a flowery bush that stood on the boundary of our place and old man Heydrich’s, or perhaps slightly more on his side.
There’s a voice humans use for shouting and not shouting at the same time, a sort of muffled shout. Bernie used it now.
“Chet! Get over here.”
I gave myself a good shake, trotted over to Bernie. His cell phone rang. He answered, said something, clicked off, and then turned to me.
“Hop in.”
Back in the car? Why not? No reason, except that we hadn’t chowed down in what seemed like a long time. But then, from out of the blue, I got the idea we were headed to Max’s Memphis Ribs, my favorite restaurant in the whole valley. Those ribs! And when you’d eaten every speck of meat, there was still the whole bone in your future! What a business plan, as I may have mentioned before, but it’s important! Had Bernie mentioned anything about Max’s Memphis Ribs? Perhaps not, maybe meaning there was no reason to believe Max’s was on the schedule. I believed.
I hopped in the car. We backed out of the driveway, pretty quick, and shot up Mesquite Road. In a hurry, all of a sudden? No problem. I love speed, in case that hasn’t come up yet. Old man Heydrich’s porch light went on. He stepped outside, a golf club in his hand, and was turning our way just as we rounded the curve and went roaring out of sight. Old man Heydrich was a golfer? You really did learn something every day, as humans often said.
We’ve worked a lot of cases, me and Bernie, but the Valley’s a big place, going on pretty much forever in all directions, so sometimes we ended up somewhere new. Like now for example, way out in the West Valley, past the last busted development then came another and another, a few with a light or two showing where someone was still there, most pretty dark. We followed a road, paved at first and then not, into the darkest development, a bunch of cul de sacs lined with half-built houses, empty lots, scraps blowing in the wind, and abandoned stuff, including the cement-mixing drum from a cement truck. Bernie turned into the driveway of the only complete house in the whole place, which would be the model home. We had empty model homes out the yingyang, Bernie once told Suzie, so what are we modeling? “Can I quote you?” she’d said. No idea what that meant, but they’d both laughed. I was missing Suzie already.
We sat there. A quiet night with just the wind and us. The air was always less dusty in the West Valley, the stars shining clearer and the moon brighter. Some parts of the moon were brighter than others. That was the sort of thing-although what wasn’t? — that Bernie knew how to explain. Maybe he was going to right now. I listened my hardest; and heard a car coming.
I shifted in my seat and saw it: car, no lights, moving slow.
“Chet?” Bernie said. “What’s up?” Then he turned and saw the car, too. “It’s all right, big guy.”
The car parked beside us and Rick Torres got out. He handed Bernie a folder, stained and yellowed.
“I owe you,” Bernie said.
“You can say that again,” Rick said, but Bernie did not. “And you’ll have to read on the spot,” he went on. “I’m returning it tonight.”
Bernie nodded. “Does anyone know?” he said.
“Don’t need you to tell me how to conduct my business,” Rick said.
Rick was mad at Bernie? Everybody seemed to be mad at Bernie these days. I didn’t get it.
“Can Chet have a treat?” Rick said.
How could anyone be mad at Bernie, especially a great guy like Rick?
“He’s probably starving,” Bernie said.
Bernie: he nails it just about every time.
Rick gave me a nice big biscuit. “That was quick,” he said. “Room for another?” Yes, a great guy, and funny, too. Room for another: loved it. We went for a little walk, around the model home to the swimming pool at the back. You see lots of swimming pools in these empty developments, and the pools are always empty, too. Not this one! Not full of water to the very top, no, but there was plenty enough if anyone felt like a swim. And even though swimming had been the farthest thing from my mind-and if not the very farthest, like say, going to the vet, then at least pretty far-all of a sudden I couldn’t think of anything else.
“Chet?” Rick said. “Might not be clean enough for-”
KER-SPLASH!
Ah, really nothing quite like swimming. It’s actually very much like running, only in water and you never get hot. I swam around the pool, my nose just above the surface. That was something I’d learned about swimming: much more relaxing if you didn’t hold your head up high. I lapped up a quick taste. Possibly not the best tasting water I’d ever experienced. No need to do it again, I told myself, and only did it once or twice more.
Rick sat on the diving board and watched me. “You sure know how to have fun,” he said.
Well, of course. Who didn’t? Nothing easier. I pulled a Uey and headed back toward the other end. I preferred bigger pools, but no complaints. Many, many tiny moons sparkled on the water. All those moons seemed to be making rippling sounds. What a night! Soft rippling sounds, and they didn’t drown out Rick’s sigh.
“He’s not going to like what he sees in that damn file,” Rick said.
File? I tried to remember. And, kind of a surprise, I succeeded. I scrambled out of the pool and gave myself a good shake, Rick backing quickly away. Nothing beats a shake when you’re soaking wet, the way all those droplets go spraying, especially from the tip of your tail. Swimming: it’s still fun even after you’ve stopped doing it. Rick and I walked around to the front of the model home.
Bernie was sitting on the hood of the Porsche, smoking a cigarette, the file on his lap.
“Thought you’d quit,” Rick said.
“After this pack,” said Bernie.
“Sounds like a plan,” Rick said. “You done?”
Bernie nodded, handed over the file. “Was this all there was?” he said.
“What do you mean?” said Rick.
“You didn’t read it?” Bernie said.
Rick shook his head. Head shaking, unless I’d been way off from the get-go, meant no, and head nodding meant yes. So somehow Rick had gotten it wrong.
TWENTY-FIVE
One thing about a nice swim: it was often followed by a nice nap. I lay curled up on the shotgun seat, the motion of the car beneath me kind of… dreamy. Yes, dreamy. Bernie might or might not have said something like, “How come you’re wet?” I didn’t know, and while paying attention to Bernie was always at the top of my list, I really didn’t care. How can you care when your eyelids are so heavy and getting heavier and heavier? And heavier. I dreamed about swimming!
And I was still swimming when the dreamy motion beneath me eased and then vanished. I opened my eyes. We were back in bad air, the moon and the stars now hidden by a dirty pink sky. I sat up. Vista City, or someplace like it: parked on a street lined with apartment buildings, not the tower kind they have downtown, but lower, old with stucco walls, the stucco cracked and crumbling here and there. Bernie was gazing at the most cracked and crumbling of all the buildings. I gazed at it with him.
“When you start digging in something that doesn’t want to be dug…” he said.
Yes, yes: go on. Bernie did not. Naturally, I’ve dealt with close-packed dirt in the past, but when you kept working, even if all you did at first was make shallow scratches on the surface, eventually you always found yourself happily in a deepening pit, all legs in action. So: no problem, right?
“Such a goddamn long shot,” Bernie said. “And is this even where to start?”
I tried to think of some other place, found I could not. This crummy apartment building filled up my whole thought area.
“But,” he went on, “what choice do we have? There’s nothing in the file except the victim ID and the ME’s report. Goddamn file’s been gutted. By who, is the question.”
Bernie turned to me. Whoa. Like I’d done it, whatever it was? Bernie smiled. Whew. “Have a nice nap?” he
