hundred-plus-pounder, info I’d picked up from humans discussing me in my presence, maybe not nice of them. Other than that, I had no facts, not about my looks or Territorial Bank. We hopped out of the car, crossed the hard-packed dirt yard, stepped onto the porch.
“We’ll ask why they’re not boarded up,” Bernie said, “and improvise from there.” He knocked on the door. “Just like Thad Perry.”
No answer from inside, no movement, no sound. Didn’t mean no one was in there. In fact, someone was, kind of.
Bernie knocked again. Nada. He peered at the lock, then checked up and down the street. Not a human in sight-although a curtain twitched in a window down the block-the sun shining straight down, that shadeless baking we get in the Valley happening big-time. Bernie reached into his pocket and took out this tiny jimmy we’d taken off a perp name of Fast Freddie Walsh, expert burglar, who’d designed and made it himself; Fast Freddie had lots of talent, Bernie said, could have made it big as an inventor. “Really think so, Bernie?” he’d said as Bernie snapped on the cuffs.
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.”
