Spencer Quinn - A Fistful of Collars

A woman inside the car craned her head. “They must be lost,” she said. “I’ll call animal control.”

Animal control? Was that the pound? I had memories of the pound, not good. That biker: I’d thought we were friends. Maybe a story for another day, or possibly one I’ve been over already. In any case, no time now. I barked a low rumbly bark. Iggy sat. I tried the bark again, a bark which means time to split, loud and clear. He sat. I went over and gave him a nudge. The little bugger nipped me. I nipped him back, then gave him another nudge, this one meaning business. When he stopped rolling, he rose, gave himself a good shake, and started to follow me home.

We met Bernie coming the other way. He didn’t say anything, didn’t seem angry, just opened the door of the Porsche and let us in. We shared the shotgun seat, me and Iggy.

Back home, Mr. Parsons was stumping his way to a taxi, idling in his driveway.

“No need for that, Dan,” Bernie said. “I’ll go with you.”

Mr. Parsons shook his head. “You’re a good man, but waiting around hospitals is a killer. Wouldn’t put you through it. If you really want to help, maybe you could look after Iggy till I get back.”

“Of course.”

Mr. Parsons turned to Iggy. “C’mere, little fella.”

Iggy, limping a bit now, went over to Mr. Parsons. He bent over, one hand on the walker, and scratched Iggy between the ears. Very briefly, but a high-quality scratching, I could tell from the look in Iggy’s eyes, pretty much nobody home. I wanted some of that.

“Be a good boy for Bernie here,” Mr. Parsons said.

Iggy pushed against Mr. Parsons’s leg.

“I mean it,” Mr. Parsons said. “Need you to be a team player now.”

Iggy stopped pushing, went still, let his tongue hang out. He gazed down at the ground.

Bernie helped Mr. Parsons into the taxi, folded up the walker, stuck it on the front seat beside the driver. Then he handed the driver some money and spoke a few words I didn’t catch. Bernie tapped the roof. The taxi drove off. Iggy raised his head. For a moment, I thought he was about to take off again, but he didn’t. Instead he sat down and watched the taxi disappear. No whining, no panting: he just watched.

Along about then, I noticed old man Heydrich-even older than Mr. Parsons, Bernie said, although he didn’t look it, trim and straight-watching from the edge of his property.

“Think he’ll put his place on the market?” old man Heydrich said.

Bernie just stared at him.

“Be interesting to see what he gets in this market,” said Heydrich. He turned and went back to his house, pausing on his way to pick up a fallen leaf, crush it up, and scatter the pieces.

“Come on, Iggy,” Bernie said. “We’ve got some nice treats.” Bernie headed for our house. I followed Bernie. Iggy followed me, but not in a quick way. He didn’t understand treat?

Inside our house, Iggy sniffed around for a bit, then lay down under the kitchen table. Bernie reached up to the treat shelf-the very highest shelf in our kitchen-and took down two rawhide chews, the long, thin, tubular kind, just a wonderful design, in my opinion. He crouched down by the table and offered one to Iggy, but Iggy was zonked out, eyes closed.

“All tuckered out, huh, little guy?” Bernie said. “I’ll just leave this here on the floor for when you-” He glanced over at me and said, “On second thought.” Then he rose and put Iggy’s chew back on the shelf. “Catch,” he said, and tossed me mine, which I snatched out of the air no problem, and got busy with right away, but the whole time I was thinking about that strange on-second-thought thing Bernie had mentioned: What did it mean? Why bother? Why me? Those were my thoughts. They refused to come together in any way I could understand.

Bernie went down the hall to the office. I heard the pen squeaking on the whiteboard. And then, another sound, very faint, caught my attention, a sound coming from the street. Was it a sort of… yes: a tick-tick-tick. I trotted toward the long window by the front door, taking the remains of the chew with me, and looked out.

Tick-tick-tick: a car drove slowly by, that same dark car with darkened windows. The driver’s side window slid down and the driver tossed out a match, leaving a tiny cloud of cigarette smoke hanging in the still air. I got a good look at that driver: a white-haired dude, not old like Mr. Parsons and Heydrich, maybe more like Bernie’s age, his white hair kind of long. What else? Black eyebrows, a shiny stud in his ear, a narrow little mouth; and dark, liquid eyes. Then up popped the head of that huge member of the nation within, leaning into view from the backseat: the real gigantic dude with angry eyes and long, long teeth. I barked, forgetting about my chew, which fell to the floor. The big dude barked back, ferocious. I grabbed my chew, ran down the hall to the office, and barked at Bernie, forgetting the chew, which fell to the floor.

He turned from the whiteboard. “No way,” he said. “You haven’t even finished that one.”

I listened for the dark car, heard the final fading away of its engine sound, and maybe the hint of one last bark.

The phone rang. Suzie, on speaker. “Bernie, can-” she began, and then, “what’s he barking about? I can hardly hear you.”

“I haven’t said anything,” Bernie told her.

“What?”

“I said-for God’s sake, Chet, knock it off!”

I amped it down as much as I could.

“He’s doing his chew strip thing,” Bernie said. “What’s up?”

“Can you come out to the old Flower Mart?” Suzie said. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Iggy was still asleep under the kitchen table. “Iggy?” Bernie said. “Iggy?” Iggy stretched his stubby legs but didn’t wake up. “I guess it’s okay to leave him here,” Bernie said. “Don’t see what trouble he can get into with the kitchen door closed.”

We went outside. No sign of the dark car with the liquid-eyed dude and his fierce buddy inside. We hopped in the Porsche. My chew strip thing? Meaning what, exactly?

“You’re pretty quiet all of a sudden,” Bernie said, giving me a look that was more than careful, maybe even a bit worried.

Hey! Had I come close to sinking into a bad mood? Chet the Jet: what was with you? I snapped right out of it, sat straight and tall, ears up, on the job and ready. Bernie laughed, not sure why, but what a lovely laugh. I felt tip-top.

It was the hottest part of the day when we got back to the old Flower Mart, and this was pretty much the hottest part of the year, all that heat making Bernie’s Hawaiian shirt-he wore the one with the fiery volcanoes-kind of damp. Not a cloud in the sky, but no blue, either: instead it glowed a dusty, golden brown.

“I don’t like that sky,” Bernie said.

Then neither did I. I hoped that another one would come sliding across soon.

No sign of Suzie in front, so we drove around to the back. No Suzie, and also the Dumpster was gone. We stopped and got out. All the lower windows of the old Flower Mart were boarded up, and the door looked boarded up, too, but it opened and Suzie looked out. She gave us that little hooked finger motion that meant come. We went inside.

“What’s up?” Bernie said.

He spoke in a low whisper, the low human whisper always clear as a bell to me, even from across a street. An odd thing about bells: easy to hear, no question, but their sound was sometimes so complicated, full of all these different parts separating and coming together, like THA-roomp, tha-ROOMP, that you couldn’t really call bell ringing clear.

“How did you get in?” Bernie went on.

“Why are you whispering?” Suzie said.