A Fistful of Collars (4 page)

The mayor squinted at Bernie. Squinting, never attractive, in my opinion, is something humans do when they’re trying to see more clearly. Finally, he nodded and said, “Yes, and the children. Goes without saying. Children are our most important resource, Bernie.”

“Next to water,” Bernie said.

Silence. Then the mayor laughed and said, “I love this guy.” No surprise there: who wouldn’t love Bernie? “Don’t you just love this guy, Vera?”

Everyone turned to Vera. “He hasn’t said yes yet,” she said.

“Three grand a day plus expenses?” Bernie said.

“Also a five-thousand-dollar bonus if Thad Perry is incident-free when location shooting wraps,” Vera said.

“How long does that take?” said Bernie.

“They’ve scheduled twenty-one days,” Vera said.

“Yes,” said Bernie.

“You left out the two tickets to the premiere, Vera,” the mayor said.

“Black tie,” Luxton said. He came out of the shadows and handed Bernie a check. “This do for a retainer?”

Bernie glanced at the check, nodded, and tucked it away in his shirt pocket.
Not that pocket, Bernie
. We’d had problems with the shirt pocket in the past. Front pants pocket, always.

After another round of handshaking, we split. There were more chews in the mayor’s desk drawer—I didn’t lose the smell until we were in the elevator—but he didn’t open it again. I’m not greedy, although more is always better, stands to reason. As
for the case, if it depended in some way on black ties then we were all right, on account of the single tie Bernie owned being black. But was it even actually a case? A puzzler to deal with some other time.

“What’s with you?” Bernie said.

Uh-oh. Had I been kind of clawing at Bernie’s shirt—specifically in the pocket area—and not just thinking about it? I put a stop to that pronto, sat up straight in the shotgun seat, alert and professional. But Bernie wasn’t mad, not at all—in fact, even though we were bumper to bumper on the freeway, he seemed to be in a great mood, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel like maybe to some music happening in his head, possibly one of our favorites like “Death Don’t Have No Mercy in This Land” or “Cry Me a River.”

“See what this means?” he said. “Banner year, big guy. In three weeks we’re going to rake in more than we made in the last . . . Christ knows how long. Have to check the spreadsheets.”

Please not the spreadsheets. Spreadsheets, whatever they are, get Bernie upset. Last time he ended up giving the laptop a smack, which is what led to the duct taping. Bernie’s very good with duct tape—if you ever visit us at our place on Mesquite Road, you’ll see lots of it.

We got off the freeway, crossed the railroad tracks—a cat was walking on one of the rails! like he owned the—“easy, Chet”—and pulled into Donut Heaven. A black-and-white sat in the lot. We parked beside it, cop-style, driver’s-side door to driver’s-side door. The window of the black-and-white slid down and our buddy Sergeant Rick Torres from the Valley PD Missing Persons Department handed over a coffee.

“Shaving cream on your neck,” he said.

Oh, that. Was it a problem? I was much more interested in the cruller crumbs in Rick’s mustache.

Bernie dabbed at his neck, checked his hand. “Damn. Was it there the whole time?”

“The whole time you were with the mayor?” Rick said.

“How do you know about that?” Bernie said.

“Word gets around.”

“But it just happened.”

“I’ve got spies everywhere,” Rick said. He looked past Bernie, over at me. “How you doin’, Chet? Got half a cruller left if Bernie gives the okay.”

Bernie’s eyes shifted, as though he was thinking it over. What was there to think over? Whatever half was, it had to be better than none. I have this low rumbly bark I can do that sends a message of much louder barking coming soon. The next thing I knew I was curled up on the seat, getting busy with the cruller. There are lots of great human inventions—the car being the best, of course—but the cruller’s got to be right up there.

“How’d the meeting go?” Rick said.

“You tell me,” said Bernie.

“Why they chose you for this I’ll never know,” Rick said. He sipped his coffee. “Although actually I do know.”

“Yeah?” said Bernie.

“Insurance.”

“Huh?”

“The insurance company asked for you specifically.”

“Me specifically?”

Rick nodded.

“And what’s insurance got to do with anything?”

“Insurance is when you pay a premium to protect yourself from loss,” Rick said.

“For Christ sake, I know what insurance is.” Wow! But of course he would: that was Bernie. “I’m asking what insurance has to do with this movie thing.”

“What do you care? It’s a paying gig.”

Yes! So nice to hear that again.

“. . . name of the insurance company?” Bernie was saying.

Rick shrugged. “I assume it’s whoever Valley government uses for everything.” He took out a little screen device, tapped at it. “The Stephan K. Gronkovich Insurance Group,” Rick said.

Bernie went still for a moment, then nodded.

“What’s up?” Rick said, ripping open a little packet and sprinkling sugar in his coffee; then he opened another packet and did it again.

“Nothing,” Bernie said. “And that’s refined sugar.”

“Want me to mash my own cane?” said Rick. He stuck his finger in the cup and swirled it around. “You’re taking the job?”

“Yeah.”

“You could do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Marcie’s a big fan,” Rick said. “She’d love an autograph.”

“From the mayor?” said Bernie.

We were turning onto Mesquite Road when Bernie’s phone rang. He picked up and a voice came through the speakers.

“Hi, Bernie. Stine here.”

That would be Lieutenant Stine, another cop pal of ours, although maybe you couldn’t call him a pal like Rick. With pals like Rick, you don’t feel Bernie watching everything like a hawk; with pals like Lieutenant Stine, you do.

“Congratulations on landing this new job.” Lieutenant Stine
had a harsh, hoarse sort of voice, like he partied every night, but when you saw his face, you knew he wasn’t the type.

“What new job?” Bernie said.

A pause, and then Stine said, “For the mayor’s office.”

“No such thing as secrets anymore?” Bernie said.

Stine laughed. “There are plenty. The Valley’s like an iceberg, nine-tenths hidden, which I’m sure you know by now.” He paused. “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. Call me on my direct line anytime.”

“Sure.”

“Do you have the number?”

“Must have misplaced it.”

Another pause. “Got a pencil?”

“Yup,” said Bernie, although he did not.

Maybe he was thinking about icebergs. I sure was. Had Lieutenant Stine forgotten how hot we had it in the Valley? Ice melts here just like that. Supposing an ice cube falls on the patio: by the time you get there to lick it up, it’s turned to water. And the water isn’t even cold.

I don’t like elevators, not one little bit, but Bernie promised me a treat. We rode an elevator up to the very top of one of the tallest of the downtown towers, just the two of us, which made it better. There were a lot of rapid panting sounds in the elevator. Then at last the doors opened and I burst—

“Ch—et?”

And we stepped outside.

“Here you go,” he said, and then came treats, small ones but a whole handful. I made quick work of them. We were on the job.

We went down a long hall, the floor covered with a soft, thick
rug, offices on both sides, people hard at work, the kind of human work that involves sitting in front of a screen for a long time. I thought we were headed for a raised, glassed-in office at the end of the hall, but as we passed a conference room with a bunch of people around a long table, a big guy at one end saw us, and jumped up, saying, “Son of a bitch!” Then he ran toward us, grabbed Bernie and hugged him tight. They pounded each other’s backs real hard while everyone around the table watched with their mouths wide open.

“Bernie!”

“Gronk!”

Gronk—maybe not as tall as Bernie but a lot broader—turned to the people in the room. “Here’s your chance to fix the shit you’ve been feeding me,” he said. “Five minutes, everybody.”

Then he took Bernie by the arm and marched him down the hall, up the stairs, and into the glassed-in office. Whatever had been going on in the conference room—it sounded pretty bad—remained a mystery to me. Sounded pretty bad, yes, but hadn’t I once seen Iggy—

“And this is Chet,” Bernie said, as they settled on a huge leather couch.

“Know all about him,” Gronk said. He held out his hand, a real big one. I went over, just to the edge of his reach. He scratched behind my ears. This Gronk dude, whoever he happened to be? A gem, in my book.

“In fact,” Gronk said, “I’ve followed your career closely—especially since you went private.”

“Not exactly my choice,” Bernie said.

“So what? You’re doing great.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Read all about that Big Bear case,” Gronk said. “And the
elephant thing, down in Mexico? Who else could have pulled that off?”

“It was mostly Chet,” Bernie said. “But thanks. That’s what I’m here for, actually—to thank you for recommending me to the mayor’s office.”

“Recommend, hell,” said Gronk. “I made it a stipulation for underwriting the goddamn policy.”

“I don’t get it,” Bernie said.

“See, that’s you—your mind’s always on the bigger things.”

“Huh?”

“Point is, down here in the money-grubbing world, the mayor’s sinking taxpayer dollars into this movie scheme of his, and the law requires him to insure Valley government against loss. That actor asshole, what’s his name?”

“Thad Perry.”

“Looked into his history. Keeping an eye on someone like him requires someone like you, and the only person I know like you is you.”

So complicated, impossible to follow, but it was clear that Gronk was one of the good guys, so why worry about the details?

“You haven’t seen me in a long time,” Bernie said. “Maybe I’ve changed.”

“Feel bad about that,” Gronk said. “Thought about calling you many times when I first came out here. But building something like this, it gets kind of consuming.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Bernie said.

“I know what you meant,” Gronk said. “I witnessed you get tested like hardly anybody ever gets tested, and I know what I need to know.”

“I got lucky that night.”

“The hell you did,” Gronk said. “How’s the leg?”

“No complaints,” Bernie said. “What do you think of the mayor’s idea?”

“Cockamamie,” said Gronk. “Which is good for our balance sheet—we charge extra for cockamamie.”

Bernie glanced around the office. “I never knew you even wanted to get rich.”

Gronk laughed. “I never did. That’s the best part.”

N
ixon Panero delivered our new wheels in person. Bernie and I had been watching out the window, so we were already outside when he pulled in the driveway.

“Whaddya think?” said Nixon, getting out and handing the keys to Bernie. Nixon eyed the back of the outside mirror, blew on it, buffed whatever was bothering him with his sleeve. “Turn heads or what?”

Bernie gazed at our new Porsche. “This, uh, pattern on the front fenders?”

“The martini glasses?” said Nixon. “Coulda upped the scale—I went back and forth on that. But guess what.”

“I give up.”

“I copied them right offa the shirt you were wearing the other day!” Nixon spat out one of those thin brown streams of tobacco juice. I toyed with the idea of licking the damp spot on the pavement and rejected it. “Moment of pure inspiration,” Nixon continued. “Didn’t see the point of running it by you. Knew you’d go for it—woulda bet the ranch.”

“Where’s the ranch?” Bernie said.

Nixon’s eyes and mouth opened wide at the same time, one of those human expressions I watch for. What does it mean? Not sure, but I’ve seen all sorts of unexpected things right after, including shouting, tears, and an airborne machete. “Whoa,” said Nixon. “I did bad?”

Bernie smiled. He has the nicest set of human teeth going, and the implant matches perfectly, in my opinion, no matter what anyone says. “Nah,” he said. “I love it. The constantly getting pulled over part will take getting used to, that’s all.”

“Didn’t think of that,” said Nixon. “But patrol guys know you, Bernie. Once a cop, always a cop.”

“Where’d you get that idea?” Bernie said.

“When I was in the pen,” said Nixon. “We talked a lot about cops, kind of the way dogs think about cats.”

“Dogs think a lot about cats?” Bernie said.

“Makes sense, don’t it?” said Nixon.

Then suddenly they were both looking at me. The subject was cats? At the moment, I had no interest in that at all. What I wanted was to take this new baby for a spin, see what it could do, and pronto. I gave myself a good shake, the kind that starts at my head, travels all the way to the tip of my tail and ripples back up again.

“Bet that feels good,” Nixon said.

“He wouldn’t be doing it otherwise,” said Bernie.

Well, of course not. Went without saying. But that hardly ever stops humans, no offense.

“Come on inside,” Bernie said. “I’ll cut you a check.”

“Twisted my arm,” said Nixon, which had happened once before, the night we took Nixon down, but why now? And in fact, no arm twisting took place. I pushed all of this out of my mind—
whoosh
, just like that, a nice feeling—and we moved toward the house.

“Notice those two different shades of red?” Nixon said.

“I did,” said Bernie.

“Too subtle?”

“No.”

“Cheers,” said Bernie.

“To the open road,” said Nixon.

They clinked glasses. We were at the kitchen table, Bernie on the bench seat, back to the wall, which was how he liked to sit, Nixon in Leda’s old chair, and me over by the floor vent, catching the AC. Yes to the open road, and what was wrong with right now?

“Goes down real nice,” said Nixon. “Bourbon?”

“Yup.”

“That your drink?”

“Guess you could say so.”