Cheerios. The honey-coated kind: my favorite.
seven
Now entering Modena,” said Bernie, honking at a low-rider car that swerved in front of us. “What we’ve got here is waste-land, pure and simple.”
Wasteland smelled good to me: grease and nothing but, all kinds of grease—pizza grease, car grease, french-fry grease, human-hair grease. I was sitting up as tall as I could in the shotgun seat, taking in everything, my nose quivering. We were in a great mood, me and Bernie, on the job—not some horrible divorce case but our specialty, missing persons. Bernie was wearing one of his best Hawaiian shirts, the one with the martini-glass pattern. I wore my brown leather collar with the silver tags; I’ve also got a black one for dress-up.
“You know what this used to be, Chet? And not so long ago? Ranchland, as far as the eye could see.”
We’d gone to a ranch once, me, Bernie, Charlie, Leda. Don’t get me started on horses—prima donnas, every one, dim and dangerous at the same time. I preferred Modena just like this, greasy and horseless.
We turned onto a side street, the pavement all cracked andfull of potholes, the houses on either side small and worn-down. Bernie stopped in front of one of them. He unlocked the glove box, took out the gun, a .38 special, stuck it in his pocket. That didn’t happen often.
“Just a precaution,” Bernie said. “Let’s go.”
I hopped out.
“All better, huh?” said Bernie.
All better? All better from what? What was he talking—Oh yeah. I gave myself a shake. Bernie opened the gate. We crossed a dirt yard with a dusty couch in the middle of it, rusty springs sticking out here and there. Bernie stepped up to the door and knocked.
A voice sounded inside. “That you, Decko?”
“Yeah,” said Bernie.
The door opened. A guy looked out, a young guy, and huge. His eyes, narrow to begin with, narrowed some more. A real big guy with slitty eyes: I didn’t like him, not one little bit.
“You’re not Decko,” he said.
“Very acute,” said Bernie. I missed that one: He was calling this guy cute? That wasn’t Bernie. “I’m a private investigator,” Bernie was saying. He held out his card. The guy didn’t even glance at it. “I’m looking for a former Heavenly Valley High student named Ruben Ramirez.”
“Never heard of him.” The guy started to close the door. Bernie stuck his foot inside. I’d seen that move before, one of Bernie’s best.
“No?” Bernie said. “What’s the RR stand for?”
“Huh?”
“On the gold chain around your neck,” Bernie said. “That RR.”
The guy fingered the chain, the thick, heavy kind. His lips moved, but he couldn’t come up with anything.
“How about Roy Rogers?” Bernie said. “There’s one right around the corner.”
“Huh?” the guy said again. I was a little confused myself.
“Tell you what, Ruben,” Bernie said. “Now we’ve got the introductions out of the way, how about we go inside, sit down, sort this all out?”
“Sort what out?” said Ruben.
“This case we’re working on.”
“Don’t know nothin’ about it.”
“A missing-persons case,” Bernie said. He had a way of just plowing forward, a way Leda had never liked. But I did. “Turns out the missing person’s a friend of yours, a Heavenly Valley sophomore named Madison Chambliss.”
“Never heard of her.”
Bernie nodded, this nod of his that had nothing to do with agreement. “I’m getting a real funny feeling, Ruben, a funny feeling that she’s inside your house right now.”
To my surprise—and I’m pretty sure Bernie’s, too—Ruben turned out to be one of those huge guys who could also move. I barely saw what happened, and I doubt Bernie even caught a glimpse. Ruben’s fist, bigger than a softball—a kind of ball I had no use for at all—flashed up from under with a whoosh of air and caught Bernie right on the
seven
Now entering Modena,” said Bernie, honking at a low-rider car that swerved in front of us. “What we’ve got here is waste-land, pure and simple.”
Wasteland smelled good to me: grease and nothing but, all kinds of grease—pizza grease, car grease, french-fry grease, human-hair grease. I was sitting up as tall as I could in the shotgun seat, taking in everything, my nose quivering. We were in a great mood, me and Bernie, on the job—not some horrible divorce case but our specialty, missing persons. Bernie was wearing one of his best Hawaiian shirts, the one with the martini-glass pattern. I wore my brown leather collar with the silver tags; I’ve also got a black one for dress-up.
“You know what this used to be, Chet? And not so long ago? Ranchland, as far as the eye could see.”
We’d gone to a ranch once, me, Bernie, Charlie, Leda. Don’t get me started on horses—prima donnas, every one, dim and dangerous at the same time. I preferred Modena just like this, greasy and horseless.
We turned onto a side street, the pavement all cracked andfull of potholes, the houses on either side small and worn-down. Bernie stopped in front of one of them. He unlocked the glove box, took out the gun, a .38 special, stuck it in his pocket. That didn’t happen often.
“Just a precaution,” Bernie said. “Let’s go.”
I hopped out.
“All better, huh?” said Bernie.
All better? All better from what? What was he talking—Oh yeah. I gave myself a shake. Bernie opened the gate. We crossed a dirt yard with a dusty couch in the middle of it, rusty springs sticking out here and there. Bernie stepped up to the door and knocked.
A voice sounded inside. “That you, Decko?”
“Yeah,” said Bernie.
The door opened. A guy looked out, a young guy, and huge. His eyes, narrow to begin with, narrowed some more. A real big guy with slitty eyes: I didn’t like him, not one little bit.
“You’re not Decko,” he said.
“Very acute,” said Bernie. I missed that one: He was calling this guy cute? That wasn’t Bernie. “I’m a private investigator,” Bernie was saying. He held out his card. The guy didn’t even glance at it. “I’m looking for a former Heavenly Valley High student named Ruben Ramirez.”
“Never heard of him.” The guy started to close the door. Bernie stuck his foot inside. I’d seen that move before, one of Bernie’s best.
“No?” Bernie said. “What’s the RR stand for?”
“Huh?”
“On the gold chain around your neck,” Bernie said. “That RR.”
The guy fingered the chain, the thick, heavy kind. His lips moved, but he couldn’t come up with anything.
“How about Roy Rogers?” Bernie said. “There’s one right around the corner.”
“Huh?” the guy said again. I was a little confused myself.
“Tell you what, Ruben,” Bernie said. “Now we’ve got the introductions out of the way, how about we go inside, sit down, sort this all out?”
“Sort what out?” said Ruben.
“This case we’re working on.”
“Don’t know nothin’ about it.”
“A missing-persons case,” Bernie said. He had a way of just plowing forward, a way Leda had never liked. But I did. “Turns out the missing person’s a friend of yours, a Heavenly Valley sophomore named Madison Chambliss.”
“Never heard of her.”
Bernie nodded, this nod of his that had nothing to do with agreement. “I’m getting a real funny feeling, Ruben, a funny feeling that she’s inside your house right now.”
To my surprise—and I’m pretty sure Bernie’s, too—Ruben turned out to be one of those huge guys who could also move. I barely saw what happened, and I doubt Bernie even caught a glimpse. Ruben’s fist, bigger than a softball—a kind of ball I had no use for at all—flashed up from under with a whoosh of air and caught Bernie right on the
Similar Books
