SEVENTEEN
Uncle Rio’s,” said Bernie, backing into a little parking space in one move, smooth and easy. Driving with Bernie: always a pleasure, unless the tools had to come out. “You’ll like this.”
I was liking it already. Me and Bernie together—what was not to like?
Uncle Rio’s was on a dark street not far from the fairgrounds. The only bright lights around were the top of the Ferris wheel, spinning slowly in the night, and the neon signs in Uncle Rio’s window. It was a bar, of course: I can smell them from miles away, miles away being kind of far unless I’ve missed something. What do bars smell like? Stale beer, burned grease, puke. Hey! They go together! A strange thought, not my usual . . . I wondered . . .
And was still wondering when we went into Uncle Rio’s. It turned out to be one of those dark skinny joints, a long bar on one side, a row of tables on the other, a little dance floor at the end. No dancing happening at the moment, probably a good thing, since dancing sometimes gets me going. There was only one woman in the place, drinking down at the end of the bar. A few big guys sat by the beer taps, big guys with cut-off denim jackets, maybe bikers. The bartender serving them had a tattoo on the side of his neck; a cigarette dangled from his mouth even though I was pretty sure there was no smoking in Valley bars. He looked at us, saw Bernie, and said, “You son of a bitch.”
The big guys turned and gave us tough-guy stares. The biggest said, “Want us to take care of this dude, Rio?”
The bartender laughed, one of those booming laughs that came from deep inside. Women don’t have that laugh and neither do most men, but no time for that now. I got ready for trouble, but no trouble happened. The bartender said, “Why’d I want you to do that? Bernie here would mop the floor with you assholes and then the cops would come and make me put out my smoke.” The big guys looked confused. The bartender hurried around the bar and threw his arms around Bernie. They banged each other on the back real hard.
“Rio.”
“Bernie.”
More banging. “Bastard never comes in here,” Rio said. “Too snooty now for a dump like mine?”
“You know the answer to that,” Bernie said.
Rio stepped back. “You’re in shape.”
“Nah.”
“Want to stay in shape, here’s my advice—never run a bar,” Rio said.
“Got ya.”
“Imagine you running a bar.”
“What’s so odd about that?”
Rio didn’t answer, just laughed another one of those boomers. He had a big belly and it shook; I always like the sight of that. And maybe because I was watching him, he suddenly noticed me, an interesting thing that happens sometimes with critters of all kinds.
“Hey,” he said. “Is this Chet?”
“How do you know about Chet?”
“Ratko Savic was in here last week.”
Ratko Savic? Hard to forget old Ratko, with his long drippy nose and his fondness for knife play.
“What’s he doing out?” Bernie said.
“Early parole,” said Rio. “Have to ask yourself what the world’s coming to when a menace like Ratko scores early parole. But nothing for you to worry about—he’s got a healthy respect for Chet, better believe it.”
“Did those skin grafts take?”
“Actually improved his appearance.” Rio gazed at me for a moment, eye to eye. Some of my guys—General Beauregard, for example—don’t like that one bit, but I don’t mind. “He looks like a big sweetheart to me,” Rio said. “Got some Slim Jims behind the bar—he allowed a Slim Jim? Hey, down, big guy!”
“Chet!”
Uh-oh. Was I embarrassing Bernie? Never want that. I sat down, alert, quiet, professional.
“Knows Slim Jims, that’s for sure,” Rio said. “I bet he understands a lot of things.”
“His understanding can be selective at times,” Bernie said, “in a convenient sort of way.”
Lost me there.
“Sounds like my fourth wife,” Rio said.
“There’s a fourth?”
“Was. A stripper like number two, but less intellectual.”
Soon we were at one of the side tables, Bernie and Rio with glasses of beer, me underneath with a Slim Jim. The Slim Jim had pretty much my whole attention, so I missed a lot of what they were talking about, too bad, because the war was part of it, a desert war, but not our desert, somewhere far away, a war Bernie didn’t talk about.
“I’ll never fuckin’ forget that,” Rio was saying.
“It wasn’t thought out,” Bernie said. “Just dumb reaction, that’s all.”
“Makes it even better.”
“Nah,” said Bernie. He sipped his beer. “A guy named Jocko Cochrane ever come around? Sizeable, wears a bandanna?”
“Don’t ring a bell.”
“How about Darren Quigley? He’s supposed to be a regular.”
“Wouldn’t call him a regular,” Rio said. “He’s in here from time to time.”
“We’re looking for him.”
“What’s he done?”
“Maybe nothing. He’s more of a witness.”
“Guys who run a tab I keep their addresses,” Rio said. “Little creep like that I don’t run a tab.”
“Darren’s actually in the wind right now,” Bernie said. “Does he ever bring friends?”
“Sure—there’s that drinking acrobat. Least he’s supposed to be an acrobat. But a drinker for sure.”
“Any others?”
“Isn’t there a lady friend?” Rio looked up, called down to the woman at the end of the bar. “Hey, Delores, you know Darren Quigley?”
“Not in any meaningful way.”
“C’mon over here a sec.”
“I’m happy where I am,” Delores said. “Deliriously.”
The bikers all turned toward her. She ignored them, took a tiny sip of her drink, a greenish-colored drink in a tall glass.
“Maybe we could go join her,” Bernie said in a low voice.
Rio called down again. “Mind if my friend Bernie here joins you?”
Delores gave us a long look. “If he brings the dog,” she said.
We went down to the end of the bar, me and Bernie.
“I had one like this once,” Delores said, “maybe not quite so handsome. What’s his name?”
“Chet.”
She reached out to scratch between my ears. “I suppose they call you Chet the Jet,” she said. Hey. Delores was smart. Plus she turned out to be a real good scratcher, with long fingernails that dug in deep but not too deep, just the way I like.
“Can I buy you another one of those?” Bernie said, nodding toward her drink.
“Only if you’ve got an ulterior motive,” Delores said.
Bernie laughed. “Bernie Little, Little Detective Agency. We—”
Delores raised her hands. “You won’t take me alive, copper,” she said. Then, in a quieter voice—up until then her voice had reminded me of Bernie’s mom, and in fact she reminded me of Bernie’s mom in other ways, including how the longer you looked at her the older she got—she added, “You’re about ten years too late for that.”
Losing me completely, but maybe not Bernie who said, “Don’t believe that for a second—you’re the liveliest thing I’ve seen all day.”
“Aren’t you sweet?” said Delores. “A transparent liar, but sweet.”
“Bernie, sweet?” said Rio, now back behind the bar, appearing with another green drink for Delores and a beer for Bernie.
Bernie took out his wallet.
“Don’t insult me,” Rio said. “Your money’s no good here.”
“Free drinks at Uncle Rio’s?” Delores said. “I’m hallucinating.” She raised her glass. “To sweetness,” she said. She and Bernie clinked glasses; love that sound.
“Darren Quigley has a lady friend?” Bernie said.
“The ulterior motive,” said Delores, “but not the right one. Darren had a lady friend, past tense. The Darrens of the world don’t keep lady friends for long.”
“Why not?”
“Have you met him?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s the question? As for the ex-lady friend, she’s really just a girl, one of those small-town girls who still keep coming west, in search of I can’t remember what. Her name’s Bonnie Hicks, she works at a nails place in that strip across from the East Central Mall, and she lives in the trailer park behind the strip.”
“Thanks,” said Bernie.
“Any time,” said Delores. “What else can I do for you?”
Trailer parks turn up in our job from time to time. Some are in the middle of nowhere—like that nudist one where we once had to go on a case I never understood involving a stolen oil rig, but I learned one thing for sure: humans look better with their clothes on. No offense.
Other trailer parks can turn up right in town. We parked in front of a strip mall, our headlights shining on the darkened store fronts. “Nails by Diva,” Bernie read, as we got out of the car. “What’s that all about?” he said, “women and their nails? Growing them longer, for one thing, and how come men don’t . . .” His voice trailed off.
We walked around the strip mall into scrubland at the back, came to a gate with two posts but no gate in between. Beyond that stood some trailers, low rounded shadows under the pink night sky, none of them showing any lights, and also a tent. A fire burned in front of the tent, and a dude sat beside it, smoking a joint. Bernie sniffed the air: pot’s an easy scent for just about anyone.
“Evenin’,” said the dude.
“Hi,” said Bernie.
“You a cop?”
“No.”
“Look a bit like a cop.”
“Is that a crime?”
The dude started laughing, then stopped abruptly. “That’s kind of a puzzler, stop to think about it,” he said. “Like The Matrix.” He took a long drag, noticed me. “Out walkin’ your dog?”
“That’s right.”
“I had a dog once. He ran away.”
“Too bad, at least for you,” Bernie said. “We’re looking for Bonnie Hicks.”
The dude took a quick glance at one of the trailers, a small silver one up on blocks. He turned back to Bernie and said, “I might know how to find her.”
“We’re all ears.”
We were? I looked at his ears, not small for a human, but how well did they hear? For example, was he picking up that sound—pretty faint, it’s true—of a woman crying somewhere in the trailer park? If so, he showed no sign.
“Like they say,” the dude was telling Bernie, “it’s the information age.”
“Yeah?” said Bernie. The firelight shone in his eyes, a beautiful sight.
The dude took another hit—that’s drug lingo—and held his breath. You see that pot-smoking breath-holding combo from time to time in this job, after which things usually go downhill pretty fast.
A big smoke cloud exploded out of the dude’s mouth. “Put it to you this way,” he said, “simple as I can. Once upon a time it was the age of things, and people paid money for them. A Pontiac Firebird, say—that’s a thing. Now it’s the age of information.”
“You’re saying you’ll tell us where the girl is for money?” Bernie asked. The firelight suddenly looked different in his eyes, different in a way that would have scared some people, maybe most.
But not this dude. “Well, well,” he said. “Pretty quick on the uptake for a visitor from the land of the bland.”
Bernie stepped forward and took the joint from the dude’s hand; didn’t rush, didn’t snatch it, just took the thing. He tossed it in the fire.
“What the hell?” the dude said, starting to rise. Bernie put his hand on the dude’s shoulder, sat him back down. The dude tried to squirm free, then said, “Ow,” and went still.
Bernie removed his hand. The dude stayed exactly where he was. “I’m going to give you five bucks for the information,” Bernie said. “Know why?”
The dude shook his head.
“Because it’s marginally less trouble than beating it out of you,” Bernie said.
The dude raised his arm and pointed, real fast. “Third on the left,” he said. “The Airstream up on blocks.”
Bernie handed him money. “And here’s a memo from the information age, absolutely free—we don’t need to see you on our way out.”
“I was just leaving,” the dude said.
The crying was coming from inside the Airstream. That was clear to Bernie by the time we reached the door; I could tell from the expression on his face. He knocked and the crying stopped abruptly. No one inside came to the door or made a sound.
“Bonnie Hicks?” Bernie called.
Silence.
“Is Darren in there?” He raised his voice. “Darren, it’s Bernie Little. I think you need some help.”
A woman spoke. “Darren’s not here.”
“Bonnie?”
No answer.
“Maybe you need some help yourself,” Bernie said.
A long silence. Bernie waited. I waited beside him. I could feel how alert he was; I was pretty alert, too. At last the woman said, “Who are you, again?”
“Bernie Little. We’re trying to get Darren out of a jam.”
“He never mentioned you.”
“No?” said Bernie. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“A few days ago, maybe?”
“How about the last time you spoke to him?” Bernie said.
“This morning. He called just when I was leaving for work.”
“Bonnie?”
“Yes?”
“Can we come in?”
“We?”
I barked, not sure why.
“Is that a dog? I’m scared of dogs.”
“Chet’s not scary.”
I barked again, louder this time.
“Yeah,” she said. “Right.”
“Okay, Bonnie,” Bernie said, wagging his finger at me. That hardly ever happened but I always liked it; I wagged my tail back. “We don’t have to come in. Tell me about Darren’s call.”
“It lasted like a minute. He got cut off.”
“What did he say?”
“It was kind of hard to hear, all staticky. He was actually being nice.”
“In what way?”
“You know. Sorry about how he treated me, and if he ever got back he’d make it all up. I thought maybe he was crying.”
“Back from where?” Bernie said.
“Mexico,” said Bonnie. “That’s why it was so staticky.”
“Where in Mexico?”
“San something or other. Anselmo, maybe? Or was it Quentin? That’s when he got cut off.”
“Cut off how?”
“Like when the line goes dead.”
“Did you hear anyone in the background?”
“I don’t think so.” Bonnie had one of those small voices, high and soft. She sounded a lot like a kid to me.
“What are you afraid of, Bonnie?”
“Besides dogs, you mean?”
My tail drooped a bit.
“Yeah, besides dogs.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you know Jocko?”
“I don’t like him.”
“Why not?”
“He looks at me funny.”
“In what way?”
“At my body. Right in front of Darren.”
“Has Jocko been around lately?”
“Not since I broke up with Darren.”
“Why did you break up with him?”
“Do we have to talk about that?”
“Was it why you were crying when we came up?”
Another long silence. “I don’t like it here anymore.”
“Where are you from?”
“Schenectady.”
“That’s a long way from here.”
Bonnie started crying again.
“Do you have any friends or relatives back there?”
“Maybe Jeanine.”
“Who’s she?”
“My half-sister.”
“Do you get along?”
“Not really. Except for when we were kids. We were close when we were kids.”
“You should go see her.”
“That costs money.”
“How much have you got?”
“Eleven dollars.”
“When’s your next payday?”
“I don’t know.”
“Aren’t you working at the nails place?”
“The owner’s mother came over from Korea. I got fired today.”
Bernie reached for his wallet, counted out some bills. “I’m going to slide some money under your door,” Bernie said. “On one condition—you use it to get back to Schenectady.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to go home,” Bernie said. “Tomorrow at the latest.”
“That’s all?” she said. More crying, but growing quieter now. Bernie slid the money under the door.