“What a nice-looking dog,” said the bearded guy in the art gallery. “Does he like biscuits?”
“He just ate,” Bernie said.
Somehow I found myself all of a sudden sitting quite close to the bearded guy, a kind of sitting I do with my tail sweeping back and forth on the floor.
“Is it possible he knows the word biscuit?” said the bearded guy.
Bernie sighed. “Just one,” he said.
The bearded guy opened a drawer, took out a nice big milk bone. Hadn’t had a milk bone in who knows how long.
“Those teeth are quite impressive,” said the bearded guy. “What’s his name?”
“Chet. And I’m Bernie Little.”
“Arnold Fetzer,” said the bearded man. “Interested in art?”
“Don’t know much about art,” Bernie said. “What can you tell us about Portia Peters?”
“Is she a friend of yours?”
“More of an acquaintance.”
“What is it you’d like to know?”
“For one thing – ” Bernie stopped talking, turned to the front window. Outside a nasty-looking dude with a big bald head was driving off in Portia’s red Audi. Don’t take my word for it on the red part.
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