zilch.
Back in the pirogue, we rode away from the Isle des Deux Amis, the mosquitoes following
us for a while and then giving up. Bernie cut the motor, dipped his hands in the water,
washed off the bloody smears.
“Gonna need a transfusion,” he said, losing me completely. I started panting. If Bernie
needed something, it was my business to know.
“Hot, big guy?” he said. “You can take that swim now, if you like.” He patted the
water with his hand. I got the idea, perhaps in midair.
And then I was splashing right in. Ah! I went under, bobbed up, and started swimming.
Swimming is just like trotting, except underwater. Anyone can do it. The pirogue drifted
toward the far shore of this lake or whatever it was and I swam alongside, just my
eyes and nose above the surface, my style when it comes to swimming.
“Looks like fun,” Bernie said.
Bernie: right again! And even though I wouldn’t have minded if this water’d been a
lot colder, it was still plenty fine. Come on in, Bernie, come on in! But he did not. I swam along beside the boat to my heart’s content, which was how
I liked to operate. As we got closer to the far shore, a house appeared, a strange
sort of house with the front part up on stilts right over the water. Sunlight glinted
off a pickup parked in the nearby trees.
“That pickup look familiar to you?” Bernie said.
Or something like that. I make it my business to listen to Bernie and listen good,
but in this case I was distracted by a smell, specifically that froggy snaky smell
mixed up with peppery poop. It got stronger and stronger, seemed to be rising up from
deep down in the lake.
“Sure looks familiar to me,” Bernie said. “Back in the boat, big guy.”
Did I have to?
“Chet! We’re not on vacation here.”
Uh-oh. Was I messing up? I immediately swam to the side of the pirogue, raised my
paws up on the top edge, a total pro. Bernie helped me in. I gave myself a shake,
but a real quick one, wasting no time at all. Then I sat up in the bow, perfectly
still, eyes on that pickup, maybe important for some reason. I actually kind of remembered
it, especially those painted crabs and shrimp on the side.
We rode up to the stilt house, and I saw that the front part was a deck. A sign was
nailed to one of the stilts. Bernie read it: “Beware of Iko.” A wiry dude with a bushy
white mustache walked onto the deck and looked down at us. That mustache brought it
all back: this was the dude who’d bought Mami’s crabs. So there I was totally in the
picture. What was next? Something good: I just had the feeling. Then I noticed the
gun in his belt and wasn’t quite as sure.
Bernie cut the motor, reached out, and got a grip on one of the stilts, holding us
steady.
“Hey,” he said, looking up at the wiry dude.
The wiry dude put his hand on the gun butt. Guns and hands: I watch them real close.
“Lookin’ for someone?” he said.
“That’s exactly it,” Bernie said. “And maybe you can help. I’m Bernie Little and this
is Chet.” Bernie took a quick glance at that gun. “Are you Iko?”
The wiry dude squinted down at Bernie. Then he laughed. “You’re not from around here.”
“True,” said Bernie.
“Where you from?”
“Arizona.”
Ha! We were from Arizona? I’d wondered about that.
“Got a moment or two to talk?” Bernie went on.
The wiry dude made a gesture with his hand. “This here’s my camp.”
“Very nice.”
“Where I come for relaxin’. So if this is gonna be a relaxin’ talk, then yeah. Otherwise
no.”
Bernie smiled. He has different smiles, which maybe I haven’t mentioned before, some
of them actually not even friendly. This particular smile was one he used on perps.
It looked friendly unless you know Bernie. I know Bernie.
“Would fifty bucks help you relax?” Bernie said.
“Not as much as a C-note,” said the wiry dude.
“Imagine a grand,” Bernie said. “You’d be in
Back in the pirogue, we rode away from the Isle des Deux Amis, the mosquitoes following
us for a while and then giving up. Bernie cut the motor, dipped his hands in the water,
washed off the bloody smears.
“Gonna need a transfusion,” he said, losing me completely. I started panting. If Bernie
needed something, it was my business to know.
“Hot, big guy?” he said. “You can take that swim now, if you like.” He patted the
water with his hand. I got the idea, perhaps in midair.
And then I was splashing right in. Ah! I went under, bobbed up, and started swimming.
Swimming is just like trotting, except underwater. Anyone can do it. The pirogue drifted
toward the far shore of this lake or whatever it was and I swam alongside, just my
eyes and nose above the surface, my style when it comes to swimming.
“Looks like fun,” Bernie said.
Bernie: right again! And even though I wouldn’t have minded if this water’d been a
lot colder, it was still plenty fine. Come on in, Bernie, come on in! But he did not. I swam along beside the boat to my heart’s content, which was how
I liked to operate. As we got closer to the far shore, a house appeared, a strange
sort of house with the front part up on stilts right over the water. Sunlight glinted
off a pickup parked in the nearby trees.
“That pickup look familiar to you?” Bernie said.
Or something like that. I make it my business to listen to Bernie and listen good,
but in this case I was distracted by a smell, specifically that froggy snaky smell
mixed up with peppery poop. It got stronger and stronger, seemed to be rising up from
deep down in the lake.
“Sure looks familiar to me,” Bernie said. “Back in the boat, big guy.”
Did I have to?
“Chet! We’re not on vacation here.”
Uh-oh. Was I messing up? I immediately swam to the side of the pirogue, raised my
paws up on the top edge, a total pro. Bernie helped me in. I gave myself a shake,
but a real quick one, wasting no time at all. Then I sat up in the bow, perfectly
still, eyes on that pickup, maybe important for some reason. I actually kind of remembered
it, especially those painted crabs and shrimp on the side.
We rode up to the stilt house, and I saw that the front part was a deck. A sign was
nailed to one of the stilts. Bernie read it: “Beware of Iko.” A wiry dude with a bushy
white mustache walked onto the deck and looked down at us. That mustache brought it
all back: this was the dude who’d bought Mami’s crabs. So there I was totally in the
picture. What was next? Something good: I just had the feeling. Then I noticed the
gun in his belt and wasn’t quite as sure.
Bernie cut the motor, reached out, and got a grip on one of the stilts, holding us
steady.
“Hey,” he said, looking up at the wiry dude.
The wiry dude put his hand on the gun butt. Guns and hands: I watch them real close.
“Lookin’ for someone?” he said.
“That’s exactly it,” Bernie said. “And maybe you can help. I’m Bernie Little and this
is Chet.” Bernie took a quick glance at that gun. “Are you Iko?”
The wiry dude squinted down at Bernie. Then he laughed. “You’re not from around here.”
“True,” said Bernie.
“Where you from?”
“Arizona.”
Ha! We were from Arizona? I’d wondered about that.
“Got a moment or two to talk?” Bernie went on.
The wiry dude made a gesture with his hand. “This here’s my camp.”
“Very nice.”
“Where I come for relaxin’. So if this is gonna be a relaxin’ talk, then yeah. Otherwise
no.”
Bernie smiled. He has different smiles, which maybe I haven’t mentioned before, some
of them actually not even friendly. This particular smile was one he used on perps.
It looked friendly unless you know Bernie. I know Bernie.
“Would fifty bucks help you relax?” Bernie said.
“Not as much as a C-note,” said the wiry dude.
“Imagine a grand,” Bernie said. “You’d be in
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