” He did one of those dry spitting things. Human spitting is a huge subject—why men and not women, for instance—but there’s no time to go into now, although can I just squeeze in the fact that of all the different spits out there, dry is my favorite? “Never heard of him,” Poppop said.

  Another big human subject is blurting. Blurting humans get an urgent look in their eyes and an urgent shape to their lips, changes that were now happening to Lukie. “But, Poppop!” Lukie pointed to some hills, not far away. “He took the green ATV, and he didn’t—”

  Poppop slammed his hand on the wheelchair armrest. “Zip your mouth! Get inside!”

  Lukie stepped onto the porch and headed for the door.

  “Run, damn you!”

  Lukie ran into the house.

  Bernie turned to Poppop. “No reason to treat the kid like that.”

  Poppop had a face made for looking nasty. “You tellin’ me how to treat my own flesh and blood?”

  “You brought it on,” Bernie said. “Where’s Mickey Rottoni?”

  “Get offa my land,” Poppop said. He stuck a hand inside his shirt and drew a gun, not as big as our .38 Special, but guns didn’t have to be big, as I’d seen more than once in my career. Poppop’s gun hadn’t been fired recently. I never miss a smell like that, and would have handled the whole situation differently, possibly getting my teeth involved immediately.

  We started backing away. “The boy better not come to any harm,” Bernie said.

  “You threatening me?” said Poppop.

  “Simply stating a fact,” Bernie told him.

  * * *

  We parked under the saguaro with the bullet holes and had a picnic supper from the cooler, kibble with some bacon chips—almost more than enough, thanks, Bernie!—for me, and tuna from a can for him. Above us the sky put on a show, running through all kinds of colors, then catching fire, and finally dimming down to black. The moon rose over the hills, and the shadow of the saguaro spread over me and Bernie. That was a little creepy, but I got over it right away. The Little Detective Agency is at its best at night.