The Iggy Chronicles, Volume 2 (2 page)

Teitelbaum got out of the car. As he approached the front door, a woman in jeans, T-shirt, and baseball cap rose from her work in a nearby flowerbed, came over, and gave him a kiss. It would have been a mouth kiss, but Teitelbaum turned his face and ended up getting kissed on the cheek. He went into the house. The woman stood still for a moment, a bunch of weeds in her hand. Then she returned to the flowerbed and got busy with the trowel.

“Looks like an older version of Sherry,” Bernie said, squinting into the camera. “Don't tell me she's Sherry one point O,” he added, losing me completely. We hit the road.

• • •

“We've got news,” Bernie said. “Not good.”

We were back at Senor Breakfast at the same table as before, me, Bernie, and Sherry the client. Bernie spread nice big blowups of the photos on the table, then looked up at Sherry.

She took one quick glance at them. “What the hell?” she said. “I didn't mean her.”

“Huh?” said Bernie.

Sherry pointed to the woman who'd been gardening outside Teitelbaum's house. “That's Annika. How can he be cheating with her?”

“Sometimes there's no explaining what a guy sees in—”

Sherry raised her voice. “Annika Teitelbaum, for Christ sake. She's his wife.”

“Ah,” Bernie said. And then, “uh” followed by “um.” That was the moment I began to have doubts about the case. I moved closer to Bernie, leaned some of my weight against his leg, just to remind him of who had his back. The table got a bit unsteady for some reason, but Bernie caught it before it flipped right over and soon had all the photos nicely lined up in place again. “Your meaning being,” he said, “that you suspect there's a third woman?”

“Oh my God!” said Sherry. “Isn't it obvious? Have you forgotten about the motel receipt already?”

“Not quite yet.”

“Bernie? Do you want this job or not?”

“I actually do.”

“What does actually mean?”

“Nothing,” Bernie said. “Can I ask what line of work you're in?”

“I'm an event planner. Here's my card, in case you're the entertaining type.”

Bernie the entertaining type? Yes, and big-time. There's no one more entertaining than Bernie.

• • •

“Geronimo camped right here in Ocotillo Springs,” Bernie said. “Sometimes I wish he'd won.”

Geronimo? A new one on me. A loser of some kind, possibly wearing an orange jumpsuit, but it was clear that Bernie liked him. No surprise there: we liked a lot of the perps we'd put away, me and Bernie. I made what Bernie calls a mental note to give Geronimo a nice big lick if we ever met. But mental notes can be tricky. For example, although I'd made many mental notes in my career, none was coming to me just now. Whoa! Not even the one I'd just made! I was on fire, in a way.

We drove through the little town—a town like lots of little towns down near the border, with one main street, a few bars, a few art galleries, and the rest empty storefronts—and came to a motel with a wagon wheel out front. Bernie turned into the lot.

“Now we just need some cock-and-bull story to feed the manager.” I was hoping I hadn't heard that right when Bernie said, “How about Ric and I are old college buddies and . . . no, that's no good.” He went silent. We parked under a big eucalyptus, sat in a world of minty smell, a smell that made me relaxed and alert at the same time. What a nice feeling! Cocks were roosters, if I was getting this right, and bulls were bulls, neither one a personal favorite of mine, the combo making it worse. But I forgot all about that in the lovely little eucalyptus world.

There were a few cars in the lot, but no people around. Then a small red car came zipping in and parked at the far end of the motel. A young woman hopped out and headed right to the nearest door.

“Whoa,” Bernie said. “Is that Sherry?” He took off his shades, squinted at her. “Nope,” he said. “But an awful lot like her, especially how Sherry must have looked ten or twelve years ago.” The woman took out a key, let herself into the motel room, Bernie snapping a picture just before the door closed.

Bernie put his shades back on. I really wished he wouldn't, shades on humans bothered me in general, and in particular on Bernie. “How about we call her Sherry Three Point O if you see where I'm going with this, big guy.”

I did not. Did that frustrate me? Not a bit!

A breeze rose up, blew a tumbleweed ball across the lot. I've chased after tumbleweed in the past, always successfully. But then what? That's the problem with chasing tumbleweed, so I stayed put. Another tumbleweed went wafting by. Tumbleweed? How exciting! I was getting all set to jump out of the Porsche and show that tumbleweed what was what when another car rolled into the lot, and not just any old car but an enormous yellow SUV.

“Here we go,” Bernie said.

The yellow SUV parked beside the small red car, and Ric Teitelbaum got out. He hitched up his belt—hey! One of those concha belts, maybe the most glittering I'd ever seen. Wouldn't it look nice on Bernie? I checked Bernie's belt, saw he wasn't wearing one, his blue jean belt loops empty. Meanwhile, Teitelbaum took out a key—
click
went the camera—and let himself into the same room Sherry Three Point O had entered, if Sherry Three Point O was indeed the name of the young woman. An odd name, but if Bernie said she was Sherry Three Point O that was that.

Bernie checked his watch. “Six Cs, Chet, record time.” He was putting the camera back in the glove box when a shiny black sedan turned into the lot and parked at the far end, nose out, just like us. The dude at the wheel just sat there, also just like us.

“Could it be?” Bernie said.

Yes, a familiar-looking dude—you didn't see sideburns like that every day. I was just about to place him when a member of the nation within rose into view on the passenger seat of the shiny black sedan, gazing around kind of blankly, like a napper emerging from a long spell of shut-eye. This particular napper had his upper lip stuck on one of his teeth in a way that twisted up his whole face, not the most appealing face to begin with.

“Maxie Bonn,” Bernie said. “And what's the name of his pal? Barko?”

Yes, Barko. We came across each other from time to time, Maxie “Auto” Bonn and Barko being in the business. Once Barko had almost got up the nerve to challenge me. He was smarter than he looked.

“Wasn't aware they worked this far south,” Bernie said. We sat where we were, in the shade. Maxie “Auto” Bonn and Barko sat where they were, in the sun. “If they're working,” Bernie continued after a while. “But what else would they be doing?”

I had no idea. All I knew was that neither of them looked our way, not once. Was that the way to run things in this line of work? I'm sure you know the answer to that one. Meanwhile, Maxie's head was tilting down and down, until his chin rested on his chest.

“Ever think of them as a mirror image of us, big guy?”

I most certainly did not. Barko yawned a huge yawn, finally freeing his upper lip and untwisting his face. He sank back down out of sight.

“A funhouse mirror,” Bernie said, losing me completely. He took a picture of the small red car and the yellow SUV and was pointing the camera at the door Ric Teitelbaum and Sherry Three Point O had entered when it opened and Teitelbaum came hurrying out, fully dressed except for the concha belt. He strode red-faced over to Maxie's car. Now was when Barko would spring into action, waking Maxie up at the very least. But no. Maxie slept on, Barko remaining out of sight.

Teitelbaum went to Maxie's side of the car, pounded on the roof. Maxie's head jerked up and he looked around wildly. Barko rose slowly into view again, licked his muzzle.

“Goddamn peeper!” Teitelbaum shouted. He glanced around, maybe saw us, and lowered his voice. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Maxie said something unfriendly, but the wind had come up, and I couldn't make out the words. Teitelbaum grabbed Maxie by the throat and said something even unfriendlier. Maxie raised both his empty hands nice and high and changed his tone completely. They had some chitchat. Bernie snapped some more pictures. Then Teitelbaum took out his wallet, counted out a wad of money, and kind of threw it at Maxie. Teitelbaum turned, strode back toward the motel, and was almost there when he realized his zipper was still undone. He zipped it back up and went inside the room.

“His timing's off,” Bernie said.

Maxie got the money all straightened out, counted it—his lips moving, though I couldn't hear him—and stuck it in his inside jacket pocket. At that moment, Barko suddenly looked our way, saw me, and began barking his head off.

“Shadap,” said Maxie, starting his car and driving out of the lot, not once glancing in our direction. Barko kept up the barking until they were out of sight, and even after. I'd forgotten that bark of his. There was something metallic about it, rather unpleasant to my ears. Bernie let go of my collar. When had he taken hold of it? Why? I could feel this case, whatever it was, taking a strange turn.

“Easy, big guy.” How nice, the way Bernie said that! I sat up tall, a total pro, on the job, ready for whatever was coming next, which turned out to be Bernie cranking the engine and driving us out of the Wagon Wheel Motel parking lot, the same way that Maxie and Barko had gone. I could see the shiny black sedan far ahead on the long, straight desert road. We got a little closer, but not too close. That seemed right to me. Bernie was the best wheelman in the Valley, as I may have mentioned already.

• • •

“Ripples,” Bernie said after a while. “You throw a pebble into the water and the ripples start up. But which one do you follow? Ever think of our job that way, chasing after ripples?”

What was this? We were going swimming? A bit of a surprise, but a very good one. Not long ago we'd been out in San Diego on a case about which I remembered nothing except for the afternoon we'd spent at the beach. We'd surfed, me and Bernie! I loved swimming, which is simply trotting through the water. Did you know that? Anyone can do it! Other than the fact that there was no water in sight, we were cooking.

We followed the shiny black sedan up into some hills, interesting scents flowing by at high speed—greasewood, javelina, snake, and all kinds of poop, which I won't bother sorting out for you now, although I lost myself in sorting them out at the time, not snapping out of it until we came down out of the hills and onto the freeway. Maxie, a few cars ahead, checked his rearview mirror from time to time but didn't see us, two lanes over on the other side, just one of our techniques at the Little Detective Agency. Barko was out of sight, except for the tip of a pointy little ear, pressed against the passenger-side window. Soon we were back in Pottsdale again, Maxie driving slowly down the street where Livia Moon had her place. And what was this? Maxie was stopping in front of it? Bernie pulled over real fast, parked behind a truck. Maxie walked into Livia's Friendly Coffee and More, Barko left behind, pawing at the glass, the window cracked open but not much.

“How about we go around to the back?” Bernie said.

Sounded good to me. We'd had success with going around to the back in the past, except for once on a movie set where the bar actually hadn't had a back. Bernie drove down an alley and turned into the small parking lot behind Livia's place. We hopped out of the Porsche, me hopping, Bernie maybe limping just the slightest bit, which sometimes happened after a long drive. It was all on account of his war wound, which he never talks about, so I won't mention it either.

We knocked at the back door of Livia's place, Bernie doing the actual knocking. A round blue eye appeared in the peephole and then the door opened quickly, revealing a friendly-looking young woman in a small black dress.

She clapped her hands together. “Oh my goodness—Chet! And even more gorgeous than I remembered.” And then she was giving my head the kind of pat that stops time in its tracks, if that makes any sense.

“Hi, Tulip,” Bernie said.

Tulip—the best patter I'd ever come across, with the possible exception of her coworker Autumn—looked up at Bernie. “Barnie, was it?”

“Bernie,” said Bernie, looking not too pleased about something, but I couldn't think what. “Is Livia around?”

“I'll check.”

And not long after that we were in Livia's comfortable living room, me lying on a soft rug and working on a thick chewy, the top of my head still all tingly, Bernie on the couch, and Livia—who'd given Bernie the longest welcoming hug I'd ever seen—over at the bar fixing drinks.

“You're looking just great, Bernie,” she said over her shoulder.

“You, too,” said Bernie.

“With all this weight I've put on?”

“It suits you. Uh, I mean, um, of course you haven't, but if you did one day in the future put on a pound or two, then . . .”

Livia laughed, a lovely booming laugh that filled the room. “Still the charmer,” she said, bringing the drinks—bourbon for Bernie, something with gin for her, gin being one of the easiest smells out there, and water for me.

She sat down beside him, quite closely beside him. They clinked glasses.

“How's life?” Livia said.

Bernie sipped his drink, said nothing.

“Divorce come through?” Livia said.

“While back.”

“And?”

Bernie shrugged.

“What's your boy's name? Charlie?”

Bernie nodded. She gazed at the side of his face. He looked down at his drink.

Livia patted his arm. “A nice name,” she said. “Solid. I'm no fan of these crazy fly-by-night names.”

“Like Tulip?” Bernie said. “And Autumn?”

“Those aren't their real names, silly.”

“No?”

“Marketing, Bernie, for God's sake! We're selling something here.”