Spencer Quinn - A Fistful of Collars

“Nobody claimed Manny’s body,” Bernie said. “And then there’s that bike.” He went quiet. “I don’t know, Chet. Forcing relationships-always the danger when there’s not much to go on.”

Danger? Did we back away from danger, me and Bernie? Not how things got done at the Little Detective Agency, amigo. So: no surprise when the next moment we were out of the car and crossing the yard. Bernie knelt down, took a close look at the bike, a rusty bike, I now saw, with a lopsided seat and twisted training wheels. I knew training wheels from back when Bernie and I taught Charlie how to ride. The fun we’d had with that! And old man Heydrich’s flower bed was now totally back to normal, just as Bernie had promised, that whole episode with the pitchfork being way over the top.

Bernie picked up the bike, carried it back to the car. He was just wedging it into the space behind the seats when a face appeared in an upstairs window of the house across the street, a lighter pink oval in the dark pink night. I barked this low rumbly bark I have for just between me and Bernie. He glanced up, not in time to see the face, but he caught the twitch of the curtain.

“Good boy,” he said.

All of a sudden, the night got breezy. We’d crossed the street and were just about at the front door of this other house when I realized my tail had started up behind me. Bernie says my tail has a mind of its own. What’s wrong with that? Two minds had to be better than one unless I was missing something.

Bernie knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. No movement inside the house, probably because someone was already right there, on the other side of the door. Was Bernie aware of that? Maybe, because he took a bill from his wallet and stuck it in the letter slot.

“More where that came from,” he said, speaking in an easy, normal voice, like he was kicking back with some pals. That was just one of his techniques. I’ve got some myself. We’ve cleared a lot of cases, me and Bernie.

The door opened, real slow. A tiny woman with long, shiny black hair stood there, the money clutched in her hand and a little kid sort of behind her, clinging to her dress. They shrank back at the sight of us, or more likely at the sight of Bernie. He’s a pretty big dude.

“Tengo miedo de los perros,” the woman said.

“Huh?” said Bernie. “Uh, can we come in? I’d like to talk to you about-”

“No habla ingles,” said the woman.

“Ah,” said Bernie. “El cyclo? The bike? Es el cyclo de Manny Chavez, or…”

The woman frowned at Bernie, not getting him at all. Bernie took out another bill, held it up.

“El cyclo?” he said.

The kid-a girl, I saw, about Charlie’s age and not unlike this great little kid we’d come across once, down in Mexico-stepped forward. “Bicicleta,” she said. “Not cyclo. And it belongs to Nino.”

Bernie crouched down to her level. “Who’s Nino?” he said.

“Manny’s kid,” said the girl. “He lives with his mother.”

“Where?” Bernie said.

“I don’t know,” said the girl. She snatched the money right out of Bernie’s hand and slammed the door shut. A bolt banged into place.

We got in the car and drove off, turning at the end of the block, then turning again, and-was it possible? Yes! We were circling the block, one of our very best tricks. Tricks and techniques were pretty much the same thing: I’d figured that out early on in my career. You learned stuff in this business all the time, way too many to remember, so it was important to keep in mind… something Bernie often said, and might come to me later.

We parked in the dark shadows of a droopy-branched tree on the darkest part of North Coursin Street, on the other side from where the little girl and her mother lived and partway down the block. Then we just sat there, which was why this was called sitting on a place. We were sitting on that house, waiting for something to happen, doing our job. Once-this was at a speech he gave at the Great Western Private Eye convention, and just because all the pages kept getting away from him and fluttering down to the stage didn’t mean it wasn’t the best speech I’d ever heard-Bernie said, “There’s no point in poking a hornet’s nest if you don’t stick around to see what comes out.” I’d been sitting close to the Mirabelli brothers at the time-they run a shop in the South Valley-and they’d shared a look I hadn’t liked, maybe having to do with the possibility of getting stung-which actually had been my thought, too, but I’d abandoned it immediately. Who was better at this gig, Bernie or the Mirabelli brothers, with their big gold watches and sparkling pinkie rings? I don’t need to tell you. And in case you’re wondering, I’ve had more than one nasty encounter with hornets-lots more-maybe a story for another time.

Sitting with Bernie on a hot dark night, lots of desert dust in the air, and that Vista City backed-up sewage smell drifting by: I couldn’t have been happier. Bernie reached over and untangled the tag from my collar. I hadn’t even realized that it was twisted up: we’re a team, me and Bernie. He kept an eye on the house, actually both eyes. I kept an eye on the house and an eye on Bernie. We in the nation within have certain advantages, no offense.

Sometimes, like one night sitting on a bunkhouse from a ridge high above, we’d catch a few tunes while we waited, Elmore James, maybe, or Jamey Johnson-“Can’t Cash My Checks”; Bernie loves that one! — but not on this kind of inside-the-city job. There was still plenty to hear-a trash barrel getting knocked over a couple of blocks away, a plane somewhere high above the dark pinkness, and in the background the constant hum of the Valley, which could also get broken down into all the parts of the hum, and I was just starting in on that when I heard a car coming from the opposite direction.

Was Bernie looking that way? No. But then the car appeared around the corner up ahead-those little low fog lights showing but no headlights-and he turned toward it real quick. The car-not big, not small, dark color, nothing much to make it stay in my mind, so it didn’t-stopped in front of the house. The fog lights went out. Then nothing. The driver and the passenger-I could just make them out, dark forms behind the top curve of the dashboard-sat there. We did the same thing. No way they could see us in these shadows-Bernie didn’t make mistakes like that-but a weird feeling came over me anyway, the kind of weird feeling that makes me want to bark. The next thing I knew, Bernie’s hand was on my back, heavy and gentle at the same time, sort of resting but maybe not. The urge to bark faded and vanished, no idea why.

The door of the not big or small car opened and the driver and the passenger got out. Impossible to see clearly: all I picked up was their dark forms, gliding toward the house. Then the door opened and they slipped inside. Was there something familiar about those dudes? I came real close to recognizing both of them. The door closed.

I took a swing at figuring out what was familiar about them, and then another swing, and no more, my mind suddenly jumping tracks to a memory of a ball game Bernie bet a grand on that had ended with a swing and a miss on a ball that was a mile out of the strike zone, according to him, so it must have been. We’d paid a visit to Mr. Singh soon after.

We sat. Bernie spoke quietly, more like just a breath with a soft voice hidden in it. “Don’t see a plate on the front of that car.”

Neither did I, but I couldn’t be sure. Bernie opened the glove box, took out the flashlight, aimed it over our windshield at the other car, but didn’t turn it on. Instead he hesitated, not something you saw from Bernie very often. He even had a saying-Bernie’s great at making up sayings-he who hesitates is something or other. But a good thing this time, because right about then the door of the house opened and the two dudes came out. No lights inside the house or by the door: their faces remained invisible. They walked to the car, the driver fishing in his pocket for keys; I heard them jingle. And then came another sound, a strange buzzing from somewhere above. A moment after that, just as they were getting into his car, the streetlight down at the end of the block flickered on, the light dim and sort of brownish. But enough to make out the face of the passenger, a thin face framed by long sideburns: Cal Luxton. He put on his cowboy hat and then I was sure.