to say something he didn’t want to hear, he’d cut her off, just like that. And you did the same thing to me.”
“I did?”
“Back at the interview with Mr. Albert, when he was starting to talk about the first murder.”
“But it was a delicate moment, Suzie, and I sensed that-”
“And I can’t handle delicate moments? Or sense things?”
“Of course you-” Bernie began in a calm voice, and then suddenly he got angry. “What the hell is with you right now?”
“It was demeaning,” Suzie said.
“Demeaning? I’m trying to solve the murder of your goddamn friend.”
I lay down flat.
Suzie made no response. From where I sat I couldn’t see her face very well, but her neck flushed from the bottom up.
“Is this just an excuse?” Bernie said, his voice not so loud now, but very hard.
“For what?” said Suzie.
“For getting rid of me,” Bernie said.
“Is that what you think I’m like?”
Bernie didn’t answer. Suzie sat very straight, her neck pink.
Not another word was spoken driving home for her little red suitcase, or on the way to the airport, or when Suzie got out of the car in front of the terminal. By that time all the leather on the seat back was in shreds.
Bernie stopped at a store and bought a pack of cigarettes. It had been a long time since he’d bought an actual pack, not just bummed a smoke here and there. He came back, struck a match, and lit up. Hey! His hands were shaking. I’d seen that in all sorts of different humans, but never, ever in Bernie. He took a deep drag and leaned against the car, actually more like slumping against it. For a moment he seemed to have gotten smaller. I hated that.
“I’m not smart enough to figure this out, big guy,” he said. “Not nearly.”
Bernie not smart enough? Not possible, although what he wanted to figure out was unclear to me.
“Is it some sort of second-fiddle thing?” he went on. “How could Suzie ever think she’d be second fiddle to anybody, let alone me?”
I went from feeling unclear to totally lost. Second fiddle? We didn’t even have a first one, Bernie’s instrument being the ukulele, which he played beautifully. “Dead Flowers,” “Lonely Teardrops,” and “Sea of Heartbreak” were some of my favorites: there’s a woo-woo thing he does at the end of “Sea of Heartbreak” where I always join in.
“Who found Mr. Albert in the first place, after all?” he said. He took another drag. “Might have been a good idea if I’d worked that in somehow. But-hey, Chet, what’s that all about?”
What was what all about? Uh-oh. The woo-woo thing? I was doing it now, by myself? I put a stop to that, and pronto. We drove home. Bernie seemed like he was back to his normal size.
There’s a curve on Mesquite Road, and as you drive around it, our place comes into view. I always loved that sight, but now there was something I’d never seen before: Iggy standing in the long window by our door, front paws on the glass, and… and what was that in his mouth? Could it be? We pulled into the driveway. Yes: the ukulele.
And once we got inside the house and Bernie had snatched the ukulele out of Iggy’s mouth? “Like a goddamn bomb went off,” he said. “Didn’t I shut him in the kitchen?” It took Bernie a long time to clean up. Meanwhile, I played with Iggy out on the patio. At first he was very thirsty, lapping up lots of water from the base of the stone fountain, something I’d often done myself. But a little later, he came up with something that had never even occurred to me, something completely new: he lifted one stubby rear leg over the lip of the basin, just clearing it, and peed inside. In all that time we’d been apart, Iggy hadn’t lost a thing. You could learn a lot from friends.
It was getting dark when a taxi dropped off Mr. Parsons. He stumped up to the door and Bernie let him in.
“You’re not one of those messy bachelors, I see,” Mr. Parsons said.
“Um,” said Bernie. “Ah. How’s Mrs. Parsons?”
“Stabilized,” Mr. Parsons said, “and thank you for asking. Also thanks for taking care of Iggy-hope he behaved himself.”
“No complaints,” Bernie said. “Iggy!” he called.
A moment or two passed and then Iggy appeared in the hall. He was chewing on… yes, a cigarette, but he swallowed it quickly, possibly before anyone else noticed. Iggy saw Mr. Parsons. Iggy was one of those tail waggers who pretty much wag with their whole bodies.
Night fell, and the air cooled down some. Bernie took out the bourbon, started to unscrew the top, then stopped, and placed the bottle back on the shelf. He went into the office and made some calls. I lay under the desk and let the sound of his voice wash over me, very relaxing. After a while, he put down the phone and said, “How about a walk?”
I was at the door. One of the great things about our place on Mesquite Road-wouldn’t live anywhere else-is how we back right up on the canyon, pretty much wide open country, all the way down to the airport and up to Vista City. Bernie was opening the back gate when it hit me that while we’d taken a zillion walks in the canyon or even more, none had ever come at night. So: what a great idea! But that was Bernie.
He switched on a flashlight as we crossed the narrow gully beyond the gate and started climbing up the slope. Day or night doesn’t make much difference to me, but it’s a game changer for humans. They can’t seem to see at all in the dark, and what’s there to fall back on? Hearing? Smell? Please. So it’s no surprise to me that nighttime is when humans tend to land in trouble. Don’t get me wrong. I liked just about every human I’ve ever met, even some of the perps and gangbangers, but in my opinion they’re at their best right before lunchtime.
We reached the top of the ridge-Bernie huffing and puffing a bit already? How could that be? — and soon came to the big flat rock. I walked across it, felt the heat of the day, still there. Sometimes the earth itself seems… a thought starting out on those lines almost got going in my mind.
No time for that. We walked along the ridge, then took the trail that led to the lookout, highest point on our side of the canyon, and one of our favorite places, what with its nice stone bench and view of practically the whole valley. A javelina had been this way, and not long ago. I went into my trot, cut across the trail and down the slope, then back up, the scent strong at first, then fading out. That happened sometimes, and the go-to play was to circle back and “Chet.”
Maybe later.
We climbed to the top of the lookout and then came a surprise: a man, all shadowy, was sitting on the bench. Just as I was about to bark, I smelled who it was. I trotted over.
“Hey, Chet,” said Rick Torres, giving me a pat. “Didn’t hear you on the trail, not a sound.” He turned to Bernie. “You, on the other hand, are one goddamn noisy hiker.”
Bernie sat on the bench, stretched his bad leg. “Didn’t want to sneak up on you,” he said.
“Glad to hear that,” Rick said. He wasn’t in uniform, wore jeans and a T-shirt, but had a gun on him somewhere. It hadn’t been fired, but it had been lubricated-I’d watched Bernie lubricate the. 38 Special plenty of times-and grease is a real easy smell to pick up. There are actually many grease smells-pizza grease and human hair grease, to name two-something I hope we can get into later, unless it’s happened already.
“Am I hearing a double meaning?” Bernie said, losing me completely.
“A funny place to meet, that’s all,” Rick said.
Hey! Were they not getting along? At the same time Bernie wasn’t getting along with Suzie, either? What was going on?
Bernie looked at Rick for a moment, then turned his gaze to the faraway lights of the downtown towers. The lights were hazy and so were the stars, and I could see dust drifting over the face of the moon.
“Wish it would rain,” Bernie said.
“So does everybody,” Rick said. “But is that why you brought me here in the middle of the night, to discuss our weather patterns?”
Bernie turned back to him, then took out his cigarettes and lit up.
“A whole pack?” Rick said. “That’s a bad sign.”
Bernie blew out a stream of smoke, all silvery in the moonlight.
