A Fistful of Collars

TWENTY-FOUR

I have never in my whole life been so utterly humiliated,” Leda said.

We were in the parking area at the movie set, out behind the trailers and close to the two-lane blacktop leading back to the city, the Porsche and Leda’s minivan parked nose to nose. Good thing they weren’t moving, since there’d be a crack-up right away. Hey! What a strange thought! I gave myself a good scratching under the ear and returned to feeling normal.

Bernie glanced at the minivan. Charlie sat in the front passenger seat, eating trail mix from a little plastic container and gazing out at nothing in particular. I have things I could mention on the subject of trail mix, but this isn’t the time or the place, as humans say. Maybe just the time part-actually not sure how place fits in.

“For Christ sake,” Bernie said. “Who cares what those pretentious morons think?”

“Those pretentious morons, as you put it, are some of the most important people in the country,” Leda said.

Bernie blew some air through his lips, making a sound like peh.

“You’ve always been so transparent,” Leda said. “This is jealousy, pure and simple.”

“Jealous?” said Bernie. “Of who?”

“Lars, of course.”

Bernie laughed, not his normal laugh, which is one of the best sounds on earth, but harsher and more through his nose, if that makes any sense. “Why would I be jealous of that, that…”

“Can’t find the perfect put-down?” Leda said. “How unusual. But as for the question, you’re jealous because Lars has discovered a talent in your son that you were unaware of and wouldn’t have a clue what to do with in any case.”

Over in the minivan, Charlie had stopped eating and was watching his parents. Without thinking much about it-or anything, really-I sidled toward Charlie’s door. He glanced down at me through the open window. No makeup on his face now: he looked just fine. My tail started up, all on its own.

“That’s total crap,” Bernie said.

“This is exactly why the Europeans think of us the way they do,” Leda said.

“The Europeans?”

A new one on me, too.

“You still can’t grasp what happened, can you?” Leda said. “Your son is an artist, and not just in the making.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bernie said. “He’s a six-year-old kid, barely out of diapers.”

The minivan door opened. I climbed up into the car and sat on the floor in front of Charlie. First time in the minivan: it turned out to be nice and roomy. Also, some interesting food products lay under Charlie’s seat, out of sight, which meant a lot to humans when it came to finding things but little to me. The food products-remains of a tuna sandwich, a French fry or two, some corn chips-could wait. Right now what I wanted to do was push up gently against Charlie, so I did. He put his hand on the back of my neck. Bernie’s voice rose. Leda’s sharpened. They seemed to blow round and round the minivan like a big dust devil. You see dust devils out in the desert from time to time. I thought about dust devils and other desert things I knew, especially some nice little yellow flowers, the name escaping me at that moment. Charlie kept his hand on the back of my neck.

We drove home. Bernie was quiet just about the whole way. Then, as we turned onto Mesquite Road, he said, “Hope to hell Charlie didn’t hear that diaper crack.”

Oh, Bernie.

He banged the steering wheel. “They put him in a goddamn death scene without even telling me. Leda knew, oh, yeah. Why was that okay with her?”

I started panting, although I wasn’t thirsty, hadn’t been running. In fact, a nice bit of running sounded like just the thing at the moment.

We pulled into the driveway. Bernie stopped the car, switched off the engine but didn’t get out. He sat there. I panted.

“Turns out it wasn’t even in the script, that part where he opened his eyes and seemed to…” He went quiet. I heard the phone ringing in the house, but maybe Bernie didn’t, because he kept sitting there. “How did he know to do that? Now she’s going to twist his whole childhood around. To what end? Turn him into a Thad Perry?”

What was he talking about? I had no idea. I had no ideas at all. I searched back for my last idea. What had it been? Something nice, something about… yes! Running!

The next thing I knew, I was running. And not just running, but zooming, ears flattened straight back by my own wind. What a feeling, in the air most of the time, all paws off the ground, practically flying! There are many ways of zooming, but my favorite is the quick-cutting kind of zoom, darting this way and that, sometimes doubling right back on myself, claws digging deep in the ground, clods of earth flying high, and not just earth but grassy turf, too, which makes a sort of ripping sound, quite faint yet very satisfying in a way that’s hard to explain and no time anyway, no time to even think about the fact that we didn’t have a grass lawn, no way we could, not with the whole aquifer thing, and neither did the Parsons, in their case all about no longer being able to push the lawnmower, the only grass lawn being old man Heydrich’s on the other side. Zoom. Zip. Rip, rip, rip: had I ever made cuts this sharp and at this speed? Chet the “Chet! Chet! For God’s sake!”

Uh-oh. I hit the brakes and stopped on a dime-no dimes present, of course, although you couldn’t be sure, what with dimes being so small, unless I was getting that wrong, so complicated, human money-possibly taking out 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.