Posts Tagged ‘Heydrich’

Chetspeak on Sunday


August 16th, 2015 Posted 9:01 am

“Bernie, Bernie, one of my colleagues has seen your watch!”

“Yeah?” Bernie said. “What happened? Something that made you come in person?”

“Coming in person is no problem – I have business in your neighborhood. I am killing two birds with one stone!”

Oh, yeah? How many times had I heard that one? And was I still waiting for a human – any human, step right up – to kill even one single bird with a stone? Or even try? The only human who’d come close was Bernie, as you might have guessed, and he’d thrown a tire iron, not a stone, and the bird had turned out to be a machine, possibly called a drone. As for Mr. Singh, he had no stone, did not appear to be looking for one, and the only bird in sight was the buzzard perched in its usual spot next to old man Heydrich’s chimney, far enough away so you’d need a cannon arm to knock it off, and Mr. Singh’s arms were of the short and pudgy sort.




The Visitor Arrives


May 3rd, 2010 Posted 9:25 am

Dressed all in black? That was Foster, Albie Rose’s bodyguard, tough guy, muscle dude. He walked up to our door, passing out of where I could see from the window. I barked. That got Iggy going next door. Yip-yip-yip. Iggy was my pal, but I didn’t have time for him at the moment. I barked louder. So did Iggy. Meanwhile Foster knocked on the door, but it was hard to hear on account of all the barking going on. I barked louder still, trying to get Iggy to knock it off. Iggy barked louder still, too, that high-pitched yip-yip-yip hitting new heights. Did Foster knock again? I wasn’t sure. Iggy! Knock it off! But he wouldn’t. Old man Heydrich, our neighbor on the other side, started yelling. He was no favorite of mine so I gave him a quick series of angry barks to let him know. Iggy picked up on that, too. And so did other members of the nation within the nation, some nearby, some farther away.

“Chet!” Bernie called from the kitchen. “What the hell is going on?”


Canine Pilgrims


November 18th, 2009 Posted 9:31 am

“Uh-oh,” Bernie says, “we’re out of propane, and Thanksgiving’s coming up.” What propane is exactly, you tell me. All I know is that it comes in a small tank that usually goes empty in the middle of grilling something interesting, like steaks or kebabs. Don’t know if I’ve mentioned kebabs before, but no time to go into it now, because we’re on our way to the propane place.

Bernie’s in a good mood. Loves Thanksgiving. “There were two dogs on the Mayflower,” he says. I like flowers, but don’t know any of the names. “A mastiff and a spaniel.” Dogs on flowers? All I know is that can be a no-no in certain gardens, old man Heydrich’s, for example.


A Little Mystery Inside A Big One


August 15th, 2009 Posted 10:03 am

We left the patio,  me and Bernie first, then Freddie Dancer and the bald guy with Suzie in the middle, the gun still pointed at her head. Bernie had said we were headed upstairs to the office where the film can was in the safe. I had a thought: we didn’t have an upstairs. Or if we did, this was the first I’d heard of it. The office was a little room next door to Charlie’s bedroom, at the side of the house facing old man Heydrich’s fence. A basket of kid’s blocks lay in one corner – the room was meant for a little sister or brother that never came along; sometimes I played with the blocks myself. The rest of the office was mostly Bernie’s books – on shelves, in stacks here and there, sometimes scattered on the floor; plus the desk, with phone and computer; the two client chairs; and a nice soft rug with a pattern of circus elephants – kind of like my own personal cubicle, just without walls, very cozy, although even the idea of elephants got me nervous. But none of that was important. The important thing was we didn’t have an upstairs. I glanced at Bernie. His face was hard and stony.


The Books

powered by wordpress | site by michael baker digital