Thereby Hangs a Tail Page 7

  “Passaic, New Jersey, Bernie,” Suzie said. “Good luck with the case.” She turned and walked away; the yellow Beetle was parked by the far side of the barn. Suzie got in and drove away.

  Bernie watched her go. “Christ,” he said. He looked down at me. “Did I screw that up?” Bernie screwing up? No way. I bumped against him. “And come to think of it, I’ve got this nagging thought that maybe obtuse—”

  Nagging thought? He’d lost me completely, but it didn’t matter because we both got distracted by the heavy thumpity-thump of the horse on the move. I turned and saw the count leaning forward in the saddle, the horse headed straight toward what looked like a section of fence standing in the middle of the corral. A pretty high section of fence: was it possible that—

  Wow! More than possible. And I saw what those metal things—spurs, I remembered, from a time when me and Bernie were into watching Westerns, although he’d kept on saying, “See how it used to be?” until finally the Westerns went to the bottom of the DVD pile and stayed there.

  Where was I? Oh, yeah—the metal things: they were for sticking in the sides of the horse when you wanted to make him jump. I can jump, too, and all on my own; wouldn’t have minded a crack at that fence myself. Was this a good time for that? Why not? I happened to look at Bernie. Was he shaking his head at me?

  The horse landed, thumpity thump, and the ground beneath me shook. The count had a stern look on his face, like this wasn’t fun; I didn’t get that: making the ground shake had to be fun. The horse circled around the corral. Nance walked over to where we were, stood on the other side of the fence.

  “Poetry in motion,” she said.

  Poetry? Bernie loved poetry. He knew all kinds of poetry by heart; sometimes, like on long rides in the car, it came flowing out of him. My favorite was: Cannon to the right of them / cannon to the left of them / cannon behind them / volleyed and thundered, but I also liked Old dog Tray’s ever faithful / Grief cannot drive him away / He’s gentle, he is kind / I’ll never, never find / A better friend than old dog Tray; although I really didn’t get that one, since the only Tray we knew was a nasty old growler who guarded a junkyard in Pedroia, a friend to nobody.

  Bernie gave Nance a nod, the kind of nod that might have made Nance think he agreed with her about the poetry in motion thing. “He was an alternate on the Italian equestrian team six Olympics ago,” Nance said.

  “I didn’t know horses lived that long,” said Bernie.

  Nance shot him a quick look. “I’m talking about the count,” she said.

  “Oh,” said Bernie.

  The horse trotted over to us, his head over the fence. “Whoa,” said the count. I got my first good look at the count’s face: thin, with a big nose, quick, dark eyes, a mustache. I didn’t like mustaches, no idea why. The count gazed down at Bernie. The horse was looking at me. I looked right back, you better believe it. He whinnied, a horrible sound, and started sidestepping. The count made a clicking sound and the horse went still. I found myself inching closer to him.

  “This is the detective,” Nance said.

  “Bernie Little,” said Bernie. He raised his hand over the top rail, within shaking distance, but the count didn’t seem to notice.

  “What is it that you want?” he said. He had a funny way of talking, the sounds not quite right, hard to understand.

  “To help find them,” Bernie said. “Your wife and Princess.”

  “In this matter you have failed already, no?” said the count.

  “If that’s true,” Bernie said, “then our motivation will be all the stronger.”

  “There is motivation,” said the count, “and there is competence.” “You can check us out,” Bernie said. “I can give you a list of references.”

  “References?” said the count. “This is not how I operate.”

  “How do you operate?” Bernie said.

  The count didn’t answer. He just stroked the side of that big nose with his finger. Was that supposed to mean something?

  “One thing I know,” Bernie said, “in situations like this, time is not on our side.”

  The count gazed down at him. I knew that Bernie wanted him to say yes. I also knew what humans look like just before they say yes. The count wasn’t looking like that now.

  “It’s best if we have a client,” Bernie said. “But the truth is we’re going to work this case, client or not.”

  “This is a threat of some nature?” said the count.

  “Just a statement of fact,” Bernie said.

  “Ah,” said the count. “Statement of fact. Asserzione di fatto.” Hard to understand, the count, and now impossible. “And when you refer to ‘we,’ you are meaning—?”

  Bernie gestured toward me. Oops. I seemed to have gotten myself through the rails somehow, within a short lunge of one of those skinny horse legs. I backed through the rails, not easy. “Chet and I,” Bernie said, giving me a private look. I knew those private looks. This one meant . . . something, I forget.

  Then came a surprise: the count slipped down out of the saddle, landed lightly on his feet, and stuck his hand through the railing. “Lorenzo di Borghese,” he said.

  They shook hands.

  “Um,” said Bernie.

  “Let us go inside the shade and formalize arrangements,” the count said. “Nance, you will be so kind to give Angel a little more exercise.”

  “Of course, Loren—Mr. Borghese.” Nance stepped through the rails and took the reins. The horse was named Angel? What angels were exactly, I wasn’t sure, but something good, right? So what was—

  “Che—et?”

  Hey! Another surprise: I was through the fence again, kind of crawling in the dirt. High above, Angel whinnied and shied away.

  “Angel, easy,” said Nance, tugging at the reins.

  “Che—et? Let’s go buddy.”

  Bernie was watching me. I rose and trotted after him and the count, brisk and innocent.

  I liked barns. Lots of smells in a barn, plus interesting stuff all over the place, most of the time including food scraps. And in fact I’d already picked up the scent of peanut butter on my way in, but I’d never gotten the hang of eating peanut butter and besides who was this dude, sitting at a table by the door, cleaning a rifle? I’d seen Bernie cleaning our rifle plenty of times so I knew what was going on. This rifle looked longer than ours.

  “My secretary, Aldo,” said the count. “Mr. Little, the detective.”

  “Hi,” said Aldo, rising. A big guy, as broad as Bernie and taller. He had one of those ponytails; hard not to look at anything else, for some reason. I tried to remember what a secretary was and almost did.

  “Nice scope you got there, Aldo,” Bernie said. “Is that a—”

  “If you don’t mind clearing up, Aldo,” the count said. “Mr. Little and I must confer.”

  “Right away,” said Aldo, stuffing all the rifle parts into a canvas bag and heading toward the door.

  Bernie and the count sat at the table; I lay under it. The count peered down at me. “Interesting animal,” he said. Who was he talking about? “In our world overbreeding is always the risk. Here the opposite seems to obtain.” Could have meant anything; all I knew was I didn’t like the count’s breath, which smelled of fish. I’m not a picky eater, but the appeal of fish is lost on me.

  Bernie gave the count a smile, the mouth kind, the eyes and the rest of his face not joining in. “A lot of people have underestimated Chet,” he said.

  “No offense intended,” the count said. He took out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?” he said.

  “No thanks,” Bernie said, but his eyes were glued to that pack.

  “Of course not,” said the count, lighting up and taking a deep drag. “You Americans,” he said.

  Yeah, we were Americans, me and Bernie. So?

  The count blew out a long, thin smoke cloud. Ah, wonderful smell, always sharpened my appetite for some reason. “The fact is,” the count said, “I am a dog lover.” He tapped ashes
off his cigarette. They floated down past my nose, and all of a sudden I was sneezing. Hadn’t sneezed in some time: it took me completely by surprise. When I came out of it, the count was saying, “. . . familiar with the dog show world, Mr. Little?”

  “Call me Bernie,” said Bernie. “And no, not really.”

  “And you call me Lorenzo,” the count said. “Lorenzo the Magnificent.”

  “Excuse me?” said Bernie.

  “Ha, ha, just my little joke,” the count said. He held up his hand, thumb and finger touching; his fingernails were polished and shiny. “What I need you to understand about the dog show world is the ruthlessness.”

  “Ruthlessness?”

  “I refer to the owners.” The count patted his pockets, produced a checkbook and a gold pen. “What was your arrangement with Adelina?”

  “Two thousand a day.”

  “Dollars or euros?” said the count. Euros? A new one on me:

  what was he trying to pull?

  “Dollars,” said Bernie. Whew. Not so easy to put one over on Bernie, amigo.

  The count flipped open the checkbook and started writing.

  “Suppose we begin with a retainer of, say, three thousand?”

  “Fine,” said Bernie.

  The count handed over the check. We were back in funds! “Allow me to advance a theory,” the count said, not quite letting go of the check, he and Bernie holding it together. “Princess, not Adelina, was the target.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Didn’t I just explain? The ruthlessness of the show world. Are you familiar with the expression ‘cui bono’?”

  Bernie nodded. I knew Bono, too, from a period where Bernie played “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” over and over until I wanted to . . . I don’t know, something bad. But how Bono fit into this whole—

  “Then who would benefit more than Princess’s rivals?” the count said.

  “She has rivals?” said Bernie.

  “Bitter, bitter rivals, Bernie. Do you know how badly they want to win next week? If you will pardon the pun—it is a dog-eat-dog world.”

  Oh, how I hated that one. I shifted closer to the count’s nearest leg. That boot looked thick, and there was the spur to deal with, but still I—all at once, Bernie’s foot slid in front of me, blocking any move I may or may not have been planning.

  “I would begin,” the count was saying, “if you don’t mind my advice, with Babycakes.”

  “Babycakes?”

  “Formally known as Sherm’s Lucky Roll,” the count said. “Owned by Sherman Ganz of Las Vegas.”

  “Did you mention this to the police?” Bernie said.

  “I was not impressed with the police. Aldo can fill you in on the details.” The count rose, letting go of the check.

  Stick it in your pocket, Bernie, quick.

  NINE

  Most of our meetings with Metro PD took place in the parking lot of Donut Heaven. We’d park cop style, Bernie’s door facing the driver’s side door of the cruiser, steam rising out of the open windows from their paper cups.

  “Chet like crullers?” Lieutenant Stine said.

  Humans, at a moment like this, often say, “Does the bear shit in the woods?” Not totally sure why, and I’ve never seen a bear, except on the Discovery Channel, and that was close enough.

  “He just had a treat,” Bernie said. “I don’t think he’s really hungr—” But by that time I’d kind of left the shotgun seat and was more or less leaning over Bernie, my nose just about out his window. Lieutenant Stine tossed a cruller through the small space between the cars, and I caught it. I’m a pretty good catcher—Bernie and I have this great game we play with a Frisbee. Once we entered a contest, and if it hadn’t been for this squirrel appearing at the most unlikely—but maybe I’ll have time to get to that later. I took the cruller back to my seat and had some quiet time.

  “Who’s working the Borghese case?” Bernie said.

  Lieutenant Stine, chomping on a big mouthful, pointed to himself. Bernie started telling him all about our get-together at the count’s ranch. So complicated, even the second time around. I held on to the essential details: Adelina and Princess were missing, two grand a day.

  “What is a count, anyway?” said Lieutenant Stine.

  “Some kind of nobleman,” Bernie said.

  “Nobleman,” said the lieutenant. “Christ.”

  “Yeah,” said Bernie.

  “That means he’s rich?”

  “Wild Bill Hickok stayed at that ranch,” Bernie said.

  “That makes him rich?”

  “I’m just saying it’s an important ranch in terms of our history,” Bernie said. “But thirty thousand unspoiled acres, plus a co-op in Manhattan and a villa in Umbria, and God knows what else—that’s what makes him rich.”

  “What does he do? Where does all that money come from?”

  “Probably inherited it,” Bernie said. “That’s the nobleman part.”

  They sipped their coffee. I polished off the cruller. Delish.

  “Did he mention a rival?” Bernie said.

  The lieutenant flipped through his notebook. “Babycakes?”

  “I was thinking of the owner, Sherman Ganz. You look into him?”

  “Huh?” said Lieutenant Stine. “Guy sets up a felony kidnapping, possible life sentence, on account of he wants to win a dog show?”

  “Exactly,” Bernie said.

  “Don’t pull my chain,” said Lieutenant Stine.

  Once a very bad guy named Gulagov—now sporting an orange jumpsuit up at Central State—got a chain on me. Bernie was the best, but I sided with the lieutenant on this one.

  “When someone rich gets kidnapped, I think ransom,” the lieutenant went on.

  “Any ransom demand?”

  “Not yet,” said the lieutenant. “Doesn’t mean it’s not on the way.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Bernie said. “What else?”

  “Nada,” the lieutenant said. “Went over the limo. It was clean. Questioned the driver and that trainer lady. They didn’t see diddley.”

  That caught my attention. Bernie was a big Bo Diddley fan, sometimes played “Hey Bo Diddley” on his ukulele around the campfire. Was Bo Diddley a suspect in the Borghese case? That was going to get Bernie upset.

  A voice crackled over the lieutenant’s radio. He spoke into his mouthpiece. Then came some back-and-forth I missed, partly from the sound being so unclear, partly because of how caught up I was licking cruller dust off the seat. The radio went quiet. “Get that?” said the lieutenant.

  “Some gas station guy spotted a dark green pickup outside Rio Loco?”

  “Going a hundred and ten.” The cruiser’s engine started up. “Wanna come check it out?”

  “No sense both of us driving out there.”

  Lieutenant Stine tilted up his cup and drained it. “Meaning?” he said.

  “We’ll just poke around a little.”

  “Poke anything interesting, I need to know.”

  “Likewise,” said Bernie.

  “Likewise isn’t the way it works,” the lieutenant said. “You should know that by now. I’m the law and I’ve got needs. You’re not the law and all you’ve got is wants.” They gave each other a long look, not particularly friendly. “Enjoy the day,” said Lieutenant Stine.

  Of course I would. Went without saying.

  We’d driven to Vegas before, me and Bernie. Ages and ages to get out of the Valley, then a stretch of open desert where Bernie’s hands relaxed on the wheel, and maybe we had some music—in this case “Sway” by the Stones, over and over, Bernie singing at the top of his lungs, something about demon life, and then saying, “Mick Taylor, Chet, listen to that—they were at their best.” All beyond me, and I would have preferred Roy Eldridge and his trumpet, but it was always nice to see Bernie having fun. Pretty soon the open stretch closed in, and we hit Vegas. The sun was setting and the sky turned all sorts of colors, not my strong suit. We d
rove down a broad street lit up even wilder than the sky. Bernie’s hands were tense again. He hated Vegas. “All this is just a mirror, Chet,” he said. “Reflecting what? Good question. Some horrible corner of the human soul—there’s no other answer.” I came so close to getting that! Mirrors I knew, of course, had barked at what turned out to be myself in them more than once.

  Not long after that, we stopped at a gate in a quieter part of town, tile roofs showing over the tops of walls, tall palm trees everywhere. A guard let us in. We followed a long curving road, parked by a fountain in front of a huge house. Lit-up jets of water flew in the air, fell splashing down into a pool. Was that a big fat fish swimming around in there? I’d never actually caught a fish before—never even had a fighting chance, to tell the truth—so this seemed like a real stroke of—

  “Che—et?”

  The big fat fish flicked its tail and swam away, not fast, very catchable. But maybe this wasn’t the time. Soon we were in the house, following a maid through a bunch of enormous rooms. I smelled one of my guys right away. The smell got stronger and stronger, and then we entered a room lined with books from floor to ceiling. A gray-haired man with a trim gray beard sat on a leather chair in one corner, a book in his hand, and one of my guys—one of my guys who looked a lot like Princess—in his lap. We’d found her already? We were getting good, me and Bernie.

  “Mr. Ganz?” Bernie said. The gray-haired man nodded and said something back, missed by me, because at that moment I caught the scent of the little lap guy, quite different from Princess’s, missing a peppery something in hers that I realized I kind of liked. I was taking a deep sniff or two when I got the feeling they were talking about me.

  “Oh, yes,” Bernie was saying. “Perfectly safe with small dogs.”

  “Babycakes?” Mr. Ganz said. “Want to play with the nice big doggie?”

  Babycakes had big dark eyes, maybe not as a big and dark as Princess’s but more liquid. They turned on me like deep shadowy pools; then Babycakes made a tiny little squeak and snuggled deeper in Mr. Ganz’s lap. “Poor Babycakes,” said Mr. Ganz, stroking that golf-ball-size head. He looked up at Bernie. “We can’t have any sort of emotional upset,” he said, “not with the show coming so soon.”