over.
But forget all that. Bernie pressed the button and our phone voice said, “Two new messages.”
Then: “Hey, Bern, my man.” I knew that friendly-on-the-outside voice: the guy in the Hawaiian shirt from Dry Gulch. “Chuck Eckel here. How ya doin’? Slight development on the tin futures front—give me a call when you get this. Like ASAP.”
And then: “Hi, Bernie.” Another voice I recognized, this one friendly not just on the outside but through and through: Janie, my groomer, the best groomer in the whole Valley. She had a great business with a great business plan: Janie’s Pet Grooming Service—We Pick Up and Deliver. Hadn’t seen her in a while, now that I thought about it. “It’s Janie. Just wondering what you heard from the vet.”
“Huh?” said Bernie. He picked up the phone. “Janie? Bernie Little here. Got your message. What’s this about the vet? Give me a call when you get a chance.” He punched in more numbers. “Chuck? Bernie Little.” Bernie listened. There’s this painter Bernie likes, can’t remember the name, who paints the human face— made a bundle, Bernie says—in a bunch of parts that don’t quite fit together. Bernie’s face started getting more and more that way as he listened on the phone. “An earthquake? I don’t . . . in Bolivia? But how does that . . . ? Three grand? But . . .” More listening, more coming apart of Bernie’s face, the nicest face around, in my opinion. “What does that mean, cover the position?” I could hear the voice on the other end, the friendly coating thinning out. “You never—” And thinning out some more. “Lose the whole investment? That’s not how I understood the . . . you need it by when?” Bernie hung up, but not before I heard Chuck Eckel say, “Close of business today, my man.”
When Bernie’s upset, even feeling a bit overwhelmed—not that anything ever really overwhelms Bernie—he has this habit of rubbing his eyes very hard with the knuckles of both hands. He was doing it now. Despite how I know nothing ever really overwhelms Bernie, the truth is I can’t stand seeing him rub his eyes that way. So I went over and bumped my head against his leg, and bumped it again when he didn’t seem to notice the first time.
“Hey, boy,” he said. He stopped rubbing his eyes, looked down at me. I looked up at him. Our eyes met. His face started going back together the right way. “How about a chew strip?” he said.
A chew strip? Had I done anything to earn a chew strip? My mind flashed back to that scene on the runway. I knew the answer to the chew strip question was no. I probably didn’t deserve another chew strip for a long, long while, like a day or two. At the same time, I felt this sudden breeze from behind me, surprisingly strong, and realized my tail was wagging.
Bernie laughed. “Hard to turn down a chew strip, huh, boy?”
Impossible, I guess.
We went into the kitchen. Bernie opened the cupboard over the sink, took out the chew strips and the bourbon. He handed me a chew strip and I started chewing. Hard to explain how good that made my teeth feel. And the taste! Out of this world, whatever that means. Meanwhile, Bernie poured himself a glass of bourbon, a small pour, I was happy to see, until he knocked it back in one go and refilled. He carried the glass with him into the office. I followed, trying to make the chew strip last, although it was almost gone.
Bernie took down the Niagara Falls photo and spun the dial on the safe. Was the rifle coming out again? No idea why we needed it at the moment, but the rifle coming out was always a good idea to my way of thinking. Bernie reached in. Not the rifle; instead he removed a small black box. I knew that black box: inside lay Bernie’s grandfather’s watch, our most valuable possession, except for the Porsche. I gobbled up the last bit of chew strip. We were on our way to see Mr. Singh.
“Bernie! Chet!” said Mr. Singh. “How is our beautiful
But forget all that. Bernie pressed the button and our phone voice said, “Two new messages.”
Then: “Hey, Bern, my man.” I knew that friendly-on-the-outside voice: the guy in the Hawaiian shirt from Dry Gulch. “Chuck Eckel here. How ya doin’? Slight development on the tin futures front—give me a call when you get this. Like ASAP.”
And then: “Hi, Bernie.” Another voice I recognized, this one friendly not just on the outside but through and through: Janie, my groomer, the best groomer in the whole Valley. She had a great business with a great business plan: Janie’s Pet Grooming Service—We Pick Up and Deliver. Hadn’t seen her in a while, now that I thought about it. “It’s Janie. Just wondering what you heard from the vet.”
“Huh?” said Bernie. He picked up the phone. “Janie? Bernie Little here. Got your message. What’s this about the vet? Give me a call when you get a chance.” He punched in more numbers. “Chuck? Bernie Little.” Bernie listened. There’s this painter Bernie likes, can’t remember the name, who paints the human face— made a bundle, Bernie says—in a bunch of parts that don’t quite fit together. Bernie’s face started getting more and more that way as he listened on the phone. “An earthquake? I don’t . . . in Bolivia? But how does that . . . ? Three grand? But . . .” More listening, more coming apart of Bernie’s face, the nicest face around, in my opinion. “What does that mean, cover the position?” I could hear the voice on the other end, the friendly coating thinning out. “You never—” And thinning out some more. “Lose the whole investment? That’s not how I understood the . . . you need it by when?” Bernie hung up, but not before I heard Chuck Eckel say, “Close of business today, my man.”
When Bernie’s upset, even feeling a bit overwhelmed—not that anything ever really overwhelms Bernie—he has this habit of rubbing his eyes very hard with the knuckles of both hands. He was doing it now. Despite how I know nothing ever really overwhelms Bernie, the truth is I can’t stand seeing him rub his eyes that way. So I went over and bumped my head against his leg, and bumped it again when he didn’t seem to notice the first time.
“Hey, boy,” he said. He stopped rubbing his eyes, looked down at me. I looked up at him. Our eyes met. His face started going back together the right way. “How about a chew strip?” he said.
A chew strip? Had I done anything to earn a chew strip? My mind flashed back to that scene on the runway. I knew the answer to the chew strip question was no. I probably didn’t deserve another chew strip for a long, long while, like a day or two. At the same time, I felt this sudden breeze from behind me, surprisingly strong, and realized my tail was wagging.
Bernie laughed. “Hard to turn down a chew strip, huh, boy?”
Impossible, I guess.
We went into the kitchen. Bernie opened the cupboard over the sink, took out the chew strips and the bourbon. He handed me a chew strip and I started chewing. Hard to explain how good that made my teeth feel. And the taste! Out of this world, whatever that means. Meanwhile, Bernie poured himself a glass of bourbon, a small pour, I was happy to see, until he knocked it back in one go and refilled. He carried the glass with him into the office. I followed, trying to make the chew strip last, although it was almost gone.
Bernie took down the Niagara Falls photo and spun the dial on the safe. Was the rifle coming out again? No idea why we needed it at the moment, but the rifle coming out was always a good idea to my way of thinking. Bernie reached in. Not the rifle; instead he removed a small black box. I knew that black box: inside lay Bernie’s grandfather’s watch, our most valuable possession, except for the Porsche. I gobbled up the last bit of chew strip. We were on our way to see Mr. Singh.
“Bernie! Chet!” said Mr. Singh. “How is our beautiful
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