Back in the car, I was thinking along the lines of whether there was a cantina in Los Pozos, and if so would it have an alley in back, where … where certain encounters might take place? Bernie looked very thoughtful. Was he also thinking cantina thoughts? I couldn’t tell, but very soon we were out of Los Pozos so that was that.
“When Charlie’s twelve, I wonder if he’ll be…” Bernie began. That was followed by a quiet spell and then he laughed and said, “No way.”
Meanwhile the moon was sliding down the sky. From time to time, Bernie tapped the brakes, cut the headlights, and peered all around. Why? I had no idea. All I really knew was that our wallet was empty, although on the plus side we had Tildy’s piece of cardboard. I sat up nice and tall, like the kind of dude who knows exactly what’s going on and why. And all at once I was that dude. Or just about. Was that how it worked? How nice to learn new things!
Bernie got on the phone.
“Hey, Lou. It’s me.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” said Captain Stine.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Bernie said.
“What’s good for you,” said Stine.
Then came a long silence. We were bumping along on this bad road but somehow Bernie was sitting very still, his eyes greenish in the glow from the dash. The sight reminded me of Gudrun’s eyes, and that led—funny how the mind works—to Bernie and Gudrun and that kiss on her deck, high over the Valley. Gudrun was no friend of mine. Bernie was … well, Bernie. So we had a big problem, except the kissing had stopped mid-kiss and pronto for some reason, and the next thing I knew we were out of there. Problem or no problem? I had no answer. Sometimes the mind is no help at all.
“Bernie? Still there? Disturbed my sleep just to give me the silent treatment?”
“There must be a list of licensed helo pilots in the state,” Bernie said.
“Are you musing out loud or asking a question?” said Stine.
“I need to know if a man named Mason Venatti is on it. And if he is I want the full CV.”
We were back where those cliffs rose on both sides of the road.
“Any point in me asking why?” said Stine.
“First let’s see—”
“Not hearing you—”
“First—”
“You’ve gone all—”
Bernie glanced up at the cliffs. “Lost him,” he said. We drove on, came to where the cliffs ended in softly rounded hills, and there, again parked across the road, stood the black roofless pickup with the roll bar.
“A two-way toll?” Bernie stopped the car.
We sat. Were we waiting for the two dudes to come over and collect more money? That wasn’t going to be easy, what with Pepita now having all our cash. Would we have to return to Los Pozos and ask for it back? This was turning out to be a complicated night. Plus I was getting hungry. And not just getting—I was all the way there, big time. Was there any food at all in the car? Even a stale biscuit would have been a start. One quick sniff and I had the answer, not a good one.
We waited. The dudes seemed in no hurry. I could see their silhouettes in the moonlight, one sitting up straight in the passenger seat, the driver slumped a bit, possibly napping. Napping? Good grief. I was famished. Bernie! Do something!
Then came a surprise, and a welcome one: Bernie opened the car door and said, “Let’s move these guys along.”
Did this mean I could get Bernie to do things just by thinking them? Could I have been doing it all this time? I hopped out, trotted up beside him. Bernie? How about scratching between my ears in that spot I can’t get to? On the way home, let’s swing by Dry Gulch Steakhouse and Saloon for steak tips. After that we can buy a new Frisbee—the old one’s getting ratty—and play some fetch. Then we’ll probably be hungry again—am I going too fast?—so we could head for—
I glanced at Bernie. Was he getting all this? I couldn’t tell. His eyes were on the pickup and he was on high alert. Bernie has a high-alert smell I don’t miss. I was also picking up another smell, also of a kind I don’t miss, namely blood. We walked closer, reached the point where Bernie would usually say “Hey” or “Hi” or something else to let folks—especially trigger-happy types—know that we were in the area. But Bernie said nothing. We went right up to the pickup.
Both our dudes had round holes right in the middle of their foreheads, round holes that had bled a little and stopped. Those bloody holes looked silvery in the moonlight. Then a line of clouds, like a lid, slid over the moon and the holes turned black.
Bernie walked slowly around the pickup. “A cartel thing? I just don’t—”
At that moment I picked up one more smell to go with the Bernie-on-high-alert smell and the drying-blood smell. I’d first learned this new smell way back in K-9 school. I’d flunked out on the very last day, in case you’ve forgotten, but that’s not the point. Oh, but if only …
Never mind that. The point was this new smell, a very important smell, kind of like a mixture of Legos and wet clay. That smell means business. I ran right up to Bernie, faced him, looked him in the eye and barked a single bark, a bark that also means business.
“What’s up, Chet?”
I barked once more, not an especially loud bark, but very sharp. Bernie glanced around. As for what he was seeing, my guess was not much. With the moon gone it was very dark and humans are pretty much blind in the very dark. We do better in the nation within. I could make out the expression in Bernie’s eyes, a look he gets when he’s thinking real fast. Then, all at once, he said “Let’s go,” giving me a little push to get me started. Imagine that! And me, a self-starter if there ever was one!
We ran—Bernie at top speed for him, me in what you might call a medium trot—across the road, up the slope that led to the cliff, toward a big boulder. I scrambled in behind it, just knowing that was what Bernie wanted me to do, and he threw himself on top of me. I struggled around, trying to get on top of him.
And then: KABOOM!
A tremendous kaboom that shook the air, the earth, and me and Bernie, too. The sky overhead caught fire, orange flames shooting out, some straight up, some sideways, some at us. Hard metal things zinged all around, thwacking into the ground and pinging off the face of our boulder.
Then, just like that, almost a reverse kaboom, if that makes any sense, it was over. The flames died out, the zinging and pinging stopped, the night went still. There were smells, of course, smoke, hot metal, burned plastic, burned, well, meat, I’m sorry to mention, but that was it.
“You okay, Chet?”
Perfectly fine.
“Good job. One of your very best.”
I thumped my tail on the ground, maybe thumped it a few more times. I felt tip-top. Mess with us, my friends? Who’s next?
Meanwhile there was nothing going on. Back home we’d be having sirens, and people running around, and lots of chatter, but none of that was happening. I peered out from behind the boulder, made out the twisted form of the remains of the pickup and the dark slope rising from the far side of the road.
“Stay,” Bernie said, his voice very quiet. He had the .38 Special in his hand.
“Stay” is a biggie in our lives. We stayed, me and Bernie. We don’t mess around with the biggies. And if we do, there has to be a real good reason. Slim Jims just out of reach, for example.
But now, behind our boulder on this night that now seemed even quieter than silent, which can happen after a big boom, there were no Slim Jims, no reason at all not to stay. The wind came up. The clouds thinned out and moonlight shone through, although the moon itself remained hidden. Then the clouds thickened and the night darkened again. I’m a lover of the night. I love daytime, too, but isn’t there something about the night? You must have noticed.
“If it’s the cartels,” Bernie said, “there won’t be anyone here till daylight. But if it’s…”
How nice to hear Bernie’s thoughts, even just some of them. Or especially just some of them. All his thoughts would probably have been a little too much. There’s only so much brilliance us ordinary brains can handle at once. As for the cartels, we’d once had dealings with a guy called El Primo who offered to pay us big green if we’d—
What was that?
A very soft crunch, coming from somewhere on the slope across the road. I straightened up, sat very still, just at the edge of the boulder. Bernie crouched behind me, his hands on my shoulders, his head over mine.
“Can’t see a goddamn thing,” he said very softly.
Crunch. And another, and some more. But quiet crunches, the kind made by someone who knows how to move in the dark, even when the footing’s tricky. Then a man-shaped shadow—a big man-shaped shadow—separated itself from the greater shadow of the slope and came down onto the road.
A man, for sure. He approached what was left of the pickup, walked slowly around it, went closer. He seemed to make movements with one of his legs. Poking his foot into the wreckage? I thought so. Then he started around the pickup again, this time in a larger circle. He was coming our way when the clouds parted and the moon appeared, brighter than I’d ever seen it. The moonlight turned the shadow-man into a real man, a very big man with a trim beard, kind of handsome except for the cauliflower ear. It was Mason Venatti. He had a short, stubby sort of rifle slung over one shoulder, and was looking down the road.
Bernie stepped away from me, raised the .38 Special. “Mason! Hands up!”
Mason whipped around toward us. He did not put his hands up. Instead—so quick for such a big man—he threw himself on the ground, rolled, twisted, and started firing.
THUNK THUNK THUNK, THUNK THUNK THUNK.
Oh, no. Automatic fire. I knew automatic fire from K-9 school, something you never wanted to deal with. Bernie, too, hit the ground, also twisted around, and seemed to kick at me with his legs, as though to shove me back behind the boulder. What a crazy idea!
THUNK THUNK, THUNK THUNK.
“Ewph.” Bernie made a little sound. Was he hit? I got ready to charge across the road and—
“Chet! No!”
THUNK THUNK, THUNK—
And then Bernie, on his knees, got off his first shot. CRACK!
Mason cried out, put a hand to his chest, slumped backwards, the machine gun falling onto the road. I heard him breathing—hard breathing, like he’d just run a race—and perhaps a soft gurgle.
Bernie rose and walked slowly toward him, the .38 Special pointed right at Mason’s head. I walked with him, side by side. When we reached Mason, Bernie kicked the machine gun away. I sat on it, the only idea I had at that moment.
Bernie gazed down at Mason. Mason gazed up at him. His hands, still clutching his chest, were soaked with blood, like they were getting a coat of molten silver. He opened his mouth. Blood leaked out, but not a lot, not like what was pouring from his chest. He tried to spit it away, couldn’t get his lips to work. But he could talk.
“You’re fucking doomed,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
“Wrong,” said Bernie. “It’s chin music. I was slow on the uptake, that’s all.”
Mason hated that remark. I could see it in his eyes. A moment later there was nothing. I’d caught last looks in the eyes of a number of men—I’m a pro, don’t forget—last looks full of pain, or fear, or even peace, but this one, hatred, was a first.
We examined Bernie’s leg in the moonlight. There seemed to be a chunk missing from the side of the thigh.
“Just a scratch,” Bernie said.
Whew! Was I glad to hear that or what? Bernie got out the first-aid kit, patched himself up, a patch that bled through so he did it again, way better this time. He found a fresh pair of jeans under my seat and we hit the road.
The first milky light was poking into the sky when the phone buzzed.
“Hey, Bernie, Lou. Lost you back there. Everything okay?”
“Yup.”
“Got some info on that name, Mason Venatti. Bottom line—watch your step around him.”
“Yeah?”
“Former marine helo pilot, decorated many times, but ended up with a dishonorable discharge, involved in some sort of atrocity, although that’s not the word in the file. Killed a man in a barroom brawl outside of San Antonio two years ago, self-defense, according to the jury. Now doing some sort of contract work for Lobb and Edmonds. That’s a fancy pants law firm downtown, in case you don’t know.”
“Uh-huh,” Bernie said.
“Any idea why they’d want a type like that?”
“I’ll ask around.”
“You don’t want to mix it up with this guy,” Stine said.
“I hear you,” said Bernie.