We walked out of Red Devil’s, took a few steps and stopped again, this time looking back through the window. Dina was grabbing a bottle off the shelf.
TWENTY
We were pulling away from Red Devil’s when the phone beeped. Bernie had tried some ring tones-the Foggy Mountain Breakdown banjo thing was his favorite for a long time, the longest time, in fact-but now we were back to the beep.
“Bernie!” Leda said. “Charlie got his call!”
“Call?” Bernie said.
“To the set! Come on, Bernie-don’t sound so out of it all the time.”
There’s a red button Bernie presses when it’s time to end a call. His finger shifted toward it.
“Aren’t you excited?” Leda said.
“Excited?”
“For Charlie! He’s your son.”
“Goddamn it, Leda, I know he’s-” Bernie shut himself up, got a grip. When he does that, his jaw bulges like he’s lifting something heavy; once in a while, something jumps or twitches in the side of his neck, too. Like now, both together, bulge and twitch. I never liked seeing both together. Press the red button, Bernie, press the red button! But he didn’t. Instead, he lowered his voice and said, “Is Charlie excited about it?”
“He’s practicing his signature for when he has to sign the contract,” Leda said.
Bernie smiled. “Okay,” he said. “See you there.”
He pressed the red button, way too late as far as I was concerned, and turned to me. “Onetime thing-can’t see the harm.”
Bernie was quiet all the way home, and then, just as we turned onto Mesquite Road, he said, “We were terrible together, Leda and I, yet somehow we produced a kid like Charlie. Does that mean we weren’t so terrible after all?”
What was he saying-that Charlie was a great kid? I knew that already. The rest of it made no sense to me and blew away like bits off this and that flying out the trash truck when the trash truck dudes are in a hurry. And no time to think about it anyway, because an ambulance was parked next door to our place, not on old man Heydrich’s side, but the other, over in front of the Parsons’ place, where my pal Iggy lived.
“Whoa,” said Bernie, slowing down and pulling into our driveway.
We got out of the car and just stood there, Bernie standing and me sitting, actually, side by side. How often have we done that? Lots, and it never gets old. Bernie watched the Parsons’ front door, so I did, too. We’re real good at watching, and watching pays off in our line of work, big-time. Then why were our finances in such a mess? We were good! Sometimes you had to try to make your mind not do things. I tried to make my mind not think about our finances ever again. It thought about our finances right away.
“I hope-” Bernie began.
The Parsons’ door opened. Out came two EMTs, rolling old Mrs. Parsons on a stretcher. She had a breathing mask over her face-I knew breathing masks from this one time Bernie and I saved a kid from drowning; what a day that was! and who cared if the perp got away? especially since we collared him that night, a perp whose name was about to come to me, I could feel it-and tubes sticking out of her here and there. Mr. Parsons came stumping after them on his walker, trying to keep up and at the same time extending one hand, maybe wanting to touch Mrs. Parsons’s wispy hair. He lost his balance, started to tip sideways. One of the EMTs reached out and grabbed him, saying, “Sir, please.”
“But I want to come,” said Mr. Parsons. “I want to ride with my wife.”
“Sorry,” said the EMT. “No room, no time.”
The other EMT banged open the rear doors of the ambulance. They slid Mrs. Parsons inside, one of the EMTs jumping in after her, the other running around to the front and hopping up behind the wheel. At that moment, Iggy appeared in the Parsons’ doorway. He paused there, his stubby tail up straight, his crazily long tongue hanging out. Iggy, my best pal! When was the last time he’d been outside? Long, long ago, back before the divorce, maybe even all the way back to when Bernie and Leda weren’t fighting all the time. This was Iggy’s big chance, and I knew Iggy: when a big chance came along, he grabbed it fast and never looked back. That mailman, for example, back in the long-ago time, who’d left his sandwich on the dashboard of the truck while he’d delivered a package across the street: what a great memory, Iggy with egg salad all over his face! The truth was I’d learned a trick or two from Iggy, back in the day.
But right now, Iggy wasn’t grabbing his big chance. He lingered in the doorway, sniffing the air. He might not even have seen me. Then, still sniffing, he moved onto the brick walkway, sniff-sniffing his way along. The ambulance driver revved the motor and hit the siren. Iggy raised his head, saw the ambulance, began moving faster, at the same time making a little whining noise. The ambulance pulled away from the curb and started driving away. Iggy went yip-yip-yip, zipped around Bernie, who was about to collar him, ran right into the street, and took off after the ambulance.
“Iggy!” called Mr. Parsons.
But way too late. Iggy pelted after that ambulance, running faster than I’d ever seen him, impossibly fast, those short legs of his just a chubby blur. It took me practically the whole block to catch him.
And then it was like old times, the two of us zooming side by side, ears flattened straight back by our own wind: we were making wind, me and Iggy! Up ahead the ambulance slowed down a bit to roll through a stop sign. We came so close to catching up, but then-oh, no-a truck? Barreling down the cross street? Right at us? I swerved, swerved my very quickest, knocking Iggy sideways and off the road. The truck honked-one of those real blaring and angry honks-and blew by.
For a moment I got mad at Iggy because… because I didn’t know why. I barked at him. He made another one of those whining noises-not like Iggy at all; where was the old yip-yip-yip? — and took off again after the ambulance, now just about out of sight. But did that stop Iggy? No. He ran. I ran beside him. Block after block-the ambulance long gone except for the smell of its exhaust-we kept going, Iggy panting a lot now, and also whining, out of our neighborhood, past the public school where Charlie could have gone for free-“What’s wrong with public school?” Bernie asked Leda many times. “I went to public school and so did you.”-and toward the freeway entrance ramp, all blocked up with a line of cars. Iggy came to a slowish kind of stop, then just stood there whining, even whimpering, if you want the truth, his stubby tail drooping down almost to the ground, the scrubby, littered ground you get beside freeway ramps.
Iggy sat down. He eased off on the whining and whimpering, took to full-out panting instead. A kid in the bumper-to-bumper line slid down his window and said, “Mommy, look at those doggies.”
A woman inside the car craned her head. “They must be lost,” she said. “I’ll call animal control.”
Animal control? Was that the pound? I had memories of the pound, not good. That biker: I’d thought we were friends. Maybe a story for another day, or possibly one I’ve been over already. In any case, no time now. I barked a low rumbly bark. Iggy sat. I tried the bark again, a bark which means time to split, loud and clear. He sat. I went over and gave him a nudge. The little bugger nipped me. I nipped him back, then gave him another nudge, this one meaning business. When he stopped rolling, he rose, gave himself a good shake, and started to follow me home.
We met Bernie coming the other way. He didn’t say anything, didn’t seem angry, just opened the door of the Porsche and let us in. We shared the shotgun seat, me and Iggy.
Back home, Mr. Parsons was stumping his way to a taxi, idling in his driveway.
“No need for that, Dan,” Bernie said. “I’ll go with you.”
Mr. Parsons shook his head. “You’re a good man, but waiting around hospitals is a killer. Wouldn’t put you through it. If you really want to help, maybe you could look after Iggy till I get back.”
“Of course.”
Mr. Parsons turned to Iggy. “C’mere, little fella.”
Iggy, limping a bit now, went over to Mr. Parsons. He bent over, one hand on the walker, and scratched Iggy between the ears. Very briefly, but a high-quality scratching, I could tell from the look in Iggy’s eyes, pretty much
