Spencer Quinn - A Fistful of Collars

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We drove for a while, maybe headed nowhere in particular, something we got in the mood for now and then.

“Flowers are important, big guy,” Bernie said after a while. “Women like flowers. Also chocolate. And what’s the third thing?” He thought. So pleasant when Bernie was thinking. It couldn’t go on too long for me. “Jewelry!” he said at last. “That’s the third thing. But it’s tricky. Big mistake to give the wrong one at the wrong time, for example. Remember when I gave Leda those chocolate caramels for her birthday?”

Yes, but I didn’t want to.

“What the hell,” he said. “Why not swing by the old Flower Mart?”

No reason I could think of.

“Goddamn rubberneckers,” Bernie said.

I didn’t know what rubberneckers were, just knew Bernie hated them. A long time seemed to pass before we left the freeway and crossed the bridge over the Vista City arroyo. I looked down-and so did Bernie; we often did the same thing at the same time, taking a pee, for example, no surprise, being partners and all-and saw two ragged guys arguing over a ripped trash bag with empty cans spilling out. Bernie reached over, gave me a pat. I squeezed across in his direction, just a bit, on account of there being some reason for not squeezing over too far when we were on the road.

“Chet!”

We swerved across the yellow line. Right, that was it. You learned something every day, humans said. And it was still light outside-plenty of time left for me to learn something else. Bring it on!

We took the ramp at the end of the bridge, went by the rail yard and a couple of bars with dusty windows, and came to a boarded-up brick warehouse. Bernie pulled into the parking lot. We had it to ourselves. The wind was rising now, a hot wind off the desert. It blew a brown, dried-out bouquet of flowers tied with a faded ribbon across the pavement.

“What if I sent Suzie some flowers?” Bernie said. “Or would chocolate be better? Jewelry?”

I waited to hear.

“And how come women like all those things more than men?” he said after a bit. “What’s up with that?”

I forgot what I’d been waiting to hear before, began waiting for this new thing.

“Although,” Bernie went on, “there’s no denying that some guys like flowers big time. Take Monet.”

Tricky Mickey Monnay? A scammer with a fake laundry business, as I recalled, something to do with selling used clothing to China, very hard to understand, and now sporting an orange jumpsuit, probably used by some other perp, kind of an interesting… something or other, but flowers? I didn’t remember that part.

We got out of the car, walked into the shadow of the warehouse; this was recon, just one of our techniques at the Little Detective Agency. A faded wooden sign decorated with painted flowers lay on the ground. Bernie wiped away some of the grime on the sign with the sole of his shoe, exposing writing. “‘Vista City Flower Mart,’” he said.

We headed toward the end of the warehouse-Bernie kicking at the dead bouquet, me snatching it up to start a game of keep-away-and around to the other side. Nothing there but cracked pavement with weeds growing through, rusted old railway tracks, a few broken pallets, and a small blue Dumpster.

I dropped the bouquet.

“Chet?”

And hurried over to the Dumpster.

“Chet?”

Bernie came running up. “Please not,” he said, raising the lid.

I got my paw on the rim, peered down. It was Carla. There was a thin red slit in her chest and her hair wasn’t glossy anymore. I turned away. So did Bernie. We looked at each other, not at Carla, not at the big dark pool of blood starting to dry on the Dumpster floor.

Spencer Quinn

A Fistful of Collars

M etro PD came, sirens wailing, the wails colliding and recolliding, very hard on my ears. Talk went back and forth, all about different kinds of knives. I didn’t feel like hearing that kind of talk-or any, really-so I walked around the warehouse to the car out front and hopped in, actually almost not getting high enough, having to scramble the rest of the way with my back legs. Kind of weird, like I wasn’t myself. Bernie joined me a little later. We sat.

“Not sure who to trust, big guy,” Bernie said.

Me! He could trust me, of course, take it to the bank, bet the ranch, in spades. That was the way I trusted him. We were partners, something I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, but it’s worth mentioning again. Bernie glanced over at me and smiled a quick little smile, there and gone. I didn’t know why, but it was nice to see.

Rick Torres drove up in an unmarked car and parked cop style, driver’s-side door to driver’s-side door, the way we did at Donut Heaven, only this was different-hard to say why, but it wasn’t just about the complete lack of doughnuts, Danishes, or bear claws, to name a few of my favorites.

“The victim was a friend of yours?” Rick said.

Bernie nodded. “Carla worked with Suzie at the Tribune.”

“Does Suzie know yet?”

“I’m gearing up to make the call.”

Rick had dark eyes. When he was looking at you, they seemed friendly. From the side, the way I was seeing them now, they seemed watchful.

“Sorry for your loss,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Bernie.

“Bad time to talk, I know,” Rick said.

“Go on.”

“Maybe you can help me out a bit, Bernie. Get in front of things.”

“What things?”

“The fact that this is the second stabbing homicide you’ve reported in just about as many days, for starters.”

“Can’t help that,” Bernie said.

“Maybe not,” said Rick. “But questions are going to be asked.”

“Like what?”

“The obtuse thing won’t work on me, Bernie.”

The obtuse thing? A complete mystery, but it had come up before, Leda often telling Bernie it didn’t work on her, either. Bernie got a hard look on his face, the same as though Leda had just said it. Was there something alike about Rick and Leda? A brand-new thought, but it showed no signs of taking me anywhere.

“First off,” Rick was saying, “the downtown boys will want to know if the two killings are connected.”

“Not that I know of,” Bernie said.

“Yet,” said Rick. “You left off the yet.”

Bernie didn’t answer.

“Was Carla working on the Manny Chavez murder?” Rick said.

“She never said.”

“What were you meeting about?”

“She hadn’t told me.”

“Why here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you have any reason to believe she was in danger?”

“No.”

“Then what prompted you to check the Dumpster?”

Bernie glanced at me.

Rick nodded. “Of course.” He gave me a smile. “Good work, Chet, as usual. Too bad you’re not in charge.”

I wasn’t in charge? Something to think about, maybe later. Right now the ambulance and the cruisers came driving out from behind the warehouse, lights turning and flashing but sirens off. Sirens off meant they weren’t really in a hurry.

Rick started his car. “Hope you know what you’re doing, Bernie,” he said. “But…” He shook his head and drove off.

Bernie watched him go. In the very quiet voice he uses for talking to himself, he said, “I’m trying to protect you, you son of a bitch.”

Son of a bitch? Did that mean me? He was trying to protect me? I’d thought it was Rick. Couldn’t have been me-what did I need protecting from? Weren’t we the ones who dished it out, me and Bernie?

He picked up the phone, punched a button, took a deep, deep breath. “Suzie?” he said. “I’ve got bad news.”

“Bicicleta,” Bernie said.

Back home, in the garage. The garage was where we kept the van we used for times when Bernie said the Porsche would be a bad idea, plus all kinds of other stuff, including Bernie’s beer can collection from the army, and Charlie’s bike, hanging on the wall, nice and shiny, with lovely streamers dangling from one of the grips; the other grip had had streamers, too, until recently. What had happened to them? I had hardly the slightest idea.