Spencer Quinn - A Fistful of Collars

I sat, no problem. Suzie leaned against the car, opened the water bottle, and tilted it up to her mouth. She took a sip, then all of a sudden was drinking and drinking, sucking the water from the bottle until it started crumpling in on itself.

“How did he know I was so thirsty?” she said.

Or something like that. I appeared to be no longer quite beside her, no longer sitting, to tell the truth, but on my way to Bernie; actually pretty much there, by his side, which is where it just so happens I feel my best.

“… and was just wondering,” he was saying to the two women, “if you were friends of hers.”

The women nodded. They glanced at me at the exact same moment I was opening my mouth to the max, then quickly back to Bernie.

“Had she mentioned me to either of you?” Bernie said. “Possibly about setting up a meeting?”

One of the women shook her head. The other said, “Not me. You’re a detective?”

“Private,” said Bernie, “formerly of Metro PD. Did she get in touch for any reason recently?”

The women looked at each other. “Last time I spoke to her was at your baby shower,” one said.

“Same,” said the other. She turned to Bernie. “That was back in May. What’s this all about? Are you trying to find out who killed her?”

“Yes,” Bernie said. “I think some old friend of Carla’s, maybe going back to high school or even before, might have information.”

“That’s not us,” said one of the women. “We both came here from Atlanta after college.”

“But remember that ball game?” said the baby-shower woman.

“Where Carla got those good seats?”

“Right. What was the name of that girl-”

“-who drank too much beer?”

“Yeah, blonde with the ponytail. Wasn’t she an old friend of Carla’s?”

Bernie glanced around the parking lot. “Did you see her today?”

“No,” the women said.

“Do you remember her name?”

“Donna, maybe?”

“Dinah?”

“Dina. It was Dina, I’m sure of it.”

“Last name?” Bernie said.

“Sorry,” said the women. “But,” added the baby-shower woman, “didn’t she work in a bar?”

“That’s right. She handed out those two-for-one coupons.”

“Did she mention the name of the bar?” Bernie said.

“Not that I recall,” said the baby-shower woman.

“But,” said the other, “I bet I still have that coupon.”

“Yeah?” said Bernie. “When was the ball game?”

“Summer before last. But I’m a hoarder.”

The baby-shower woman laughed, a tiny laugh, hardly a sound at all, but nice to hear. Her friend unlocked the nearest car, opened the glove box. Lots of stuff came spilling out. She sorted through it. “Here we go,” she said, and handed Bernie a slip of paper.

Let’s eat,” Bernie said. We were back in the car, Suzie riding shotgun, me on the shelf, not good, but I wasn’t thinking about that. Or anything, really. All I knew was that the farther we got from that hole in the ground, the better I felt.

Suzie glanced at Bernie, eyebrows rising, like he’d surprised her. “You feel hungry?” she said.

“Not at all,” said Bernie. “But one thing I’ve been learning in this job”-Did his head make a quick little motion in my direction? — “is you’ve got to keep doing the normal routine.”

Suzie thought that over, nodded her head. But what was there to think over? Eating had to be the most normal move out there, maybe even better than normal. As for Bernie not being hungry, that was the only part I didn’t get. I myself was famished. What had I eaten so far today? I couldn’t remember a single morsel, except possibly a bit of kibble, and maybe a biscuit on top of that. A Rover and Company biscuit, yes, best biscuits in the Valley-and wasn’t it about time for a revisit to their test kitchen? — but this biscuit, even if there’d been one, had been on the smallish side. Biscuits came in different sizes. What was the point of that?

“How does Burger Heaven sound?” Bernie said. “Chet-easy!”

Here’s a valuable piece of information, something I never forget: there’s more than one Burger Heaven in the Valley. In fact, there are lots. What a business plan! Suppose, for example, that the Little Detective Agency… something or other, a great thought turning into a dust pile just before I could get there. Sometimes at night when I fall asleep there are several of those dust piles in my mind; then, when I wake up, presto! — as Bernie once said when he thought he had the garage door opener all fixed, and the chain did work perfectly after that, so maybe the door falling off wasn’t important-all dust piles gone, and back to feeling tip-top.

In no time at all, we’d pulled into a Burger Heaven. This was a particularly nice one, with a smooth, recently paved parking lot and fresh-painted white lines-those smells, tar and paint, sharpening my appetite like you wouldn’t believe, plus a pretty yellow plastic picnic table, which was where we sat. Bernie had a cheeseburger, Suzie a chicken salad, and me a plain burger with no bun. Trucks roared by on the freeway, which was raised up above us in this part of town. I loved picnics.

“… didn’t quite catch that,” Bernie said, sipping his soda. “Can you speak up?”

Suzie raised her voice. “I said I want to help.”

“When do you have to be back in DC?” Bernie said.

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

That Bernie! Right every time, just about. Not worrying was the best plan there was.

“… meaning the next step,” he was saying, “is paying a visit to-” He took out the bar coupon. “-Red Devil’s Bar and Grill.”

Suzie shook her head. “I want to help,” she said. “Not tag along.”

What did that mean? Not too sure. Bernie and I tagged along with each other all the time, no problem. I polished off what was left of my burger, then did a bit of exploring under the table. And what do you know? An onion ring, perfectly round, completely undamaged, even still slightly warm.

Up above, Bernie said, “Tell you what. How about looking into that flower warehouse?”

“For what?”

“Any connection it might have to Carla.”

“How about a connection to Thad Perry?” Suzie said.

“Yeah,” said Bernie. “That, too.”

Then came a silence. Under the table, Suzie moved her foot, resting it on top of Bernie’s. I tried not to do anything about that for the longest time.

We’ve got bars out the yingyang in the Valley. You name it. For bikers, how about Greasy Steve’s? Steve’s a buddy, and yes, pretty greasy, a plus as far as I’m concerned. Greasy Steve’s is at one end, sort of the watch-your-back end of Valley bars. At the other end is Amadeus, where Bernie started laughing when he saw the bill. He figured someone was playing a trick on him, and then-maybe he’d had one too many, but Bernie with one too many in him is even Bernier than ever, if you get what I mean, although I’m not sure I do, and in any case I don’t want to remember what happened next, the part with the maitre d’ who turned out to be wearing a wig and all that, a wig that came from Paris and got added to the bill, which made Bernie laugh harder, and then came the bouncers. The point is that Red Devil’s was somewhere in between those two ends, maybe a bit closer to Greasy Steve’s.

We walked in, Bernie taking off his funeral tie and stuffing it in his pocket. The floor felt sticky under my paws. Yes, closer to Greasy Steve’s. Red Devil’s had a few rickety-looking tables and a pool table on one side-don’t get me started on pool balls, so hard and slippery, plus the sticks were way too long for any kind of fun play, although they made good weapons in the hands of a certain sort of human, Jumbo Ogletree, for example, now breaking rocks in the hot sun-and on the other side a long bar with a mirror and lots of bottles.