SIXTEEN
The heel is down at the foot: I was pretty sure of that, because when Bernie says heel, which he really never has to, I walk along right beside his feet. The head is the head, at the top. So head over heels means what? The head is always over the heels, except in an upside-down situation, for example when a perp by the name of Nuggets Bolliterri tried to escape on us from an upstairs window and ended up dangling headfirst in a tangle of tied-together sheets. Leda had just said Malcolm was head over heels. Meaning what? He was tangled in tied-together sheets? I couldn’t take it any further.
We got stuck in traffic, not moving at all, the kind of getting stuck where drivers climb out of their cars and stare into the distance. Bernie called Suzie. “Hi, it’s me. Are you there? Did you get my message, uh, the one about being sorry about the Dry Gulch thing? Hope you didn’t hang around there too long, and also, um—”
Suzie picked up. Her voice came over the speakers. “Three hours,” she said.
“Oh,” said Bernie.
“But I’ll never do that again.” Suzie’s voice over the speakers, yes, except I’d never heard her sound like this. Suzie has one of my favorite voices, like she’s having fun just being there—can’t help listening whenever Suzie speaks, letting the sound flow over me—but there was no fun in her voice now. Instead it was flat, and also kind of cold.
“Like I said,” Bernie said, “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are,” Suzie said. “And I also know how it is when you’re on a case. But I’m starting to think you may not be ready for this.”
“For what?” Bernie said. Someone honked behind us; traffic was moving again. Bernie shifted into gear, but not in the usual way: there was a nasty grinding.
“See, right there,” Suzie said. “I’m talking about being ready for whatever this is we’ve got going on between us.”
“Oh,” said Bernie again. This wasn’t easy to follow, but I knew from experience that whenever Bernie kept saying “oh” things weren’t going well.
“How would you define it, Bernie?”
More honking. Bernie pressed on the gas, maybe too hard. We jerked forward. “Define what?” he said.
Suzie’s voice got colder. “What we have.”
“What we have?” said Bernie. “It’s like, you know, a good thing.”
“A good thing,” Suzie said.
“Yeah.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Elaborate? Well, a very good thing. Very, very good.”
“Have to go into a meeting,” Suzie said. “When you come up with a better definition, feel free to give me a call.”
“But—”
Click.
“Christ,” Bernie said. “What was that about?”
I couldn’t help him.
“I mean,” Bernie said, rummaging in the glove box, this time coming out empty-handed, “it’s very, very good. What’s better than that? When I’m with her I feel great, every single minute. She doesn’t even have to say a word, but I love when she does. Christ Almighty. Just her presence makes me want to be my best self.” He tried fishing under his seat, found a pen, a broken CD case, and a coffee cup lid, but no cigarettes. “So what the hell does she want me to say?”
I had no idea. In my world, the nation within the nation, we do things differently. Take this one night, for example, when I heard some distant she-barking, and in fact it didn’t turn out to be so distant after all—I was there in no time! She was in a fenced-in backyard, kind of a high fence, but not quite high enough. No, sir. I’ve always loved leaping and that night I loved it even more, taking this all-out sprint—she was standing still watching me the whole time through chain-link—and getting my paws underneath me and—
The phone buzzed. “Suzie?” said Bernie, just before hitting the button.
Not Suzie; the voice over the speakers was Rick’s. “Update for you,” he said. “Autopsy came in on DeLeath. Cause of death—” Paper rustled in the background. “—necrotic blah blah, here we go—shock, induced by cytotoxic venom resultant from a snakebite to the dorsal yada yada of the right hand.”
“You’re saying he died of snakebite?”
“Haven’t lost your quick, Bernie.”
“Any other signs of violence?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Rick said. Bernie didn’t answer. “Nothing else,” Rick said. “Snakebite, period.”
“Thanks.”
“Any time. Talked to that little trapeze guy, by the way, Ollie Filipoff. Do you know if they use a net?”
“Yeah, they do. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Why?”
“It makes a difference, don’t you think?” Rick said. “Like say the difference between kissing and the old boom-boom.”
“Have to think about that,” Bernie said. Not me. I didn’t get any of this, so far. “Is that what you talked to Ollie about—sex and the flying trapeze?”
“Nope,” said Rick. “We discussed his retraction.”
“Of what?”
“That tale he fed you—the eighteen-wheeler with four roses on the side, leaving the fairgrounds by the back gate.”
“Tale? What are you talking about?”
“Fiction, Bernie. He made it up.”
“Why the hell would he do that?”
“Says he was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of you. You and Chet.”
“Bullshit.”
“He says you came on strong—don’t tell me that never happens. Plus he has a fear of dogs.”
Whoa. Rick was saying Ollie was afraid of me? No way. Not that he’d patted me or anything like that, but when a human had fears of me and my kind I always knew, and Ollie didn’t.
“He sensed rough treatment just around the corner,” Rick was saying, “so he gave you what he thought you wanted.”
“It’s just around the corner now,” Bernie said.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“And how could he have known what I wanted? I never mentioned a truck of any kind, let alone with four roses on the side.”
“Ah,” said Rick. “The roses. They were for verisimilitude.”
That one was brand new, sounded very bad.
“Meaning?”
“Verisimilitude? I’m surprised you’re not familiar—”
“Cut the crap,” Bernie said.
Rick laughed. “Apparently you were plying him with JD.”
“Plying? We had a friendly drink.”
“And, in search of the telling detail that sells the story—he’s that kind of witness, basically a sneak—he happened to think of another bourbon.”
“Four Roses?”
“Haven’t lost your quick, Bernie. Or did I already say that?”
The next day—or was it the one after? or maybe the same one?—we parked in a lot outside a cemetery gate, away from all the other cars. The gate was open, but we didn’t go in. A burial was happening inside—we could see people in dark clothes standing around—and Bernie tries to stay away from burials, not always easy in our job. About cemeteries, all I know is that they probably smell different to me than they do to you. A big black bird flew in slow circles high above but no one was watching it, except me. I admit I’ve got a thing about birds, bad-tempered critters, and I don’t just mean the one that followed me and a tiny show dog named Princess across the desert, something wicked on its mind. But that’s another story. The point is, would I be bad-tempered if I could drift around in the bright blue sky all day? I ask you.
After a while the people started coming out and getting in their cars. I recognized some of them—Popo, Colonel Drummond, Fil, and others I’d seen around the circus. They got in their cars and drove away. We sat where we were until Ollie Filipoff walked through the gate, just about the very last person. He headed toward a motorcycle in the far corner of the lot, took off his jacket and tie, and then his shirt, balled them all up and shoved them into a saddlebag. A little guy, but with big pop-up muscles. He took a T-shirt from the saddlebag, put it on, and carefully rolled the sleeves up a little higher over his arm muscles.
“At least somebody loves Ollie,” Bernie said. I waited to find out who, but Bernie didn’t say.
We walked across the lot. Ollie was swinging one leg over the motorcycle when he saw us. He paused, then sat slowly on the seat.
“Got a moment?” Bernie said.
“Pressed for time, tell you the truth,” Ollie said.
“The truth is always a nice change of pace,” Bernie said.
“Huh?” said Ollie.
Bernie smiled, the kind that’s only about showing teeth. “Cool bike,” he said, putting his hand on it.
Ollie gave Bernie’s hand a look—he didn’t like his bike getting touched, hard to miss that—but all he said was, “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Came to express our condolences,” Bernie said.
“For what?”
“The circus’s recent loss.”
“What was that?”
“Uri DeLeath,” Bernie said. “Unless we’ve got the wrong funeral.”
“Nope, it’s the right one. He passed on.”
“One way of putting it.”
“Like, to the other side,” Ollie said.
“How do you feel about that, Ollie?”
“The other side, you mean?”
“Sure, why not?”
Ollie squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. A certain kind of dude, the kind we always bring down, does that when he’s trying to have a thought. “I don’t know,” he said, eyes opening. “Is there a hell, too? Or just heaven.”
Bernie smiled again, this time the actually-having-fun type. “What if there’s hell and hell only? Ever think of that, Ollie?”
“Damn. You think that’s possible?”
“Depends on the point of all this,” Bernie said, “assuming there is one.” Ollie glanced around the way humans do when they’re trying to figure out where they are. “But what we really wanted to know,” Bernie went on, “is how you feel about DeLeath’s death.”
“How I feel?” Ollie licked his lips; I watch for that—usually a good sign. “Tough break, I guess,” he said.
“Hear about what killed him?”
“Oh, yeah. Snakes scare the shit out of me. Ironic, huh?”
“Didn’t quite follow you,” Bernie said.
“The animal guy getting offed by an animal.”
“Where did you hear that?” Bernie said. “About the irony.”
“The colonel mentioned it.”
“Did he?”
“On the way out of the church.” Ollie leaned forward, put his hands on the controls. “Well, better get goin’.”
“No problem,” Bernie said. “We’ll just clear up one little discrepancy and you can ride this baby into the wild blue yonder.”
“Discrepancy?”
“On the four roses story. You’re on the record as telling two different versions, one to Sergeant Torres and one to us.”
“Who’s us?”
“Chet and I.”
Ollie gave me a look, his face kind of pinched—like . . . like how could I be part of the team, or something. I made up my mind about him. My teeth got this funny feeling, a sort of wanting to bite.
“Aw, c’mon, man,” Ollie said, “what difference does it make now? Gonna indict a snake?” He laughed, a haw-haw-haw that went on way too long for me.
“We killed the snake,” Bernie said. “Chet and I.”
“Yeah?” said Ollie, giving me another look, not so pinched this time.
“And that still leaves us with a missing elephant,” Bernie said. “So we’re going to have to straighten out your testimony.”
Ollie’s eyes went to the key in the ignition. Bernie removed it in one smooth motion that didn’t look particularly quick, but by the time Ollie said, “Hey!” the key was in Bernie’s pocket. That Bernie! I remembered once when he told me you don’t bring a spoon to a fork fight, or something like that.
“Think, Ollie.”
“About what?”
“What you saw the night you came back from Uncle Rio’s.”
“Didn’t see nothin’, man.”
“So you lied to us.”
“Sorry.”
“The eighteen-wheeler with the four red roses on the side?”
“Made it all up,” Ollie said, “like out of whole, um, whatever it is.”
“Cloth.”
“Yeah.”
“Why did you lie?”
“More like a fib. And I already said I was sorry.”
“You told Sergeant Torres you were afraid of us.”
“Yeah. Never been comfortable around dogs.” Uh-uh, buddy; I wasn’t getting that, not one whiff. “And you’re kind of threatening yourself, no offense.”
“Me?” said Bernie.
“You took my key.”
“Not nice.”
“No.”
“But the thing is, Ollie, you’re an acrobat, and I just can’t buy an acrobat scaring so easily. You’re brave by definition.”
“Thanks,” Ollie said.
“So what’s going on?” Bernie said.
Ollie’s mouth opened and closed.
“You’re afraid of something,” Bernie said, “but it’s not us. So let’s hear the name.”
Ollie stared straight ahead. “There’s no name, man. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bernie took out the key, stuck it back in the ignition.
“You’re free to go,” he said.
“Uh, nice talkin’ to you,” Ollie said.
“Drive safe.”
“Always do.”
Bernie turned to go. “Oh, and one more thing—you know Darren Quigley?”
“Security guard? We’ve had a few drinks together.”
“At Uncle Rio’s?”
“Matter of fact, yeah.” Ollie kicked the starter, vroom vroom. I’ve been on a Harley before, let me tell you. But some other time.
Back on the road, Bernie said, “Shot in the dark, Chet. Boozers working in close proximity—they tend to find each other.”
A shot? Hadn’t heard one, not at the cemetery, not since the Chang case, in fact. The Chang case: a nightmare, but the food! Another story for later. I yawned a nice big yawn, the kind that sometimes catches my lip over a tooth, and by the time I got everything straightened out, whatever I’d been worrying about was gone. Why worry anyway? I had Bernie.
A green car with a gold star on the side was parked in front of our place. A bald guy in a green uniform climbed out as we pulled into the driveway.
“Bernie Little?” he said, as we left the Porsche, Bernie through the door on his side, me over the one on mine.
“Yeah,” said Bernie.
The guy came closer. “What a great-looking dog,” he said.
“Chet,” said Bernie.
“Nice name,” the man said. “Okay to give him a treat?”
What a question! The next thing I knew I had a biscuit in my mouth, not big but very very tasty.
“Mathers—Game and Fish,” said the man. Mathers: he had a nice name, too. I liked him from the get-go. “You’re the one who killed the snake?” he said.
“For God’s sake—you came to write me up for that?” Bernie said. “It was self-defense.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Mathers said. “I’ve got a map of the area here, southeast section of the Sangre Hills. If you can point me to the spot where this happened, I’ll go out there and take a look.”
He spread the map on the hood of the Porsche. They huddled over it. Bernie pointed. “Right about there, more or less. What are you hoping to see?”
“Hard to specify,” said Mathers. “The remains of a crate, maybe, or a cage. Even a canvas sack.”
“There was nothing like that.”
“No?” Mathers said. “Nothing at all to indicate the snake wasn’t just out there on its own volition?”
“On its own volition?” Bernie said. “Must be thousands of diamondbacks wandering the desert on their own volition.”
“True,” said Mathers. “But your snake was a puff adder.”
“So?”
“So puff adders aren’t native to our desert, aren’t native to the Americas, in fact. This particular kind comes from sub-Saharan Africa—Gabon, Congo, places like that.”
“I don’t get it,” Bernie said.
“Meaning the only puff adders in this state come in with a permit,” Mathers said. “A permit to keep, not to release into the wild.”
“I’m surprised you let them in at all.”
“Completely insane,” Mathers said. “But this is the land of the free.”
Bernie laughed.
“We don’t get puff adder applications very often,” Mathers went on. “Three since I’ve been with the department—going on ten years now—all to licensed vendors and all accounted for, as of this morning.”
“Meaning our snake was illegal?”
“Looks that way,” Mathers said. “Could be some idiot sneaking it in through an airport and releasing it when he got tired of providing live mice for dinner. That, or it was an escapee from something bigger.”
“Something bigger?”
“Illegal animal trafficking’s a multibillion-dollar business. You didn’t know that?”
“All new to me,” Bernie said.
“Second only to drug smuggling in terms of illegal international business, but doesn’t get much press,” Mathers said. “And as usual, Mexico makes an ideal staging point.” He folded the map. “Did you know the puff adder’s responsible for more deaths than any other snake? I’m talking about within Africa, of course. Happening over here—that’s unbelievably bad luck.”
“Just what I was thinking,” Bernie said.
Were they still talking about snakes? No snakes around: I’d have been the first to know, certainly in this crowd. But there was no question that more biscuits lurked in Mathers’s pocket: the smell was overpowering. I moved a little closer to Mathers, wagging my tail.