timepiece today?”
Bernie handed over his grandfather’s watch. His grandfather once owned a big ranch where Mesquite Road and our whole neighborhood was now, but lost everything, possibly because of a drinking problem, although the drinking problem might have come from some other story Bernie had told me, a story about another relative. But not Bernie’s father. Bernie never talked about his father, who’d been dead for a long time. Bernie’s mother was still around. I’d met her once: a piece of work. She lived somewhere far away with a new husband, or an even newer one. She called Bernie Kiddo! What was up with that? But I still shouldn’t have done what I did, a story perhaps for another time.
Mr. Singh held the watch in both hands, admiring it. “Do you know that only a dozen of these were made?” he said. “How I would love to take this on Antiques Roadshow .” Mr. Singh had a strange way of talking, almost like music. I could listen to him all day. “Did you ever find out how it came into his possession?” he said.
“No,” said Bernie.
“Thereby hangs a tale, I’m sure,” said Mr. Singh.
A tail? Was Mr. Singh saying Bernie’s grandfather’s watch had a tail? Fun to listen to, Mr. Singh, but hard to understand. We left, a big wad of cash in Bernie’s pocket and a bite or two of curried goat kebab in my mouth. I like ethnic food. So does Bernie. There are picky eaters out there, but not us.
We dropped by the bank, one of those places where I can’t go in. No problem. I was cool about waiting in the car, most times. Bernie wasn’t gone for long. He came back muttering about tin futures and earthquakes in Bolivia. “There’s all this money flowing around, Chet, rivers and rivers of money. How to tap into it, that’s the problem.”
Rivers of money? The only rivers in the Valley didn’t even have water in them. I curled up on my seat and closed my eyes. What were we working on right now? I could only think of one measly case, a divorce in Sunshine City. We hated divorce work, me and Bernie. Maybe I was wrong about those rivers of money, maybe they were real. Wouldn’t that be nice? I could almost see myself diving in.
I woke up feeling tip-top. Where was I? In the car. There was a faint taste of curried goat in my mouth, not bad at all. Everything, or parts of everything, came back to me—the watch, Mr. Singh, nothing on deck but divorce work. I checked Bernie: hands on the wheel, face not happy. I sat up, shifted closer to him.
“Nice nap?” he said.
Very. I opened my mouth real wide, stretching my lips tight, clearing my head. We were on Mesquite Road, not far from home. And there was Iggy in his window. Always good to see Iggy. I heard his faint yip-yip-yip from behind the glass and barked back. He stood up on his back legs, front paws pressing against the window, and watched us go by. We turned into our driveway, and at almost the same time another car drove up, one of those Beetles. I’m no expert on cars—can always spot a Porsche, of course—but Beetles are easy, and this particular Beetle I knew very well. It was yellow, for one thing, and I’d ridden in it a bunch of times: Suzie Sanchez’s car. A great car. There was always a box of biscuits in the glove compartment.
We got out of the Porsche. Suzie was walking toward us. She smelled like soap and lemons, had shiny black eyes that reminded me of the countertops in our kitchen. I liked Suzie a whole lot. She and Bernie exchanged a glance, complicated and awkward. Complicated: that was the problem. In our nation, the nation within the nation, we keep these things simple. Take a recent evening, for example, when I’d heard some persistent she-barking from across the canyon and—
“Hi, Bernie,” she said. “Hey, Chet—looking good.” She reached in her bag. “Can he have a biscuit?”
“He just ate,” said Bernie. Huh? What was he talking about? Surely not the goat kebab, hardly more than a nibble, and quite
Bernie handed over his grandfather’s watch. His grandfather once owned a big ranch where Mesquite Road and our whole neighborhood was now, but lost everything, possibly because of a drinking problem, although the drinking problem might have come from some other story Bernie had told me, a story about another relative. But not Bernie’s father. Bernie never talked about his father, who’d been dead for a long time. Bernie’s mother was still around. I’d met her once: a piece of work. She lived somewhere far away with a new husband, or an even newer one. She called Bernie Kiddo! What was up with that? But I still shouldn’t have done what I did, a story perhaps for another time.
Mr. Singh held the watch in both hands, admiring it. “Do you know that only a dozen of these were made?” he said. “How I would love to take this on Antiques Roadshow .” Mr. Singh had a strange way of talking, almost like music. I could listen to him all day. “Did you ever find out how it came into his possession?” he said.
“No,” said Bernie.
“Thereby hangs a tale, I’m sure,” said Mr. Singh.
A tail? Was Mr. Singh saying Bernie’s grandfather’s watch had a tail? Fun to listen to, Mr. Singh, but hard to understand. We left, a big wad of cash in Bernie’s pocket and a bite or two of curried goat kebab in my mouth. I like ethnic food. So does Bernie. There are picky eaters out there, but not us.
We dropped by the bank, one of those places where I can’t go in. No problem. I was cool about waiting in the car, most times. Bernie wasn’t gone for long. He came back muttering about tin futures and earthquakes in Bolivia. “There’s all this money flowing around, Chet, rivers and rivers of money. How to tap into it, that’s the problem.”
Rivers of money? The only rivers in the Valley didn’t even have water in them. I curled up on my seat and closed my eyes. What were we working on right now? I could only think of one measly case, a divorce in Sunshine City. We hated divorce work, me and Bernie. Maybe I was wrong about those rivers of money, maybe they were real. Wouldn’t that be nice? I could almost see myself diving in.
I woke up feeling tip-top. Where was I? In the car. There was a faint taste of curried goat in my mouth, not bad at all. Everything, or parts of everything, came back to me—the watch, Mr. Singh, nothing on deck but divorce work. I checked Bernie: hands on the wheel, face not happy. I sat up, shifted closer to him.
“Nice nap?” he said.
Very. I opened my mouth real wide, stretching my lips tight, clearing my head. We were on Mesquite Road, not far from home. And there was Iggy in his window. Always good to see Iggy. I heard his faint yip-yip-yip from behind the glass and barked back. He stood up on his back legs, front paws pressing against the window, and watched us go by. We turned into our driveway, and at almost the same time another car drove up, one of those Beetles. I’m no expert on cars—can always spot a Porsche, of course—but Beetles are easy, and this particular Beetle I knew very well. It was yellow, for one thing, and I’d ridden in it a bunch of times: Suzie Sanchez’s car. A great car. There was always a box of biscuits in the glove compartment.
We got out of the Porsche. Suzie was walking toward us. She smelled like soap and lemons, had shiny black eyes that reminded me of the countertops in our kitchen. I liked Suzie a whole lot. She and Bernie exchanged a glance, complicated and awkward. Complicated: that was the problem. In our nation, the nation within the nation, we keep these things simple. Take a recent evening, for example, when I’d heard some persistent she-barking from across the canyon and—
“Hi, Bernie,” she said. “Hey, Chet—looking good.” She reached in her bag. “Can he have a biscuit?”
“He just ate,” said Bernie. Huh? What was he talking about? Surely not the goat kebab, hardly more than a nibble, and quite
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