Tinkerbell on Walkabout Read Free Page A

My Dad was a cop, and my uncle is a cop, and my two best friends are
cops. I’m surrounded by cops. Makes me feel . . . coppish.”
    He gives me a long, wry look. “Ever consider therapy?”
    “Hah.”
    “So why aren’t you a cop?”
    “A sad twist of fate and genes. I’m vertically challenged
and I can’t follow orders. This did not escape the notice of my instructors at
the Law Enforcement Academy. I washed out.”
    “Ouch,” says Perry.
    That about sums it up. I change the subject. “So what do you
think of the recent nighttime ruckus? Bob’s coons or pranksters or whatever.
Got any theories?”
    Perry shakes his head and pulls a face. “Coons. That’s a
good one.” His eyes flick up to meet mine, laughter in them. “The Coon’s coons?”
    “What?” I say, deadpan.
    “You know—coons. It’s another word for—”
    “I know what it’s another word for.”
    Perry reads my face, then pulls his eyes away, straightens,
and says: “Look, Gina, I think he’s
imagining things. I don’t
think we’ve got coons or pranksters.”
    “The dogs think you’ve got something.”
    He doesn’t
reply and I roll the bike outside where Bob is huddled with a customer over the
engine of 1938 Buick Special. Bob is clearly smitten, so I just wave goodbye
and head up the hill, trying not to dwell on my disturbing conversation with
Perry.

    The lights go on in the junkyard again that evening. We
watch from the Petersen’s front deck as dogs fly in every direction and Bob
emerges with a flashlight and trots off into the lot to be lost behind the tall
screen of photinia. I recount my earlier conversation with him.
    “So now you’ve got him all hot to do some sleuthing, huh,
Nancy Drew?” says July.
    “I think he’d gotten up a pretty good head of steam on his
own. He wants to know who’s playing with his cars.”
    “Perry?” Lee suggests.
    “Why Perry?” I ask, too sharply.
    Lee blinks. “Well, like you said: it’s probably someone who
knows Bob well enough to know what’ll get his goat.”
    I shrug. “Yeah, and there’s also every chance Perry moved the
car accidentally.”
    Right. And maybe there really are coons in the junkyard
making the dogs all hinky, and maybe one thing doesn’t have diddly to do with
the other.

    I drop by the yard again the next morning to ask Bob if he
found anything. He isn’t there, but Perry is, dismantling a Honda Accord.
    “I guess Bob’s still sleeping off last night’s activities,
huh?” I say.
    Perry frowns. “What do you mean?”
    “Something set the dogs off again around midnight. Had Bob
out stalking the lot.”
    Perry shoots me a glance, then looks back to his work.
“Guess I won’t worry that he hasn’t shown up for work yet, then. Bob’s never
this late.”
    “You’d worry? Really?”
    He looks up and meets my eyes. “Yeah, I’d worry. Bob’s a
good guy.”
    “For a ‘coon?’”
    He has the scruples to blush. “Bob’s a good guy,” he
repeats.
    “Yeah, he is. I’ll come by later. See what he found.”

    Later turns out to be a day trip to Tahoe later, and it’s
a rainy but balmy Thursday afternoon when July and I drop by Wray’s Wrecks
before driving down to Sacramento for a prenuptial hunt for household goods.
    Perry’s alone in the small office. He looks like a man who
hasn’t slept for a week, which is odd considering I saw him only two days ago.
The purple smudges under his eyes clash badly with his sallow skin, and he’s
sporting a retro Don Johnson look.
    “You look like crap,” I observe.
    He doesn’t react.
    “Bob around?”
    He drops his gaze to the desktop. “No. I haven’t seen him
since I left work Monday. I’m really worried.” He comes to his feet as if an
angst bomb has just gone off nearby, and hovers behind the desk. “Bob doesn’t
do stuff like this. He doesn’t just take off.”
    I’m
suddenly a bit angsty myself, but I try not to echo Perry’s fidgeting. “Maybe
he took some time off and forgot to tell