Paw and Order Read Free Page A

slabs stuck together. He steered back onto the street and drove off, leaving a faint smell of hair gel behind, a bit like the scent of bubble gum. I’d tried bubble gum once. Not food and not a chewy: I didn’t understand bubble gum at all.
    We got out of the car, approached the nearest house, a brick house with a tall hedge in front and a gated driveway on one side, the gate hanging part open. A member of the nation within the nation—as Bernie calls me and my kind—had laid his mark on one of the gateposts, forcing me to do the same. Meanwhile, Bernie had gone on ahead. I tried to hurry things along, but that’s not so easy to do. Bernie was already knocking at the front door when I caught up to him.
    â€œKind of a big house,” Bernie said. “Maybe we’ve got the wrong—”
    The door opened and a woman—not Suzie—looked out. She was maybe about Suzie’s age, had red hair and green eyes—although Bernie says I can’t be trusted when it comes to colors, especially red, so don’t bother remembering this part—and wore a dark business suit. I knew right away that she was the type of woman who had a certain effect on Bernie.
    â€œYes?” she said.
    â€œUh,” said Bernie. “We’re, um, looking for Suzie Sanchez.”
    â€œIs she expecting you?”
    â€œNot really. It’s kind of a surprise.”
    The woman gazed at Bernie. With some humans, you can see into their eyes a bit, get a feel for what’s going on behind them. This woman was some other type. “Are you a friend?” she said.
    Bernie nodded. “I’m Bernie Little. This is Chet.”
    My tail got ready to start up, but the woman didn’t look at me. “The private detective?” she said. She looked past us. “That must be the famous Porsche.”
    â€œWouldn’t know about famous,” Bernie said.
    The red-haired woman smiled, more to herself that to us, if that makes any sense.
    â€œSuzie mentioned you,” she said. “She’s our tenant—you’ll find her in the carriage house out back.” The door closed.
    We followed the driveway along the side of the house, past a small green lawn which a squirrel had crossed, and not long ago—
    â€œChet!”
    â€”and came to another brick house, much smaller than the first. Bernie gave it a careful look. “Urbane?” he said, stepping up to the door. “Would that be the word?” He was on his own. I waited for the answer. Bernie froze and said, “Oh, my God! Flowers!” “Flowers” was the answer, not “urbane”? That was as far as I could take it. Meanwhile, Bernie was glancing around wildly. He spotted some yellow flowers growing in a window box, sprang over and snatched them out, then returned to the door, the flowers in one hand and a surprising amount of that moist black potting soil on his shirt. Bernie’s other hand was in knocking position when the door began to open from the inside. A lovely big smile spread across Bernie’s face and then just hung there in the strangest way when a man stepped outside. The man wore a suit, had a neatly trimmed little beard but no mustache, a look that always bothered me, no telling why, and carried a briefcase made of fine, lovely-smelling leather that aroused a funny feeling in my teeth right away, a feeling that only gnawing can satisfy, as you may or may not know. He paused, rocking back slightly on his heels. We’ve seen that before. Bernie’s a pretty big dude, and I’m not exactly a midget myself, a hundred-plus pounder, in fact, as I’d heard Bernie say more than once.
    â€œAh, um,” the man said, and then his gaze settled on the flowers. “A delivery for Ms. Sanchez?”
    â€œHuh?” said Bernie.
    I was with him on that: the bearded dude had a strange way of talking. Much easier to understand was his smell, which was all about nervousness,