Chet 02 - Thereby Hangs a Tail

Author:Quinn, Spencer [Quinn, Spencer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 1416585850
Amazon: B0057DCUIK
Publisher: Atria
Published: 2010-01-05T05:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

We went home. I loved home and hadn’t been there in way too long. While Bernie got the mail out of the box and flipped through it—lines appearing on his forehead, meaning lots of bills—I ran around the lawn sniffing for trespassers. And did we have them, in spades. Spades are a kind of shovel, which I know on account of this perp who once swung one at Bernie and was now wearing an orange jumpsuit at Central State, somewhere in all that being the connection between spades and trespassers, but why worry where exactly? Instead I followed the scents: squirrel, bird, the mailman, toad, and several of my guys, including— Iggy? Was it possible Iggy had been out? I hadn’t smelled Iggy in a long time, couldn’t be sure. I glanced over at Iggy’s place and at that very moment he ran up to the window and saw me. He started barking that yip-yip-yip, got his front paws up against the glass, lost his balance, and tumbled out of sight.

“C’mon, Chet.”

I followed Bernie inside. Ah. I stretched, a really good long stretch, butt up, head down, a little squeak coming out of my mouth for some reason, didn’t even sound like me, me with my deep growly bark, so I barked a few deep growly barks just to hear them and hadn’t quite finished when I noticed a rubber chew toy— one of my favorites, shaped like a doughnut—lying in a corner of the front hall. I’d forgotten all about it! I bounded over and got to work. Meanwhile, the message light was blinking. Bernie pressed the button.

“Hey, this is Janie.” Janie, the groomer; hadn’t been groomed in a while, could probably use it. “Got your message, guess we’re playing phone tag. It’s just about that Post-it note. How’s Chet doing? I’ll be out of reach till the eighteenth, hiking up in the Blood Mountains—please give me a call then.”

“Post-it note?” Bernie said. “What’s she talking about?”

I paused in mid-chew, came pretty close to remembering.

Beep. “Chuck Eckel here. You’re kind of hard to reach, buddy. If I don’t hear from you real soon we’re gonna have to close out your position.”

“What the hell?” Bernie stabbed at the number pad. “Hey,” he said. “Bernie Little.”

“Bernie, my man, where you been?” I recognized the voice of the Hawaiian shirt guy from the Dry Gulch bar, at the same time realizing it was one of those human voices I didn’t like, very friendly on the outside but nasty way deep down.

“Working,” Bernie said.

“Forgotten what you do,” said Chuck Eckel.

“I’m a private investigator.”

“A private dick, huh?”

Bernie hated that expression; his whole body tensed up. “Does all your information come from crappy novels?” he said.

“Say what?”

“Never mind,” Bernie said. “What’s up?”

“Whoa,” said Chuck Eckel. “Back up a sec. What was that crack about crappy novels? I don’t read any goddamn novels.”

“You win,” said Bernie.

Silence on the other end. When Eckel spoke again, the friendly covering of his voice was all gone. “Enough pleasantries,” he said.

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