Thad turned to the tough guys at the bar. The tough guys at the bar turned to him. The one with the eye patch, maybe named Sam, spat a thin stream of brown liquid on the floor-just the way Nixon Panero would have done it, except this particular stream didn’t smell of tobacco, smelled more like licorice-and said, “You look lost, friend.”
Thad gave him a long, long look. He was still giving him the long, long look when a mouse crept out from under the bar. A pointy-nosed mouse with big ears and long whiskers: I had time to notice those details, and then things started happening fast. First, Brando sprang off Felicity’s lap and flew across the floor. Second, the mouse whipped around and zoomed straight up the leg of the dude with the eye patch. Brando leaped up after the mouse, grabbed the little bugger in his front paws, maybe scratching the eye patch dude at the same time, because he screamed; a surprisingly high-pitched scream for a tough guy. And then-what was this? I was airborne, too? Was it possible? More than possible, amigo. There I was crashing into Brando, not to hurt him, or protect the mouse, or… or anything else I could think of-only to be part of things, really. Did the eye patch dude get knocked right off his stool? And did he knock off the next tough dude on his way down, the whole sequence that followed reminding me of a fun time Charlie and I had once with dominoes? I couldn’t be sure.
“Cut!”
The only sure part was that somewhere in all of that, Brando had got me a real good one with his claws, right on the button, meaning nose in boxing lingo, maybe a detail I’ve included already. What the hell was wrong with him? How come he didn’t realize it was all in fun? Cats. I don’t know what to tell you.
After, out on the dirt street of the little town-a strange town, most of the buildings having fronts and nothing else-Bernie dabbed some kind of medicine on my nose. I licked it off.
“Stop licking it off.” Bernie looked displeased about something or someone. I wondered what or who, came up with no answers. He dabbed on more medicine. “I mean it.” I tried and tried not to lick it off. Then I licked it off. “Christ.”
Uh-oh. He sounded kind of displeased, too. I nudged up against him, a surefire way to take his mind off whatever was bothering him. At that moment, the clipboard woman came walking up.
“You’re from the mayor’s office?” she said.
Bernie nodded.
“The producers appreciate the mayor’s support,” she said. “But Lars has asked me to inform you that the set is now off-limits.”
Bernie nodded again.
“And he requests, with all due respect, that the mayor’s office send a new representative.”
Bernie stopped nodding. His face hardened, although he didn’t turn that hard look on her. Instead, he said, “Chet,” and we started walking to the car. Off-limits meant what, again? And new representative? Was it possible we’d lost the gig? On account of…? My mind didn’t want to go there. I tried to make it think of snacks, or Frisbees, or riding shotgun, but it skimmed over all those things and landed on… oh, no-another bad thought. Bernie nailed Thad right on the button and then Brando did the same thing to me! So I’d let down the whole team, the whole team being me and Bernie.
My tail dragged in the dust. I didn’t do anything about it.
We got in the car. I didn’t hop in. Bernie opened the door for me. He turned the key, glancing my way at the same time. “Hey,” he said. “Cheer up. It’s only money.”
Only money! What a thing to say: our finances were a mess. But I started to cheer up, partly because Bernie told me to and partly because, well, how long can you stay down in the dumps?
He backed out of our spot between two huge trailers.
“Wait! Wait!”
What was this? Felicity running up? The girlfriend, right? Tall, thin, blond, dressed in tight jeans and a little T-shirt, plus red high-heeled shoes that made running look dangerous. Bernie stopped the car.
“Bernie?” she said. Felicity had big golden-brown eyes, kind of damp. Hey! She’d been crying. The sun shone on a tiny tear track on her cheek.
“Yeah?” Bernie said, cutting the engine.
“I’m very sorry,” Felicity said. “It was all my fault.”
“Huh?” said Bernie.
“I let him off my lap,” she said. “But he’s so sneaky. I just hate the way he-” She stopped herself. “And Thad’s so pissed at me now.” Her eyes got damper. “I don’t blame him-there’s so much pressure, that’s what no one understands.”
“What kind of pressure?” Bernie said.
Felicity blinked. “You know,” she said. “The industry.”
“Anything else?” Bernie said.
“Anything else?” said Felicity. “I don’t understand.”
“Forget it,” Bernie said. “And no need for you to apologize.”
“Oh, yes, there is,” Felicity said, her hand now clinging to the door frame. “And please, please say you accept it.”
Bernie gave her a look, one of his long looks, but not hard. “Okay,” he said. “Apology accepted.”
She touched his shoulder. “Thank you. And Thad says to tell you”-She checked her palm; I saw some blue writing, right on the skin; Charlie did that sometimes, but no other humans I’d ever seen-“forget whatever the studio people told you.” She looked up. “You’re still welcome on the set.”
There was a silence. Out in the desert the wind was stirring. It fluttered a tuft of her hair, so soft and light. “How old are you, Felicity?” Bernie said.
“Almost twenty-two.”
Bernie didn’t say anything.
“You’re thinking he’s too old for me?” Felicity said.
“No,” Bernie said.
“And you’re wondering how old he is.”
“I’m not,” Bernie said. “But what’s the number?”
“Forty-three.”
“Wow,” said Bernie. “I would have guessed at least ten years younger.”
“A lot of work goes into that,” Felicity said. “It’s part of the pressure.” She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.
We drove out of the desert, down into the Valley. Bernie was real quiet. Me, too. My nose felt almost back to normal, totally normal if I didn’t think about it. When you really need not to think about something, sleep comes in very handy. I closed my eyes.
When I awoke we were turning onto Mesquite Road, almost home, and Bernie was on the phone. Rick’s voice came over the speaker.
“That address in Vista City, twenty-four hundred sixty-three North Coursin Street?” he said. “Owned by the Territorial Bank.”
“Foreclosure?”
“Yup. And according to them it’s boarded up, hasn’t been occupied for a year and a half.”
Bernie slowed down, made a U-turn. My nose felt perfect.
TEN
Back in Vista City, only now it was day.
“Looked better at night,” Bernie said.
Exactly the thought I might have been moving toward. We didn’t use any of our sneaking-around techniques, just rolled right up to the house on North Coursin Street and parked. First time we’d seen it from the front: a stucco house, all peeling, with a crooked little porch and a kid’s bicycle lying on its side.
“Try to look like we’re from Territorial Bank,” Bernie said.
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. Was it something I could do? My ears didn’t match and I was a
