A Fistful of Collars Read online

  Scratch, scratch, click. “Quiet as a mouse, now,” Bernie said, one of those human expressions that made no sense, mice being very noisy, especially considering their small size. He pushed the door open and we went inside. We moved—Bernie as quietly as he could, me silent—through a bare room, nothing in it but empty bottles and cans, past stairs leading up, and into the room with the card table that we’d seen through the window. Bernie picked a rubber band off the table and gazed at it for a moment. Then he pulled back on it, sort of like a bow and arrow—don’t get me started on those bow hunters we chased down out in Agua Roja—and snapped it across the room. It made a thwap against the window, a brand-new sound for me—I’d heard plenty of thwaps, but never so tiny—and was hoping Bernie would do the rubber band thing again. He did not. We turned and climbed the stairs.

  There were two small rooms upstairs, plus a bathroom in between. Nothing in the first room, except for more empties. The bathroom had a towel on the floor and a medicine cabinet hanging open, a toothbrush and a razor inside. A bar of soap lay on the floor, white soap but with a little red blot at one end. Bernie bent down, gave it a close look, didn’t touch it. When he rose he had the .38 Special in his hand.

  What a surprise! Loved the .38 Special! Hadn’t seen it in way too long, and Bernie’s a crack shot. Was gunplay coming up? Just what we needed, me and Bernie; no idea why I thought that, but I did.

  The door to the last room was open a crack. Bernie gave it a hard kick and we went in fast. And then slowed right down.

  The last room had a mattress on the floor. The tattooed guy lay on it, tucked in under a white sheet, all except for his head, his slicked-back hair still slicked-back, neat and tidy. Eyes closed: he might have been sleeping, except for the red stain where the sheet covered his chest. This was a little confusing because dead humans start to smell different right away, and I wasn’t quite picking up—

  His eyes opened. He looked right at me. “Outlaw?” he said. I looked right back at him. Was the red stain getting bigger? I thought so.

  “Who’s an outlaw?” Bernie said.

  The tattooed dude’s eyes shifted, real slow, over to Bernie. “You a cop?” he said.

  “No,” said Bernie, lowering the .38 Special.

  “Look like a cop,” the tattooed dude said. “And you’re dumb like a—” He coughed a little cough. A red bubble appeared on his lips, got bigger, and popped like a balloon. I’m no fan of popping balloons. “—like a cop,” the tattooed dude went on.

  Bernie took out his cell phone, pressed some buttons.

  “What the hell you think you’re doin’?” the tattooed dude said.

  “Getting help,” Bernie told him. He spoke quickly into the phone, then put it away. “Who did this to you?”

  The tattooed dude gave Bernie a cold look, then closed his eyes.

  “Was it Jiggs?” Bernie said.

  The tattooed dude’s eyelids twitched, like they might be about to open back up, but remained closed. “Dumb like a cop,” he said. “No question.”

  “Then give me some help,” Bernie said. “Who’s the outlaw?”

  The tattooed dude’s eyes opened. “There’s no outlaw, you stupid fuck.” His gaze shifted back over to me. The expression in his eyes changed. I got the feeling he was about to smile, kind of crazy in a situation like this. “Outlaw’s a dog,” he said. No smile came.

  “Whose dog is he?” Bernie said.

  “Think you’re gonna open me up like a tin can?” said the tattooed dude.

  “Too late for that,” said Bernie. “Someone already opened you up, but good.” The tattooed guy winced, like Bernie had just hit him, something Bernie would never ever do when a dude was down. “I can make them pay,” Bernie said. “Just need the name.”

  The tattooed dude’s eyes closed. “Not how we do things, bud,” he said.

  “How do you do things?” said Bernie.

  No answer. I heard distant sirens. And then I smelled the smell, absolutely beyond doubt. So how come the tattooed dude’s eyes opened again? No idea.

  He turned his head sideways a bit, maybe to see Bernie better. A red drop appeared at the corner of his lips. “We take care of business ourselves,” he said.

  “How’s that working out?” said Bernie.

  The tattooed dude started to give Bernie a real nasty look, but before he had the nastiness dialed all the way up, he got interrupted by another cough, not much of a cough, even gentler than the first. But out of his mouth rushed whole big blobs of blood, one after another. I barked once, but real sharp and loud; couldn’t help it.

  The tattooed dude’s eyes, blurry now, moved back to me. He licked his lips and in a very soft voice, just a breath of air, said, “Ramon.”

  “Who’s Ramon?” Bernie said.

  The tattooed dude’s eyes got blurrier and blurrier, and then, in an instant, lost their shine, their glow, or whatever it is that living eyes have. The siren sound grew louder.

  Bernie glanced at the window, turned to me, and said, “Not much time.”

  For what? I didn’t know. Bernie started searching the room. He checked the closet—empty except for one shirt on a hanger and one pair of shoes on the floor—took down a mirror and tapped on the wall behind it; and then there was nowhere to check but the bed.

  Bernie pulled back the sheet. There was blood, but I’d seen more, plenty of times. What there was of it had leaked out of a little slit in the front of his wifebeater, the kind of slit a knife makes. The tattooed dude was also wearing jeans and still had on his sneakers. Bernie felt in his pockets, first the front, and then, tipping him sideways a bit, the back. That was where he found a wallet. He flipped it open, took out a driver’s license.

  “Manuel D. Chavez,” he said. “No money.” He turned to the dead man. “Where’s all that money, Manuel? Or at least the bundle you stuck in your pocket?”

  Talking to the dead man? That bothered me, even though it was Bernie. I barked, kind of sharply again. Bernie glanced at me. “What?” he said. Then he had a thought—I could almost see it moving behind his eyes—and said, “You’re a good boy.” At that moment, my tail started up behind me and I knew everything was back to being cool between me and Bernie. He put a hand on Manuel D. Chavez’s middle to steady him, raised the mattress, then did the same thing on the other side: nothing under that mattress but crushed dust balls. Now the sirens were right outside.

  We were kind of crowded in the little room: me, Bernie, Rick, a couple cops—Floyd and Oona—plus the body, which was what we were all looking at. Except for me, at least part of the time, on account of some cruller crumbs—no question about it—caught in Rick’s mustache.

  “Seen him around,” said Oona.

  “You’re thinkin’ of that other guy,” said Floyd. Floyd was the redheaded type, always interesting, with pale skin and eyes of almost no color at all.

  Oona, real small, hat maybe a bit big for her, dreads hanging to her shoulders, gave him an annoyed glance. “Seen this one around,” she said. “Gangbanger.”

  Floyd shook his head. “Other guy. With the scar.”

  Oona looked about to say something back, but before she could, Rick handed the license to Floyd and said, “Run this on the computer.”

  Floyd nodded, one of those nods that says yes and means no—you see that a lot in the cop world—and left the room. Human nodding: too big a subject for going into now.

  “This is Chet?” Oona said. “I’ve heard so much about him.”

  Hey! A tiny thing, no more than a kid, but she was going places.

  “He’s so beautiful.” Like right to the top, for example. “Can I pat him, uh, Bobby?”

  “Bernie,” said Bernie, a bit irritated for some reason.

  Oona gave me a pat. A nice one, although nothing like the kind of patting Tulip and Autumn, two friends of ours who worked for Livia Moon at her house of ill repute in Pottsdale, were capable of.

  “Oona?” Rick said. “Maybe you can give Floyd a hand.”


  “Yes, boss,” said Oona, out the door in a flash.

  “Got my eye on her,” Rick said.

  “You’re a married man,” said Bernie.

  “Professionally,” Rick said, maybe becoming aware of those cruller crumbs at last and licking them off his mustache. “She’s an up-and-comer.”

  “Calling you ‘boss’? That’s all it takes?”

  “More than enough.” Rick turned to the body. “So what’s the story with Manny, here?”

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  “Couldn’t or won’t?” Rick said.

  “Never seen him before today,” Bernie said.

  “But he was alive when you got here.”

  “Told you that already.”

  “So you got something out of him,” Rick said. “I know you.”

  “He was incoherent,” Bernie said.

  Rick gave Bernie a long look. “I’ll believe you for the moment,” he said. “What got you interested in this address in the first place?”

  “Sorry, Rick. Can’t talk about that without my client’s permission.”

  Rick’s face changed, darkening and even swelling a bit. Uhoh. Maybe they weren’t getting along. Not good: Rick was one of our best pals.

  “Working on something besides the movie gig?” he said.

  “We’re busy these days,” Bernie said. Nice to hear, especially if it meant getting paid. But as for other jobs, I couldn’t think of any.

  Rick took a deep breath—a way humans have of trying to change things inside—and his face came back to normal. “Anyone can get in over his head,” he said. “Even you.”

  Floyd appeared in the doorway, his movements very quiet. He didn’t notice me; some humans are like that when it comes to us in the nation within. Floyd’s eyes, pale and watchful, were on Bernie.

  “Uh, excuse me,” he said. Bernie and Rick turned to him. “Deceased was in the system,” Floyd said. He checked his notebook. “Did a year at Central State for a B and E in South P, also got an assault collar, plus a domestic violence, charges dropped.” He looked up. “And the ME’s waiting downstairs.”

  Rick nodded, then turned to Bernie like he was going to say one more thing, but he didn’t. We passed the ME on her way up. She gave me a quick pat as she went by. You meet a lot of nice people in this business, even some of the perps and gangbangers.

  When we got home, a big silver car stood in the driveway.

  “Wonder who—” Bernie began, and then the front doors opened and out stepped Leda—and Charlie! Hadn’t seen him in way too long. We pulled in beside the silver car and I hopped out, possibly while we were still rolling. Had Bernie said something about that, maybe more than once? I had a faint memory. It grew fainter and then vanished completely. By that time, I was giving Charlie a great big greeting.

  “For God’s sake, Charlie,” Leda said. “Think of the germs.”

  “He’s just kissing me, Mom.”

  Leda hurried over and wiped Charlie’s face with a tissue.

  “Ch—et?” Bernie said in this special voice he has, just for me. I calmed right down, trotted around in a little circle, raised my leg against a tree we’ve got just for that purpose, Bernie says, and then sat beside Charlie. He gave me a grin. There’s no grin like Charlie’s and not just because of his smooth round face and jumble of teeth, some big, some little. It’s all about the whole of him grinning, hard to explain.

  Bernie turned to Leda. “Uh, hi,” he said.

  “Hello, Bernie,” said Leda. She has light-colored eyes that sometimes reminded me of ice, but not now. Kind of surprisingly, she was looking at Bernie in a warm sort of way. “Hope you don’t mind us dropping in.”

  “Um,” said Bernie. “No, no, of course not. Any, ah, time.” He glanced at the silver car. “New wheels?”

  “Birthday present from Malcolm,” Leda said. Malcolm was the boyfriend, was doing very well in apps, whatever that meant, and had long skinny toes.

  “Oh, right,” Bernie said. “Happy birthday.”

  Leda laughed, made a little sweeping-away gesture with her hand, her bracelet sparkling in the light. What were those things she liked? Diamonds? They had led to an unfortunate incident in pre-divorce days, although we’d gotten the necklace back just as Amy had promised—she’s the vet, a big woman with a nice voice and careful hands, but I always shook the moment I entered her waiting room. Forget all that. The point was . . . gone.

  “. . . new car, too?” Leda was saying. “Are those martini glasses on the side?”

  “Nixon’s idea,” said Bernie.

  “Unusual,” Leda said.

  “Can we go for a ride?” said Charlie.

  Bernie turned to Leda.

  “Why not?” she said. “In fact, if it’s all right with your father, maybe you could stay here for dinner while I do some quick shopping.”

  “Uh, sure,” said Bernie, looking a bit confused. I was confused, too. Was this an every-second weekend or Christmas? I didn’t think so. But bottom line: great news!

  Leda gave Charlie a quick kiss, didn’t wipe it off with tissues, and got in her car. Backing out, she slid down her window and said, “Guess what Charlie’s class is doing this term.”

  I waited for one of Bernie’s quick comebacks, but all he said was, “No idea.” He was a different man around Leda.

  “Making a movie,” said Leda.

  “He’s in second grade,” Bernie said.

  “A six-minute movie,” said Leda, “all about the history of the school. We were thinking it might be a big help if he could visit a real movie set. No interference with your job, of course. I’d be happy to bring him.”

  Bernie’s mouth opened. He might have said “oh” or “um.”

  Leda backed down the driveway. “On a day when they’re shooting a scene with Thad Perry, if possible,” she called through the window.

  ELEVEN

  That was quick thinking,” Bernie said. We were back in the movie bar—now deserted except for me, Bernie, and Arn, the writer dude—waiting for Thad Perry to finish napping and emerge from his trailer.

  “Not following you,” Arn said, taking out a pack of cigarettes. His hands trembled a bit; you see that in humans, but usually ones much older than Arn. He lit up.

  “When you came up with that revised dialogue on the spot,” Bernie said, eyes on the plume of tobacco smoke. Bernie had quit smoking again, not too long ago. Quitting smoking was something Bernie did a lot. He was great at it.

  Arn shook his head. He had dark circles under his eyes and needed a shave, a haircut, new clothes, a shoe shine. “It’s out,” he said.

  “That line about ‘looking for someone, friend?’” Bernie said.

  “Some thing,” Arn said. “Not some one. Lars saw last night’s rushes, didn’t think it worked. And now the whole goddamn scene’s up in the air.”

  “The bar fight scene?” Bernie said. “How’s the story going to work without that?”

  Arn gave Bernie a surprised look. “You’ve read the script?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You’re, uh . . .”

  “Bernie. And this is Chet.”

  Arn took a deep drag on his cigarette, peering at me over the glowing tip. “I’m allergic to dogs,” he said.

  I’d heard that one before, more than once, still didn’t get it. Maybe Bernie didn’t, either, because he said nothing, just gazed at Arn in a way that could have meant anything. I loved that look! Bernie’s a pretty tough guy—don’t forget that. I’ve seen bad things happen to those who did.

  “You’re with Thad in some capacity?” Arn said.

  Bernie shook his head. “Mayor’s office, more or less.” He gave Arn a look he has that means go on, press me on this one, but Arn did not. Instead Arn sighed and said, “You’re in select company—I’m not sure even Lars has read the whole thing.” He shot Bernie a sideways look. “What did you think of it?”

  “I’m not qualified to judge,” Bernie said.

  �
��Go on,” said Arn. “I won’t bite.”

  “I know that,” Bernie said.

  The lines in Arn’s forehead deepened, like he didn’t care for that remark, but why? Of course he wouldn’t bite! His teeth were small, and so was his mouth, now that I considered it: no chomping power there at all. We’d run across one or two human biters in our work; they’d come back down to earth when I showed them what real biting was all about.

  “But,” Bernie was saying, “I’ve got one or two misgivings about the historical record.”

  “Misgivings?” Arn said. He sucked on what remained of his cigarette, just the stub. “Historical record?” I was with him, not following Bernie at all.

  “For one thing,” Bernie said, “you’ve got the waterways dry like they are today. Fact is, water ran in all of them back then, at least seasonally.”

  “Yeah?” said Arn, not sounding interested in the least.

  “And if,” Bernie said, his voice sharpening, “Thad’s really supposed to become a territorial ranger just before the blood brothers scene, then you’ll have to change the date—the territorial rangers weren’t formed until 1860.”

  “Hmph,” said Arn. He dropped the cigarette butt on the floor. “Here’s the thing, Bernie. You’re not in the industry so there’s no way you’d know this. Movies—going way back, right to the beginning—create their own truth. Life imitates art, as we now know only too well.”

  Bernie gave him a long look, then ground the cigarette butt under his heel. “What do you do with all the money?” he said.

  “All what money?” said Arn. Then he did a thing humans sometimes do, blowing out through a mostly closed mouth so their lips flutter and make a b-b-b-b-b-b sound. Love when they do that, although the meaning isn’t clear to me. “Goddamn Hollywood Reporter,” he said. “See, Bernie, out here in the sti—” Arn stopped himself, started fresh. “In some parts of the country a certain sum of money may sound impressive, but it’s not, trust me. Not in Hollywood terms. Did the Hollywood Reporter include the facts that I’m paying a double shot of alimony, carrying three houses—four if you include the ski place at Jackson Hole, and—”