There’s a nice little park across from the courthouse. We waited there in the late afternoon, Bernie on a bench, me underneath, the heat of the day still strong but tiny breezes starting to stir. Were we going inside? I’d done some work in the courthouse during my career, once as Exhibit A. The judge had slipped me a Rover and Company biscuit, my very favorite, from under his black robe. I’d even gotten to know a few members of the jury. The walls of that little box they sit in is not high at all. They could have easily jumped out of it at any time. Why didn’t they? I’d been thinking along those lines when I … did whatever I did, and soon after that I’d been back out here in this very park! Wow! Sometimes you just have to sit back and say, What’s this all about? Although I never do.
From inside the courthouse came—at least to me—the sound of humans on the move—the heavy-footed, the light-footed, the sneaker-wearing, high-heelers, wing-tippers, and flip-floppers, all of them in a hurry. The front doors opened and out they came in a big mob, which was when Bernie became aware of what was going on.
“Five o’clock whistle,” he said. Whistle? There’d been no whistle, but if Bernie said … I listened my hardest and … and from far beyond the Valley, came the faintest, tiniest woo-woo of a train, one of those long, long trains you sometimes see out there, like a black line inking itself across the desert. “They just blow that whistle because they’re feeling lonely,” Bernie likes to say. But that’s not the point, which is about his hearing. True, Bernie’s ears aren’t small for a human, but was it really possible he’d heard that train whistle? If he had, then … then I really didn’t know my Bernie. But I did! I did know my Bernie! That had to mean he wasn’t himself for some reason. I gave him a close look, just to see what was going on. Did he seem a little tired? That had to be it.
“Chet? Something up? You’re kind of in my face, big guy.”
Hey! He was right! Our noses were practically touching. How had that happened? I had no clue, but why stop at practically? I pressed my nose right against Bernie’s.
He laughed. “What am I going to do with you?”
What a question! Same as always—chase down perps pedal to the metal! And weren’t we on a roll? First that rooftop dude, who I could hardly remember, and then Florian almost the next day. Or maybe exactly the next day, days having a way of sometimes merging into one another. But nothing beats chasing down perps. Who’s next? Who’s next? Who’s next? Perhaps I was getting a little too excited, almost to the point of pawing at the top of Bernie’s head, or … or, yes, I seemed to be at that point, not much question about it, but Bernie didn’t mind. He laughed again, patted my side, and then paused, his gaze on the courthouse door.
“I think that’s her,” he said, using his business voice. I climbed down at once, turned, and sat at his feet, facing forward, facing the world. When Bernie means business, I mean business.
A not-very-tall but strong-looking woman had appeared on the courthouse stairs. She was towing a wheeled suitcase behind her, with another suitcase on top of it; smallish suitcases or maybe biggish briefcases. Instead of bump-bump-bumping them down the steps, she just lifted them clear with one hand and carried the whole load down to the sidewalk, easy-peasy, all of this in high-heeled shoes. She came into the park, sat on the bench next to ours, took sneakers out of one of those briefcases—yes, a briefcase for sure, full of papers in different slots—and started changing her shoes.
Bernie rose. “Deirdre Dubois?” he said.
The woman turned to us. She had deep dark eyes that reminded me of Suzie’s except they didn’t shine. Suzie’s shone in a way that made me think of moonlight; this woman’s eyes were hotter.
“Yes?” she said, in the kind of tone most humans use for no.
“I’m Bernie Little and this—”
“I know who you are,” said the woman, Deirdre Dubois, if I’d been following this right.
“Have we met?” Bernie said.
“That seems to be happening now,” said Deirdre. “But you’re a PI. I have files complete with photos on every PI in the Valley, the licensed ones and the ones whose licenses I’ve stripped.”
That sounded not very friendly, but Bernie just smiled. “Then you know that Chet here’s my partner.”
“Correct,” Deirdre said. “His K-nine school summary report is part of your file.”
When Bernie gets surprised he looks much younger—you can suddenly find Charlie in his face. It’s an expression you hardly ever see because Bernie’s not easy to surprise, but it was there now.
“I’m thorough, Bernie,” Deirdre said. “I even know he flunked out on the very last day.”
Oh, no! Why did that have to come up? I hoped her file included the part about a cat being involved. Please, Bernie, ask her about the cat part! Please.
But he did not. Instead he stopped looking surprised, instead looked just himself, his very best self. “That was a very lucky day for me.”
“Because you ended up together?”
“Correct.”
Deirdre’s gaze went to me. I gazed back, showing zip, a total pro. Had one of my ears turned inside out for some reason? Unfortunate timing perhaps. Sometimes you just have to carry on. I doubled down on my total pro look.
Deirdre turned to her bag, dropped the high heels inside. “Is this simply a chance meeting, Bernie? Or do you want something?”
“The second.”
“Let me guess. You’re feeling put-out that you made the collar on the Wendell Nero murder and ended up with nothing to show for it. I’ll have my office forward you a check for $500.” She zipped her bag closed. “Anything else?”
“I get it that you’re tough as they come, inside and out,” Bernie said. “So you can ease up a little.” Whoa! He sounded angry? Not by raising his voice—that wasn’t part of his angry sound, more like just the opposite. But why? Five hundred dollars was nothing to sneeze at, as humans like to say. Once I’d seen this coke dealer name of Snorter sneeze on an enormous pile of cash, way more than $500. This happened to take place on a high-rise balcony downtown, but no time for a description of what came next.
Meanwhile Deirdre had gone still. Her color didn’t change, no vein throbbed in her forehead, none of that stuff. But her eyes, hot to begin with, were blazing.
“I don’t want money,” Bernie said.
But … but surely money was part of our business plan. I didn’t understand. Maybe we would be paid in gold or diamonds from now on? I felt better right away.
“What I want,” Bernie went on, “is a meeting with Florian Machado, just the three of us.”
Deirdre’s head shifted slightly back. “Me, you, and him?”
Bernie shook his head. “Chet, me, him.”
“Has Beasley already turned you down?”
“I didn’t ask him.”
“Why not?”
“I’m guessing you have a file on him, too,” said Bernie. “Meaning you already know why not.”
Did I catch a tiny twitch at one corner of Deirdre’s mouth, like a smile was on the way? I wasn’t sure, but probably not, since no smile came.
“Too bad about Sheriff Gooden,” she said. “Maybe he’d have given you the okay. Weren’t you in the military together?”
Bernie nodded. “When’s he coming back to work?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“Beasley said he’s got a pesky gallbladder.”
“Pesky gallbladder?” Deirdre said. “It’s stage four pancreatic cancer. He has a few more weeks, if that.”
Bernie went quiet. Sometimes, not often, I get the feeling he’s far away even though he’s right here. I moved a little closer.
“But back to business,” Deirdre said. “Why do you want to meet with Florian Machado?”
Bernie was slow to answer, like he was waking up. He took a step or two, sat on the end of Deirdre’s bench. “We met Wendell Nero the night before the murder. He asked us to visit him the next morning but didn’t say why.”
“So?”
“So I’d like to know why.”
“And what does Florian Machado have to do with that?”
“Nothing,” Bernie said. “Unless his alibi is true.”
“He was innocently riding around on his ATV, went into the RV on a sudden larcenous impulse, saw the victim with his throat slit from ear to ear but kept from puking long enough to steal the wallet, which he’d never have even considered if he hadn’t been so upset by the gory sight,” Deirdre said. “That alibi?”
“Yeah,” Bernie said.
“Tell you what,” said Deirdre. “I was thinking of offering him a deal—no death penalty in exchange for a guilty plea. But for you I’ll take him to trial. Then if the jury buys his alibi, you’ll be able to question him at leisure.” She smiled at Bernie—just the teeth part, her eyes not joining in.
Bernie has a temper, way way down. I’ve seen it only once or twice, but now felt it waking inside him. Then I felt a sort of internal effort and he put it back to sleep. “What if there’s a small chance—ten percent, five, even one—that Florian’s telling the truth, at least on the most important part?” he said.
“I can live with uncertainty,” said Deirdre. “And I’ll bet you can, too. I’m not reopening the case.” She took a file from one of her bags. “Anything else?”
Their eyes met. Bernie’s were as hard as I’ve ever seen them, but hers were harder. I got a bad feeling about what was coming next, but I never learned what it might have been, because at that moment a woman came running up, a happy-looking woman with a tiny member of the nation within in her arms. In its tiny mouth was a tiny toy.
The happy-looking woman leaned forward and gave Deirdre a nice big kiss. “Hi, babe,” said Deirdre, smiling again, this time her eyes joining in and in a big way. But none of that was important. What mattered was the toy, suddenly slipping from the mouth of the tiny dude—or dudette, in this case—and rolling away on the grass. The dudette scrambled free of the happy-looking woman’s arms and chased after the toy. How cute! Would you look at those teensy-weensy legs, just churning away, although her forward progress was just about nothing. Because I’m the kind who believes in fair play, I waited till she was almost there, one or two teensy steps from that toy—a very interesting toy, it turned out, part lopsided ball and part chewy—before soaring right over her, snatching up the toy, barreling around a tree, leaping over a bench, charging onto a basketball court I hadn’t even noticed before, jumping right up to one of those hoops just as a basketball was on its way in, batting it away with a twist of my head—uh-oh, possibly a no-no called goaltending, but not to worry because by then I’d put a lot of distance between me and the court, in fact was zigzagging across the park, paws digging in, clods of earth flying, toy still securely in my grip, and—Bernie suddenly in sight! There he was, my Bernie, now on his feet in front of the bench, Deirdre and the other woman also standing, all of them with their eyes and mouths wide open. The tiny dudette was right where I’d last seen her, sort of bouncing up and down, mostly on her hind legs, barking the tiniest barks I’d ever heard. I dialed right down to a slow trot and for absolutely no reason at all dropped the toy—a very nice toy, by the way, with unusually pleasant mouth feel—right at the dudette’s feet. What furious little eyes she had! Just adorable. She snapped up the toy and hurried back to the bench, where Deirdre’s friend—if I’d gotten things right—scooped her up. Then they were all watching me.
I sat down, calm and professional, and watched them back. It got very quiet. I actually heard that deep desert train whistle again, now from even farther away.
Deirdre turned to Bernie. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said.
“First, Chet, a little detour.”
We were back on the road, Bernie behind the wheel, me in the shotgun seat, the sun low, the sky starting to get that fiery glow. In short, everything was great, except for one thing, namely that there was no sign of a detour, like a roadblock, guys in vests waving stop signs, cops lounging around and chewing gum. But if Bernie said we were taking a detour, then that was that. Actually, now that I looked around, a very nice detour, into a quiet hilly neighborhood that was new to me, the houses not big and fancy, and also kind of old, but nice at the same time. Were there other neighborhoods like this in the Valley? Not that I remembered, but don’t take that to the bank, especially not our bank where things were a bit awkward, as I may have already mentioned.
We turned into a circular drive, parked in front of a low but longish adobe building, and went inside. Right away I smelled some hospital-type smells, as well as the smells of old humans, but also lots of nice flower smells as well—which I almost always find quite relaxing. Was this a hospital? Someone’s home? There was a front desk, which made me think hospital, but it was quiet and peaceful, which made me think home.
“Oh my goodness,” said the woman behind the front desk, putting her hand to her chest, “that’s the biggest therapy dog I’ve ever seen.”
Bernie glanced at her name tag. “Well, Lois,” he said, “I wouldn’t exactly call Chet here a—”
“And I didn’t even expect you.” Lois took off her glasses and checked a screen. Some humans take their glasses off for screen checking and some put their glasses on. I still have a lot to learn about humans, but luckily enough I had plenty of time, unless I was missing something. “Weren’t you booked for tomorrow?”
“This is a private visit,” Bernie said. “We’re here to see Bo Gooden.”
“That’s nice.” Lois rose. “He hasn’t had a visitor in some time.”
“No?” Bernie said. “What about Cynthia?”
“Cynthia?” Lois opened a door and led us down a wide hall.
“His wife,” Bernie said.
Lois shook her head, then paused in front of a door and in a low voice said, “When did you last see him?”
“Been a year or two,” Bernie said.
“Be prepared.” She knocked on the door.
“Come on in,” said a man, his voice starting out pretty strong but trailing off into a whisper.
Lois opened the door. Inside was a nice little room, clean and tidy. A man in pajamas lay on top of the bed, head propped up on pillows. His bare feet were big and so were his hands, plus he had thick wrists. Bo Gooden, if that’s who we had here, must have been a big man at one time, although not now.
“Sheriff Gooden?” said Lois. “You’ve got visitors.”
He turned his head our way. His eyes were dull and lightless, and I smelled something strong and not good coming from inside him—not pee or poop or puke or any of that normal stuff—which actually doesn’t smell bad to me, interesting being the way to put it, always worth a sniff. This particular bad smell was something I’d smelled in a human or two before. It was the smell of a living thing inside them, a living thing that wasn’t them—a scary thought. Had I smelled something similar in a few members of the nation within? Uh-oh. My mind stopped right there. I have the kind of mind that looks out for me, at least most of the time.
“Bernie?” he said, his voice a soft sort of croak. He cleared his throat, making a horrible metallic sound that seemed to pain him, and tried again. “Bernie?”
“Hey,” said Bernie, moving toward the bed, me right beside him.
Behind us Lois said, “Can I get you anything, Sheriff?”
“Two,” said the sheriff. He took a breath and raised his voice a little. “Two bourbons. Doubles.”
“Ha ha,” said Lois. “Coming right up.” She went out and closed the door.
We stood beside the bed. “This is Chet,” Bernie said.
Those dull eyes shifted my way. “Heard about him,” the sheriff said. Then he looked at Bernie. Bernie sat on the edge of the bed and took the sheriff’s hand. Nothing else happened. They just stayed like that.
After what seemed like a long time, the sheriff said, “I dream of ocean waves, big ones.”
“Yeah?” said Bernie.
“Not just at night. Always.”
Bernie nodded. “I got a boat.”
“You did?” A tiny glimmer of light flickered in the sheriff’s eyes. “What kind?”
“A wreck.”
“Of course.”
Bernie laughed. Bo’s lips, cracked and dry, turned up at the edges.
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“Go on,” Bo said. “I’ve got all day. Maybe.”
“Well,” Bernie said, “it actually started up in your jurisdiction.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been dealing with—” Bo broke off and began to cough, coughs that went on and on, forced him into a sitting position, Bernie supporting his back. There was a bit of blood, not much. Bernie dabbed it up with a corner of the sheet, filled a water glass from a bedside carafe, held it for Bo to drink. He took a few sips and sank back on the pillow.
“Just the thought of Beasley,” Bo said. “That’s all it took.”
Bernie laughed again. Then he told a big long story all about Beasley, Wendell, Florian, Deirdre Dubois, and lots of other stuff that sounded familiar, but I got caught up in the lovely sound of his voice all by itself with no … what would you call it? Meaning? Yes, no meaning attached. That suited me fine. Without a lot of thought—or even any—I circled the bed, climbed up on the other side and lay down. Bernie glanced at me but kept on with the nice, even flow of his story, whatever it was. Bo’s other hand, the one not holding Bernie, touched my shoulder.
“… and that’s where we are,” Bernie said.
“The usual,” Bo said. “Nowhere and everywhere. ’Course, I know Florian.”
“Yeah?”
“Comes from a whole long line, just like him. Pussycats at heart, each and every one.”
“Meaning?” Bernie said.
I was totally with him on that. Hadn’t pussycats come up already in this case? I got the feeling we were in trouble.
“Meaning it’s real hard for me to imagine Florian cutting anybody’s throat,” Bo said. “Big soft lazy dumb—you know the type, Bernie.”
Bernie nodded. Bo’s eyes closed. Then they opened.
“One more thing,” he said. “Fixing up the boat?”
“Yeah.”
Bo’s eyes closed again. His chest rose and fell, just tiny movements.
“Book me on the maiden voyage,” he said.
Bernie gazed down at him. Bo’s eyes stayed closed. “Sounds like a plan,” Bernie said.
Then came a longish period of doing nothing. Finally there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Bernie said quietly.
Lois entered, carrying a tray with two glasses of bourbon on it, bourbon one of the smells I know best of all. Bernie rose, slipped his hand out from Bo’s.
“Thanks,” he said. “Maybe later.”
Lois shook her head. “He’ll sleep right through till morning now. You don’t have to leave, but there’s no real point.”
Bernie nodded. He took one last look at Bo and then said, “C’mon, Chet. Let’s go, big guy.”
I stayed where I was, Bo’s hand on my shoulder.
“Chet?”
I really didn’t want to go. I was okay like this for now.
Bernie looked surprised. “I think he wants to stay.”
“Not unheard of,” Lois said. “I’m on overnight—I’ll keep an eye out. Why don’t you come back and get him at breakfast time?”
Breakfast time. Perfect. Something to look forward to. Bernie and the woman went out, closing the door behind them. Bo’s chest kept on rising and falling the tiniest bit.