Chet The Dog

Posts Tagged ‘box canyon’

Two Questions, No Answers

“Here’s a couple questions,” Bernie said. “One – did Ezra Printz know how to fly a plane? Two – did he have mental problems?”

Portia, Trimmer and Freddie all looked at one another. Two questions – and two’s a number I can handle – but their meaning zipped right by me. I did have a memory of that wrecked old biplane in the box canyon, the box canyon where we found a film can, the film can with film in it. And somewhere else we’d found another film can, the one with the Martin Ramirez painting inside. All of a sudden I thought of this baseball player with dreads that Bernie likes to watch – Manny Ramirez. How confusing was that?

“What the point of these questions?” Freddie said.

“The point is,” Bernie said, “that whoever gives us the answers gets a break. The other two go down.”

“A break like walking out of here?” Freddie said.

Bernie laughed. The laugh is the best human sound, and Bernie’s is tops. I just listened.

Answer for Mollypop: Yes, there will be Kindle for Thereby Hangs A Tail. Admin is very curious about how many people are reading for pleasure on Kindle.

Happiness

Back in the Porsche, driving away from the tiny box canyon, all by ourselves on a dirt track, me riding shotgun: what’s better than this? Also, I had the feeling we were getting somewhere. We had the two rifles that had fallen from above; we had a piece of the old biplane wing with some numbers on it; we had the gold bar. All that had to be good, right?

“Hey, Chet, give me a little space, big guy.” I did, for as long as I could. Then I noticed I’d kind of slid back over to the middle, nice and close toBernie. I was in such a good mood! Bernie laughed and gave me a pat. He was in a good mood too. “How about we pay a visit on Freddie Dancer?” he said.

Sounded good. We don’t like  getting shot at, me and Bernie.

Shootout!

Crack! Zing! Splintering wood. “Nope,” Bernie said, “I don’t find this exhilarating at all.” He lost me there, but I don’t expect to understand Bernie all the time. His job is to be the smartest human in the room. My job is to do the rest. 

Bernie, real quick, rolled out from under the biplane wreckage protecting us and, lying on his back, fired the .38 Special practically straight up in the air. The .38 Special was always exciting, and all of a sudden there I was, out in the open. From high above on the rocky cliff came a cry of pain, and something came spinning down through the air, landing close to me and raising a small cloud of dust. Hey! A rifle! I went to pick it up, and at that moment heard another crack from above.

Friends of Chet still at the repair shop. Will be up and working soon. 

Churchill the Perp

Crack! Zing! We huddled under the wreckage of the old wooden biplane, me and Bernie, close together. Crack. Kapow. Wood splintered right in front of my eyes. We were trapped down at the bottom of the tiny box canyon, the shooter somewhere high above.

“That quote of Churchill’s,” Bernie said, “the one about there’s nothing more exhilarating than to be fired on without result? Don’t know about you, but I’m not feeling it.”

Churchill? The name was new. Some perp, no doubt. He’ll be wearing an orange jumpsuit and breaking rocks in the hot sun soon enough. Bernie crawled toward a little opening in the wreckage over our heads, the .38 Special in his hand. I crawled right beside him. We were quiet as mice, whatever that means. In my experience … but maybe a story for another time.