Spencer Quinn - A Fistful of Collars

“Three grand a day plus expenses?” Bernie said.

“Also a five-thousand-dollar bonus if Thad Perry is incident-free when location shooting wraps,” Vera said.

“How long does that take?” said Bernie.

“They’ve scheduled twenty-one days,” Vera said.

“Yes,” said Bernie.

“You left out the two tickets to the premiere, Vera,” the mayor said.

“Black tie,” Luxton said. He came out of the shadows and handed Bernie a check. “This do for a retainer?”

Bernie glanced at the check, nodded, and tucked it away in his shirt pocket. Not that pocket, Bernie. We’d had problems with the shirt pocket in the past. Front pants pocket, always.

After another round of handshaking, we split. There were more chews in the mayor’s desk drawer-I didn’t lose the smell until we were in the elevator-but he didn’t open it again. I’m not greedy, although more is always better, stands to reason. As for the case, if it depended in some way on black ties then we were all right, on account of the single tie Bernie owned being black. But was it even actually a case? A puzzler to deal with some other time.

“What’s with you?” Bernie said.

Uh-oh. Had I been kind of clawing at Bernie’s shirt-specifically in the pocket area-and not just thinking about it? I put a stop to that pronto, sat up straight in the shotgun seat, alert and professional. But Bernie wasn’t mad, not at all-in fact, even though we were bumper to bumper on the freeway, he seemed to be in a great mood, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel like maybe to some music happening in his head, possibly one of our favorites like “Death Don’t Have No Mercy in This Land” or “Cry Me a River.”

“See what this means?” he said. “Banner year, big guy. In three weeks we’re going to rake in more than we made in the last… Christ knows how long. Have to check the spreadsheets.”

Please not the spreadsheets. Spreadsheets, whatever they are, get Bernie upset. Last time he ended up giving the laptop a smack, which is what led to the duct taping. Bernie’s very good with duct tape-if you ever visit us at our place on Mesquite Road, you’ll see lots of it.

We got off the freeway, crossed the railroad tracks-a cat was walking on one of the rails! like he owned the-“easy, Chet”-and pulled into Donut Heaven. A black-and-white sat in the lot. We parked beside it, cop-style, driver’s-side door to driver’s-side door. The window of the black-and-white slid down and our buddy Sergeant Rick Torres from the Valley PD Missing Persons Department handed over a coffee.

“Shaving cream on your neck,” he said.

Oh, that. Was it a problem? I was much more interested in the cruller crumbs in Rick’s mustache.

Bernie dabbed at his neck, checked his hand. “Damn. Was it there the whole time?”

“The whole time you were with the mayor?” Rick said.

“How do you know about that?” Bernie said.

“Word gets around.”

“But it just happened.”

“I’ve got spies everywhere,” Rick said. He looked past Bernie, over at me. “How you doin’, Chet? Got half a cruller left if Bernie gives the okay.”

Bernie’s eyes shifted, as though he was thinking it over. What was there to think over? Whatever half was, it had to be better than none. I have this low rumbly bark I can do that sends a message of much louder barking coming soon. The next thing I knew I was curled up on the seat, getting busy with the cruller. There are lots of great human inventions-the car being the best, of course-but the cruller’s got to be right up there.

“How’d the meeting go?” Rick said.

“You tell me,” said Bernie.

“Why they chose you for this I’ll never know,” Rick said. He sipped his coffee. “Although actually I do know.”

“Yeah?” said Bernie.

“Insurance.”

“Huh?”

“The insurance company asked for you specifically.”

“Me specifically?”

Rick nodded.

“And what’s insurance got to do with anything?”

“Insurance is when you pay a premium to protect yourself from loss,” Rick said.

“For Christ sake, I know what insurance is.” Wow! But of course he would: that was Bernie. “I’m asking what insurance has to do with this movie thing.”

“What do you care? It’s a paying gig.”

Yes! So nice to hear that again.

“… name of the insurance company?” Bernie was saying.

Rick shrugged. “I assume it’s whoever Valley government uses for everything.” He took out a little screen device, tapped at it. “The Stephan K. Gronkovich Insurance Group,” Rick said.

Bernie went still for a moment, then nodded.

“What’s up?” Rick said, ripping open a little packet and sprinkling sugar in his coffee; then he opened another packet and did it again.

“Nothing,” Bernie said. “And that’s refined sugar.”

“Want me to mash my own cane?” said Rick. He stuck his finger in the cup and swirled it around. “You’re taking the job?”

“Yeah.”

“You could do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Marcie’s a big fan,” Rick said. “She’d love an autograph.”

“From the mayor?” said Bernie.

We were turning onto Mesquite Road when Bernie’s phone rang. He picked up and a voice came through the speakers.

“Hi, Bernie. Stine here.”

That would be Lieutenant Stine, another cop pal of ours, although maybe you couldn’t call him a pal like Rick. With pals like Rick, you don’t feel Bernie watching everything like a hawk; with pals like Lieutenant Stine, you do.

“Congratulations on landing this new job.” Lieutenant Stine had a harsh, hoarse sort of voice, like he partied every night, but when you saw his face, you knew he wasn’t the type.

“What new job?” Bernie said.

A pause, and then Stine said, “For the mayor’s office.”

“No such thing as secrets anymore?” Bernie said.

Stine laughed. “There are plenty. The Valley’s like an iceberg, nine-tenths hidden, which I’m sure you know by now.” He paused. “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. Call me on my direct line anytime.”

“Sure.”

“Do you have the number?”

“Must have misplaced it.”

Another pause. “Got a pencil?”

“Yup,” said Bernie, although he did not.

Maybe he was thinking about icebergs. I sure was. Had Lieutenant Stine forgotten how hot we had it in the Valley? Ice melts here just like that. Supposing an ice cube falls on the patio: by the time you get there to lick it up, it’s turned to water. And the water isn’t even cold.

I don’t like elevators, not one little bit, but Bernie promised me a treat. We rode an elevator up to the very top of one of the tallest of the downtown towers, just the two of us, which made it better. There were a lot of rapid panting sounds in the elevator. Then at last the doors opened and I burst “Ch-et?”

And we stepped outside.

“Here you go,” he said, and then came treats, small ones but a whole handful. I made quick work of them. We were on the job.

We went down a long hall, the floor covered with a soft, thick rug, offices on both sides, people hard at work, the kind of human work that involves sitting in front of a screen for a long time. I thought we were headed for a raised, glassed-in office at the end of the hall, but as we passed a conference room with a bunch of people around a long table, a big guy at one end saw us, and jumped up, saying, “Son of a bitch!” Then he ran toward us, grabbed Bernie and hugged him tight. They pounded each other’s backs real hard while everyone around the table watched with their mouths wide open.

“Bernie!”

“Gronk!”

Gronk-maybe not as tall as Bernie but a lot broader-turned to the people in the room. “Here’s your chance to fix the shit you’ve been feeding me,” he said. “Five minutes, everybody.”