ELEVEN
We met Popo under the big top, just me, Bernie, and Popo—the two of them seated on a bench, me in the aisle. The benches were all worn, with paint flaking off, and the tent itself had lots of little holes and tears in it, some not so little. High above, the Fearless Filipoffs, First Family of the Flying Trapeze, were practicing their tricks. I have a few tricks myself, catching Frisbees, for example, but they’re nothing like what the Fearless Filipoffs were doing. All those Filipoff tricks going on made whatever Bernie and Popo were talking about a little hard to follow.
“I’d like to clear up this question of the ankus,” Bernie was saying, or something like that. “You claimed that DeLeath never used one, but we’ve heard that all animal trainers do, no exceptions.”
Popo sat hunched forward, forearms on his knees, head down. He wore jeans and a T-shirt; his forearms were skinny and bone-colored. “Who told you that?”
“A source.”
“A source?” said Popo. “I’m the client and that’s the best you can do?”
“Nadia Worth,” Bernie said.
“Didn’t I tell you she’s not to be trusted?”
“You didn’t quite put it that way,” Bernie said.
“What are you getting at?”
But I missed whatever Bernie was getting at because at that moment one of the Fearless Filipoffs, a little dude with long hair and huge arms, oh, no!—let go of Fil Filipoff, who spun through the air and began falling a horrible long fall when suddenly another little dude with long hair and huge arms came swinging in from the side and caught her by one hand, and then they were swinging back, and what was this? Now he was somehow upside down and Fil was dangling from a rubbery-looking thing he had between his teeth, the other end between her teeth? I hardly had a chance to wonder what that rubbery-thing tasted like, when she was flying through the air again, twirling right into the grasp of the first little dude, and the next thing I knew, they were all standing together on a platform and Fil was saying to the little dude with the rubbery-looking thing, “If you don’t start brushing your teeth you’re out of the show.”
“So what are you telling us?” Bernie was saying. “The handwriting matches and Forensics found two of his prints, but he didn’t write the letter?”
“It’s just not Uri,” Popo said.
“In what way?” said Bernie. “Whether he used a hook or not—”
“He didn’t.”
“—he was known as a humane trainer. Isn’t it possible he took one more step in that direction?”
Popo didn’t answer. He raised his head, glanced up. Fil was spinning through the air again, hands crossed over her chest, ponytail sticking straight out, muscles bulging in her legs. One of the little dudes came swinging in, reached out and—missed her! Fil stayed still in midair for the longest time, like—like she really was a bird—and then she fell.
“Chet! Easy.”
Fell and fell and then landed in a net, which sprang her back up, kind of the same as a trampoline. I made the mistake of getting on a trampoline once. Never again: can’t beat solid ground, as far as I’m concerned. Fil bounced up and down a few times, and called up to the little dude who’d missed her, “Hung over again, you stupid jerk?”
“Who’s that?” Bernie said.
“Her brother Ollie,” said Popo.
“He’s a boozer?”
“Not for me to say,” said Popo.
“Your circus seems to have some problems,” Bernie said.
Popo turned to Bernie. “Are you going to keep looking for Uri? That’s all I want to know.”
Bernie took out the letter. “‘You will never find us and I do not believe you have any cause to search.’ Sounds like he doesn’t want to be found.”
Popo looked away, but not before I saw tears in his eyes.
“Uh,” Bernie said. “Um.” He smoothed out the letter, looked at it again. “Are there any secrets in here?”
“Secrets?”
“Hidden messages,” Bernie said.
“Like invisible ink?”
“Forensics probably checked for that, but I’ll remind them. What I meant was any meanings that would reveal themselves only to someone who knew him really well.”
“Like me.”
“Yeah.”
“There’s nothing like that,” Popo said.
Bernie handed him the letter. “Take another look.”
Popo held the letter up. His eyes moved back and forth. He shook his head. “No hidden messages in your sense,” he said.
“Then in what sense?”
“The whole thing is one hidden message,” Popo said. “Uri would never do something like this.” Bernie’s mouth opened, but before he could say anything, Popo went on. “I know what you’re thinking—I’m just a pathetic aging reject who can’t face the truth.”
What did that mean? Couldn’t tell you, but from the quick sideways movement of Bernie’s eyes—real quick, easy to miss, a look I’d seen often in discussions between Bernie and Leda—I was pretty sure that Popo had in fact known what Bernie was thinking.
“Far from it,” Bernie said. “Not my thought at all. But now that you raise the, uh, relationship aspect, we should explore a few obvious avenues, a formality, more or less.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Was Uri interested in someone else?”
Popo was silent for a long time. He seemed to be watching the Fearless Filipoffs as one by one they climbed down a long ladder from their platform to the dirt floor. “You never know, do you?” he said at last.
“Yeah,” Bernie said, “lots of times you do know. So if you’ve got a name, let’s have it.”
Popo rose. He was shaking. “There is no name.”
“But you suspect someone?”
“No, and I don’t think you do, either.”
“Why not?”
“Because, although it turns out you’re not very likable, you’re not stupid, either. Therefore you’ve already asked yourself why, if Uri was only running off with someone new, would he go to all the trouble of taking Peanut, too?”
Whoa. Bernie not likable? Where did that come from? And then, another surprise: Popo took out his checkbook. “Is fifteen hundred enough for now?” That had to mean we were still on the case, whatever it was. Things were happening fast.
“More than enough,” Bernie said.
Oh, Bernie.
We left the big top, went past the ticket booth, and took a little walk around the fairgrounds, me and Bernie. Were we going anyplace special? I didn’t know, but I never turned down the chance for a walk. Soon we came to one of those places for throwing baseballs at milk bottles. We’d been to one before, me, Bernie, Suzie. The guy running it—tattoos all over his face, I never like that in a human—told us to get the hell out of there and never come back. By that time Bernie had won too many stuffed animals to carry, but why anyone would want even one was beyond me. Bernie showed no interest in this particular booth even though the woman at the counter with the baseballs in her hand said, “Try your luck, big guy?” Instead we kept going, stopped at a little outdoor bar at the end of the row of booths. The only customer was one of those little Filipoff dudes, sitting at a corner table with a mug of beer.
“Once in a while,” Bernie said, “you’ve just got to roll the dice.”
Oh, no, not the dice. The last time—in some late-night dive after the Police Athletic League fund-raiser—we’d had to pawn Bernie’s grandfather’s watch, our most valuable possession, with Mr. Singh, our go-to move in financial emergencies.
No dice appeared. We walked around the railing, entered the bar, and stopped in front of the little dude. Bernie looked down at him and smiled, a nice big friendly smile, and Bernie has the best smile going. “Ollie Filipoff?” he said.
The little dude glanced up. “Sorry, bud,” he said. “Off duty.”
“Off duty?” Bernie said.
“No autographs.”
Bernie pulled up a chair and sat down. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. I sat beside him. Under the table I saw that Ollie Filipoff was wearing flip-flops. His feet had an interesting smell—leather, sweat, toe-jam. I was all set to like him.
“Huh?” said Ollie. “I’m kinda—”
The waitress arrived. “Same as my friend here,” Bernie said, “and why not another one for him while you’re at it? Plus a bowl of water for Chet.”
“He’s adorable,” the waitress said. One thing about this job—you meet great people. “We’ve got an order of short ribs a customer just left, hardly touched,” she went on. “Is he allowed to—?” Some of the greatest people on earth. Short ribs were new to me, but even if they weren’t as long as the kind I was used to, no complaints.
Bernie gave Ollie another smile. “Saw your practice session,” he said. “Fantastic.”
“Uh-huh,” Ollie said.
“It’s all one family?”
“Yup.”
“That must be fun.”
“Why?”
“One big happy family.”
Ollie snorted. I was always on the lookout for that. It’s not about clearing their nose because nothing ever comes out, and often meant we were about to get somewhere.
“Your part looks difficult,” Bernie said.
“Catcher? Goddamn difficult.” Ollie took a long swig of beer. “And that’s putting it . . . you know.”
“Mildly?”
“Yeah, mildly.”
The waitress came with two more mugs of beer and a paper plate, and on that paper plate: ribs, and they didn’t look short to me, not one bit. She put the plate on the floor and patted my back; she was a good patter, but I was in a rush. I wagged my tail one quick back-and-forth and lowered my head to give the short ribs a try. What can I tell you? If you’ve had short ribs, you know.
“Oh, and miss?” said Bernie. “How about a couple shots of JD, just to celebrate.” He raised his mug, clinked it against Ollie’s.
“Celebrate what?” said Ollie.
“The artistry of the trapeze,” Bernie said.
“Artistry my ass,” said Ollie. He drained his first mug, started on the new one. “Know how long I’ve been doing this?”
“No.”
“Long as I can remember. I was the flyer for years.”
The waitress came with the shots. Ollie knocked his back in one throw; Bernie left his alone.
“What do you like more,” Bernie said. “Flyer or catcher?”
“What do you think?” said Ollie. “Flyer’s the star of the goddamn show.”
“Wouldn’t have guessed that,” said Bernie, “seeing how strong and quick the catcher’s got to be.”
“Frickin’ right,” said Ollie, giving one of his upper arms a little rub; I glimpsed that through the glass table top in mid-bite. “But does anyone appreciate it?”
“Tough break,” Bernie said. “Who decided to make the switch?”
“Gramps, of course,” Ollie said. “Who else? That old scumbag decides everything.”
“Maybe he was thinking since Fil’s the smallest—” Bernie began.
“She’s as strong as an ox. Gramps always liked her better, simple as that. And I was practically an Olympic gymnast.” His legs started trembling under the table. I’ve seen a lot of that, mostly from perps. Hey! Was Ollie a perp? I glanced at his pant leg: our cases usually end with me grabbing the perp by the pant leg. Ollie’s pant leg was in easy striking distance.
“Didn’t know that,” Bernie said, sliding his shot glass closer to Ollie.
“I had a screen test at Universal,” Ollie said.
“I’m not surprised.”
Ollie’s hand moved toward the shot glass. “Still waiting to hear on that.”
“It can take time.”
“That’s what I tell Gramps, but he says after five years there’s no chance. See the kind of support I get? And on top of that, Fil’s a drill sergeant.”
“So you’re under a lot of pressure,” Bernie said.
“Tell me about it.”
Ollie downed the second shot. While he was doing that, Bernie made a quick motion to the waitress.
“Don’t know about you,” Bernie said, “but when I’m under pressure my sleeping patterns go all to hell.”
Ollie raised the shot glass, found it empty, switched to the beer. “Can’t sleep for shit,” he said. “I’m up every goddamn night.”
“Without exception?”
“Huh?”
“Meaning each and every.”
“Didn’t I just get finished saying every?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bernie. Bernie calling someone sir? Always a sign we were winning. “My mistake. I’m a little surprised that’s all.”
“Why?”
“Because it means that the other night when Uri DeLeath and Peanut disappeared and no one saw or heard anything, there’s a real good chance that you did.”
Ollie sat back.
“So you must have had a good reason for keeping your mouth shut,” Bernie said.
“You a cop?” Ollie said.
“No.”
“You look like a cop.”
“Ex-military,” Bernie said.
“Yeah?” said Ollie. “I was thinking of joining up with the SEALs myself.”
“You’d have been great.”
Ollie drank more beer. “Thing is,” he said, “I’ve never been comfortable in the water.”
“They can work around that,” Bernie said.
Ollie gave Bernie a long look. By that time I was all done with the short ribs, also done with licking the plate clean, and was just getting comfortable in a shady patch. “Know what kind of guy you are?” Ollie said.
“Tell me,” said Bernie.
“A glass is half-full guy,” Ollie said. “All I deal with is the half-empties.”
The shots came. “Cheers,” Bernie said.
They threw down the shots. Ollie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, I saw some shit that night, but I’m no fool—I keep things to myself.”
“Don’t blame you,” Bernie said. “Like what kind of things?”
“Like this big old eighteen-wheeler going out the back gate,” Ollie said. “I was just coming in from this after-hours joint I hit sometimes.”
“Uncle Rio’s?” Bernie said.
“How’d you know that?”
“It’s nearby,” Bernie said. “What can you tell me about the eighteen-wheeler? Or were you seeing two of them?”
Ollie paused for a moment. Then he laughed, a squeaky little laugh. “So right,” he said. “Maybe even four. Four times four red roses—that makes sixteen.”
“Not quite following you,” Bernie said.
“That’s what was on the side of the trailer,” Ollie said. “Four red roses.”