The Sound and the Furry (7 page)

What was this about? I waited for more, but no more came. We entered the city, swung
onto an off-ramp and were soon on a street lined with small houses except for the
corners, which had a bar pretty much on every one. A bolt of lightning sparked across
the sky, its pattern a lot like Bernie’s stitches. I smelled burned air, the kind
of burned air that meant—
BOOM!
And there it was: thunder. Panting sounds started up right away.

“Easy, big guy,” Bernie said.

The panting? Me? Probably had to be me. Bernie wasn’t panting the least bit—he hardly
ever did, just maybe sometimes when we were hiking in steep country—and no one else
was around, except for a few dudes sitting on their front steps, one or two drinking
out of paper bags. “It’s only thunder,” he said.

The thunder wasn’t what bothered me. What bothered me was that burned air smell.

“Now you’re barking? What’s with you? Put a lid on it.”

Nothing. Nothing was with me. Lid was what again? I shut myself up, or at least amped
down to a low growl. There’s only so much I can do. Hey! But it’s a lot. And just
like that, I was in a great mood, never better. More burned air, more thunder, more
lightning? I hardly even noticed.

“Fishhead’s,” Bernie said, and there, sticking out over the sidewalk was a big sign
that looked like the head of a fish, a grinning fish wearing a bandanna and an eye
patch, very confusing. “Here we are.”

He pulled over. As we hopped out—me actually hopping, Bernie a little slower which
happened sometimes after long drives, what with his war wound and all—a big fat wet
thing hit me right on the tip of my nose. I hadn’t seen rain in so long—it hardly
ever rains in the Valley—that I didn’t realize what was going on until I was soaked
practically through to my skin and Bernie was trying to raise the top on the Porsche.
So much time had passed since the last time we’d needed the top that I’d forgotten
how tricky it could be. The tools came out. Bernie said things I’m sure he didn’t
mean. A passing drunk offered to help. He turned out to be an expert. The top got
raised. Bernie and I walked into Fishhead’s, trailing our own puddles.

I’ve been in a lot of bars—comes with the job. And in all of them, even the very fanciest,
you can pick up the scent of human puke first thing. Maybe not you. No offense. Fishhead’s
was no different. I sniffed around. Far from the fanciest, but Fishhead’s wasn’t the
grubbiest either. In the grubbiest you find actual grubs, edible although I can’t
really recommend them. No grubs at Fishhead’s: that’s the kind of thing I know the
moment I enter any new place. They did have roaches, spiders, of course—no getting
away from them—and possibly a snake, but way down under the floorboards somewhere.
The floorboards themselves were very worn and wonderfully soft against my paws. There
was a small stage in one corner, a few rickety chairs and tables on one side and a
long dark bar on the other. As for people: a gray-haired woman at a table, cigarette
in one hand and a drink in the other; a big old white-bearded dude at the bar, wearing
a straw hat, possibly the kind called a boater; the bartender, who had bright red
hair and full sleeves on both arms, the inked kind; and a guitar player on stage.
Hey! Was he singing “Baby Please Don’t Go?” Kind of, maybe.
“Baby Please Don’t Go” was one of our favorites. I liked Fishhead’s right off the
top.

We walked up to the bar.

“Nice pooch,” the bartender said.

Some people called me pooch. Not sure what that was all about but I didn’t mind.

“Thanks,” Bernie said. “Lord or Duke in the house?”

“Who’s asking?” said the bartender.

Bernie laid our card on the table. This was the new card designed by Suzie, the one
with the flower; Bernie wasn’t happy about it.

The bartender’s fingertips were long and blue, hard to take your eyes off of. She
tapped our card with one of those long blue fingertips. “Little Detective Agency?”

“Correct,” Bernie said.

The singing stopped. “Vannah din’t say nothin’ ’bout no dog,” the singer said, rising
and leaning his guitar against the chair.

We turned to him. He had a straggly goatee, straggly long hair, kind of greasy—part
from grease he put on, part from his own natural grease—and wore jeans and a muscle
shirt that showed he had no muscles. He was a very skinny dude, in fact, as skinny
as meth heads I’d known. Also, there was the problem of that goatee. Why would anyone
want to look like a goat? I’ve had encounters with goats, none pleasant.

“Which one are you?” Bernie said. “Lord or Duke?”

The goateed dude squinted, at the same time letting his mouth fall open, maybe not
his best look. But he was no meth head—his teeth were all there, not too crooked,
not too stained.

“How’d you figure that out?” he said, proving he knew nothing about Bernie.

“Lucky guess,” Bernie said.

The white-bearded guy at the bar laughed, a quick, explosive burst that sounded a
lot like . . . yes, barking. What was the name of this town again? It was off to a
great start.

Whoever the goateed dude was—most likely Lord or Duke if I was getting this right—turned
on the white-bearded guy. “What’s so goddamn funny?” Bernie himself had no beard.
He’d tried once, back in the Leda days, and she’d put a stop to it pronto, maybe the
only time she and I had lined up on the same side about anything.

“Sorry, Duke,” said the white-bearded guy. “I just enjoy a little repartee now and
then.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Duke said.

“Back-and-forth of a witty nature,” said the bartender, mopping up a wet spot on the
bar.

“Huh?” said Duke. “Where’s his tab at anyways?”

The bartender checked a sheet of paper. “Two thousand seven hundred fourteen dollars
and ninety-three cents,” she said. “Not counting the two Bloody Marys today.”

“Three,” said the white-haired guy. “So far.”

“What if I said pay up right this minute or you’re cut off?” said Duke.

“I’d be shocked,” the white-haired guy said.

“Damn straight,” Duke said. “How ’bout horrified?”

“Not denying it, Duke. You pick an adjective, that’d be me.”

“ ’Kay,” Duke said, “just so we’s on the same page.”

“Same page, same paragraph, same line,” said the white-haired guy. “Let me buy you
a drink, Duke.”

Duke thought about that; he was one of those humans whose forehead wrinkles up when
thinking is going on, something I always watch for. “I could use a beer,” he said.

“The Hammerhead Red?” said the bartender.

“Sounds ’bout right.” Duke turned to Bernie. “Somethin’ for you?”

“The same,” Bernie said. When Bernie’s enjoying himself all the darkness disappears
from his eyes, leaving only light, like right now. “And I’m sure Chet would appreciate
some water.”

Sounded ’bout right. I’ve tasted just about everything somewhere along the way, but
water’s always been my drink and always will be. No question booze can loosen you
up: I’ve seen it happen more times than I can remember, possibly lots more times.
But I have this way of loosening myself up with no help. I’m a pretty lucky guy, in
case that’s not clear yet.

T
ell you what let’s do,” Duke Boutette said when we’d finished our drinks. “So’s we
can avoid goin’ through all these things twice.” He paused as though waiting for Bernie
to jump in. When Bernie did not, Duke said, “Catch that—what’s the word?”

“Reference,” called the bartender from back of the bar. We were at a table near the
stage, Bernie and Duke sitting on chairs, me on the floor, my eyes just above tabletop
level, one of my favorite viewing angles. Above the table everything looked on the
up-and-up. Below the table, one of Duke’s legs was going a mile a minute, which turns
out to be not that fast, just another thing I’d learned from Bernie. Out in the desert
we’d topped two miles a minute plenty of times, Bernie hooting and hollering behind
the wheel, me howling at the sky from the shotgun seat. You’ve got to make time for
a little relaxation: that’s one of my core beliefs.

“Right—reference,” Duke said. “You catch my little reference, Bernie?”

“To Bob Dylan?” said Bernie. The name meant nothing to me. A perp? Couldn’t rule it
out. And if he was a perp, he’d be
breaking rocks in the hot sun sooner or later. That was pretty much our game plan
at the Little Detective Agency.

“Uh-huh,” said Duke, not looking pleased, which was maybe easier for him than most,
on account of the way his normal face was almost there already. “Fact is, ol’ Bob
was sitting at this very table, in your very chair, not two months ago.”

“Yeah?” said Bernie.

“We got music in our veins here in New Orleans, brother,” Duke said. “What was he
drinkin’?”

“Pink lemonade,” said the bartender. “Then he switched to chocolate milk.”

“There you go,” said Duke. “Show Mr. Little where that drummer of his put a fist through
the wall.”

The bartender pointed to a hole in the wall near the front door. At that moment, it
opened and a uniformed cop walked in. He glanced around and said, “Hey.” No one else
spoke or even seemed to notice him. The cop headed over to the bar. The bartender
poured him a shot of something. He slugged it down and walked out.

“Point is,” Duke said, rising from the table, “we’ll pay a little visit over to Lord’s
place and go through everything just the once.”

The woman with cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other suddenly came to life.
“And what if he’s not there?”

The white-haired old guy laughed so hard his straw hat fell off.

“What’s so goddamn funny?” Duke said. He stalked out of the bar. We went with him.
Outside the rain had stopped and the street, the sidewalk, even the rooftops were
steaming, a lovely sight. Back inside the bar, the white-haired guy’s laughter seemed
to have spread to the bartender and the lone lady drinker.

“Can you believe those banshees?” Duke said. “I’m gonna burn the place to the ground.”

“Really?” Bernie said.

“Just an expression,” said Duke. “More or less.” He checked his watch, huge and gold,
with lots of dials and jewels. “Up for a walk? It’s only three blocks.”

“Sure,” said Bernie. “That sounds—” He looked at me. “Ch—et?”

That’s a special way he has of saying Chet, and when he does I always pay close attention.
Like now: I went absolutely still, with the possible exception of my tail. I’m totally
at the controls of all the rest of me, but my tail has a—how to put it? Mind of its
own? Whoa! What a scary thought, two minds in one body! What if . . . but I didn’t
want to go there. So I didn’t, dodging some dark thoughts at the very last instant.

Bernie came closer. “What have you got there, big guy?”

I had something? News to me. Then Duke looked my way and started laughing. There was
a lot of laughter in this burg, normally a good thing, but confusing at the moment.
Bernie bent down and . . . what was this? Removed a straw hat, possibly the kind called
a boater, from my mouth? He took it into the bar and returned without it. My confusion
cleared up a bit. Have you ever noticed the whole world of smells you get inside a
hat that’s been worn for a while? I hope the answer’s not no: that would be sad.

We walked a few blocks on steaming streets, little rainbows appearing and vanishing
around every corner. Only a few blocks, and heat was something I was very used to,
having spent my whole life in the Valley, but by the time we stopped in front of a
small yellow house with green trim and a green door, I felt the way I do after one
of our all-day rambles in the desert. Not that I couldn’t have gone on much, much
longer. Don’t think that for a moment. I can go on for as long as you like. Maybe
not as long as you like, but Bernie? Count on it.

Duke knocked on the door. A voice on the other side called, “Who the hell’s there?”

“Me,” said Duke. “Who else?”

“What do you want?”

“What do I want? I’m your fuckin’ brother, God save me. Open up.”

“Is this about Baron’s crackpot idea?”

Duke glanced at Bernie, did a quick finger-circling thing at the side of his head.
What did that mean again?

“Not sure what you’re referencing, bro,” Duke said. “But I have the gentleman in question
right here.”

“You’re a moron,” said the man on the other side of the door. “And Vannah is worse.
Know what’s dumber than a moron?” The door opened. On the other side stood a dude
who looked a lot like Duke except more so, if that made any sense. He was smaller,
leaner, stragglier, and more goateed, the big difference being that his goatee was
salt-and-pepper, while Duke’s was all pepper. He wore only his underwear—not nice
clean boxers, like Bernie’s, but tighty-whiteys that could have used some time in
the washing machine. With him dressed that way, you didn’t have to be an expert to
spot his ankle monitor. But I am an expert, in case that’s not clear yet.

Bernie eyed him for a moment and said, “Cretin.”

“Huh?” said the even-more-Dukish dude.

“Cretin is dumber than moron,” Bernie said. “Wasn’t that the question? Not a particularly
meaningful question, since those terms have no scientific basis.”

“Huh?” the even-more-Dukish dude repeated.

“Lord,” said Duke, “this here’s the detective, Bernie Little. Bernie, my big brother,
Lord Boutette.”

Bernie and Lord shook hands. Lord’s hand was smaller than
Bernie’s—most always the case whenever Bernie shook someone’s hand—but real strong-looking.

“Uh-huh,” said Lord. “Nice to, uh . . .”

“Same,” said Bernie. “And this is Chet.”

Lord Boutette looked my way. “Is he gonna bite me?”

“Why would he do that?” Bernie said.

“Hell if I know,” Lord said. “But he sure does look like he’s fixin’ to take a piece
outta me.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” Bernie said.

And whatever Bernie says is the way things are, which kind of mixed me up inside right
about then, because—for no particular reason and coming from out of nowhere—I had
felt a sudden and very strong, pretty much irresistible urge to take a piece out of
Lord Boutette. A nice big fat piece, in fact. That couldn’t happen and it was my job
not to let it happen, no matter what. I clamped my jaws together tighter than tight,
although maybe not completely tight. My teeth wanted to bite and bite hard, as though
they—oh, no: don’t tell me my teeth also had a mind of their own! What was happening
to me? Then came Bernie’s hand on my head, just a light touch. I felt better.