Spencer Quinn - A Fistful of Collars

“Hottest action hero in Hollywood,” the mayor said, “and that’s Variety talking, Bernie, not me. Familiar with Variety?”

“No,” Bernie said.

“Don’t worry about it. Neither was I. We’re on a learning curve here, lots of hard work ahead of us. But think of the payoff!”

“What’s the payoff?” Bernie said.

The mayor gave Bernie a long look. Then, over his shoulder, he said, “You were right, Cal.”

“About what?” Luxton said.

“Didn’t you tell me I’d love how his mind worked?”

“Something like that.”

The mayor pointed a pudgy finger at Bernie. “I love how your mind works,” he said. “Loop him in, Vera.”

“I’m sorry?” said Vera.

“The payoff, for Christ sake. Tell him about the payoff.”

Humans can sometimes squeeze their mouths into very small puckered shapes, which Vera did now. “You already did,” she said.

“Huh?” said the mayor.

Vera turned to Bernie. “If the studio has a successful experience producing Wild Horseman here in the Valley, then-”

“The mecca thing?” Bernie said.

The mayor smacked his desk again. “Exactly! Hollywood West!”

Then came a long silence. Vera gazed down at the floor. Bernie’s mouth fell open a bit, not a good look on most humans, but just fine on him.

“Think of the revenue,” the mayor said. “And all those jobs-carpenters, electricians, drivers, cooks, waiters-what are the latte people, again?”

“Baristas,” Vera said.

“Baristas, et cetera, et cetera,” the mayor said. “Too many to list. But you catch my drift, Bernie?”

“Voters,” Bernie said.

The mayor laughed. He laughed and laughed, his face kind of jiggling. “I’m getting a real good feeling about this,” he said. “Welcome aboard, Bernie. I have complete confidence in you.”

“What am I doing?” Bernie said.

“Finger on the button,” the mayor said. “Just what we need around here. Walk him back, Vera.”

“Starting where?” said Vera.

“The money,” the mayor said. “Where else?”

“The budget for Wild Horseman is one hundred million dollars,” Vera said, “excluding advertising and promotion. The studio-Paragon-and the producers-Rapscallion Entertainment-need to protect that investment. The success of the movie depends to a great extent on the performance of Thad Perry. He’s in every scene.”

“Give Bernie the script,” said the mayor.

“I’m not sure we can do that,” Vera said.

“Then just slip it to him on the side.”

Vera opened her briefcase, handed Bernie a thick sheaf of papers. Bernie set it down on the couch without a glance.

“Ever read a screenplay, Bernie?” the mayor said.

“No.”

“It’s easy. And way quicker than a book, although I didn’t get through the whole thing. Want the elevator pitch?”

“Why not?” said Bernie.

“Vera?” the mayor said.

“A man in a present-day big desert city-” Vera began.

“Like let’s all guess which one,” said the mayor.

“Wakes up in the night,” Vera continued, “and finds a beautiful white horse in his yard. He gets on and rides back to 1839, where he ends up a prisoner of the Apaches and, guided by a beautiful female shaman, decides to change the whole future of the West.”

Another long silence. Then the mayor said, “That shaman is hot. Check out page thirty-five, I think it was. At your convenience. But what Vera’s trying to say is that there’s no way we can let Thad Perry screw this up. Which is where you come in.”

“I don’t get it,” Bernie said. “You want me to teach him how to ride?”

Hey! Bernie could ride? Just when you think he’s done amazing you, he amazes you again. That’s Bernie. I thumped my tail on the mayor’s nice soft rug.

“Hell,” said the mayor, “never thought of that. What if he can’t ride?”

“They’ll have stuntmen for that,” Vera said. “Thad Perry’s problems are behavioral. We have to keep him out of trouble for the duration of the shoot.”

“You want us to babysit him?” Bernie said.

“We’ve got way more respect for you than that,” the mayor said. “And who’s us?”

“Chet and I,” Bernie said.

The mayor glanced down at me. “Where’d that chew go?”

Where did it go? Was that the question? I had no answer.

“Crazy,” said the mayor, “but from the way he looks at you, you’d almost think he knows what’s going on.”

“Crazy,” said Bernie.

“Where was I?” the mayor said.

“Too much respect,” said Vera.

“Right,” said the mayor. “And besides, he’s already got a babysitter in the form of that bejeezus bodyguard of his. Fine and dandy, but what we want you to do is keep watch on things from our lookout.”

“Keep watch on things?” Bernie said.

“Act as our eyes and-” Vera began.

“Vera?” said the mayor. “Did I ask for your help?”

Vera’s mouth got very small again. For no particular reason I tried to do the same with mine, got nowhere. Instead I opened it up nice and wide, stuck my tongue way out, actually touching the tip of the mayor’s tassel loafer, and then curled it back in. I tasted shoe polish, not bad at all, if on the tangy side for my taste.

“We want you to be our eyes and ears on this project,” the mayor said. “There’s some history of Thad Perry and illegal substances. That right, Cal?”

“Of every kind known to man,” said Luxton, from the shadows in the corner, everything about him indistinct except for his eyes. They were the probing kind.

The mayor rubbed his hands together again. “So,” he said. “Any questions?”

“Why me?” said Bernie. “And who’s paying?”

“Why you?” said the mayor. “Because I’m a bridge builder.”

The mayor was getting more and more interesting. We’d worked a bridge building case, me and Bernie, all about pilfering rebar, whatever rebar was, never clear in my mind, but the point was that the bridge building dudes had big hard hands and the mayor’s were small and soft. Did he wear gloves on the job? That was as far as I could take it.

“So you picked me because of you?” Bernie said.

The mayor sat back and his face, soft like his hands, hardened a bit. “Cal?”

“Sir?”

“He’s a hard-ass.”

“Pointed that out in preliminaries.”

“Maybe not with enough emphasis.”

Luxton dusted off his cowboy hat and put it on. “He’s a goddamn hard-ass and pisses a lot of people off, big-time,” he said. “Is that better?”

“Much,” said the mayor. He looked at Bernie. “As for who’s paying, my campaign fund’s running a convenient little surplus at the moment.”

“Meaning we’re working for you,” Bernie said.

“Not me personally,” said the mayor. “My office. Which really means you’re working for the men and women of the Valley.”

Bernie gets a look in his eyes when he’s having fun. It’s just the tiniest gleam, there and gone, so you have to be on your toes. But I’m pretty much on my toes all the time-it’s the way we’re built in the nation within, according to Bernie-so I didn’t miss it now.

“And the children?” Bernie said.

The mayor squinted at Bernie. Squinting, never attractive, in my opinion, is something humans do when they’re trying to see more clearly. Finally, he nodded and said, “Yes, and the children. Goes without saying. Children are our most important resource, Bernie.”

“Next to water,” Bernie said.

Silence. Then the mayor laughed and said, “I love this guy.” No surprise there: who wouldn’t love Bernie? “Don’t you just love this guy, Vera?”

Everyone turned to Vera. “He hasn’t said yes yet,” she said.