some time ago, in my opinion. Suzie’s hand emerged from the bag, empty. Human tension is an interesting thing. You can smell it; well, maybe not you, but I can. The smell was out there now, and it got ratcheted up much stronger when Bernie said, “How’s Dylan?”
Yikes. Dylan McKnight was Suzie’s ex-boyfriend, but maybe not completely out of the picture, something about a trip the two of them had taken to LA. I didn’t know Dylan McKnight well, had only met him once, and we hadn’t hit it off—a real pretty boy, and also a former jailbird. The day we met he’d ended up in a tree, the exact details not too clear in my mind, except for the sirloin tips Bernie gave me later.
Suzie’s voice, usually warm and friendly, changed fast to something much colder. “I wouldn’t know,” she said.
“No?” said Bernie. “Is he still in LA?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“He’s back in the Valley?”
Suzie took a deep breath. “Bernie?” she said.
Bernie got this stubborn look on his face. “Yeah?”
“Do we have to talk about him?”
“I don’t know,” said Bernie. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Actually,” said Suzie, “I’m working on a story and your name came up.”
Bernie stopped looking so stubborn. “What story?”
“About this woman.” Suzie flipped open a notebook. “Adelina Borghese.”
“What about her?”
“Seems she was abducted.”
“Abducted?” Bernie flinched, almost as though someone had hit him. I’d never seen him do that before. “We just saw her this morning.”
Suzie went back to the notebook. “Happened shortly after noon,” she said. “Apparently she owns some sort of prize dog.”
“Princess,” Bernie said.
Suzie turned a page and nodded. “Yes, Princess,” she said. “The dog is missing, too.”
SEVEN
A ll this stuff was going by too fast. Princess was missing? And abduction: was that what we called a snatch in our trade, a kidnapping? I got too hot, started panting.
“Where are you getting your information?” Bernie said.
“A tip,” Suzie answered.
“Who from?”
Suzie’s face hardened and thickened a bit, reminding me very strongly of Bernie in one of his stubborn moods. “I don’t reveal my sources.”
Bernie’s voice rose. That didn’t happen unless he was really upset, and not even usually then. “I don’t want to know your goddamn sources,” he said. “I want to know if your information is accurate.”
Most people backed down right away when Bernie got mad. The truth is Bernie could be—I don’t want to say dangerous, not about Bernie, because he’s the best—so let’s say he could be real tough, but only on perps, and Suzie was no perp. Big surprise: she didn’t back down at all. In fact, her chin came up in an aggressive sort of way. “My information is accurate.”
They glared at each other. I didn’t like the way things were going, not one little bit. I barked. They both looked at me. I was about to bark some more when the phone in the house started ringing. Bernie hurried inside.
I trotted after him. An angry voice was coming through the answering machine. “What the hell’s going on?” I recognized the voice: Lieutenant Stine. “I thought you were working for these people. Snatched in broad daylight? Pick up, for Christ sake.”
Bernie went to the phone. I could tell just from the way he moved, like he was walking through deep water, that he didn’t want to pick up. Then, as I’d seen more than once before, his back got real straight, like somehow he was making himself stronger inside, and he reached for the phone. Bernie—and possibly this is a small difference between us—could force himself to do things he didn’t want to do. But if you don’t mind my asking, why bother?
“Yeah?” he said.
Lieutenant Stine’s voice came over the answering machine. “What the hell happened?”
“You tell me,” Bernie said.
“Some guys blocked her limo on the old Rio Loco Road,
Yikes. Dylan McKnight was Suzie’s ex-boyfriend, but maybe not completely out of the picture, something about a trip the two of them had taken to LA. I didn’t know Dylan McKnight well, had only met him once, and we hadn’t hit it off—a real pretty boy, and also a former jailbird. The day we met he’d ended up in a tree, the exact details not too clear in my mind, except for the sirloin tips Bernie gave me later.
Suzie’s voice, usually warm and friendly, changed fast to something much colder. “I wouldn’t know,” she said.
“No?” said Bernie. “Is he still in LA?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“He’s back in the Valley?”
Suzie took a deep breath. “Bernie?” she said.
Bernie got this stubborn look on his face. “Yeah?”
“Do we have to talk about him?”
“I don’t know,” said Bernie. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Actually,” said Suzie, “I’m working on a story and your name came up.”
Bernie stopped looking so stubborn. “What story?”
“About this woman.” Suzie flipped open a notebook. “Adelina Borghese.”
“What about her?”
“Seems she was abducted.”
“Abducted?” Bernie flinched, almost as though someone had hit him. I’d never seen him do that before. “We just saw her this morning.”
Suzie went back to the notebook. “Happened shortly after noon,” she said. “Apparently she owns some sort of prize dog.”
“Princess,” Bernie said.
Suzie turned a page and nodded. “Yes, Princess,” she said. “The dog is missing, too.”
SEVEN
A ll this stuff was going by too fast. Princess was missing? And abduction: was that what we called a snatch in our trade, a kidnapping? I got too hot, started panting.
“Where are you getting your information?” Bernie said.
“A tip,” Suzie answered.
“Who from?”
Suzie’s face hardened and thickened a bit, reminding me very strongly of Bernie in one of his stubborn moods. “I don’t reveal my sources.”
Bernie’s voice rose. That didn’t happen unless he was really upset, and not even usually then. “I don’t want to know your goddamn sources,” he said. “I want to know if your information is accurate.”
Most people backed down right away when Bernie got mad. The truth is Bernie could be—I don’t want to say dangerous, not about Bernie, because he’s the best—so let’s say he could be real tough, but only on perps, and Suzie was no perp. Big surprise: she didn’t back down at all. In fact, her chin came up in an aggressive sort of way. “My information is accurate.”
They glared at each other. I didn’t like the way things were going, not one little bit. I barked. They both looked at me. I was about to bark some more when the phone in the house started ringing. Bernie hurried inside.
I trotted after him. An angry voice was coming through the answering machine. “What the hell’s going on?” I recognized the voice: Lieutenant Stine. “I thought you were working for these people. Snatched in broad daylight? Pick up, for Christ sake.”
Bernie went to the phone. I could tell just from the way he moved, like he was walking through deep water, that he didn’t want to pick up. Then, as I’d seen more than once before, his back got real straight, like somehow he was making himself stronger inside, and he reached for the phone. Bernie—and possibly this is a small difference between us—could force himself to do things he didn’t want to do. But if you don’t mind my asking, why bother?
“Yeah?” he said.
Lieutenant Stine’s voice came over the answering machine. “What the hell happened?”
“You tell me,” Bernie said.
“Some guys blocked her limo on the old Rio Loco Road,
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