Chet The Dog

Posts Tagged ‘shotgun’

Getaway

We walked away from the pool, me first, Ray in the middle, and then Bernie. That was a good way of doing things, especially with perps. Was Ray a perp? I didn’t know, but I was ready for anything. Meanwhile those sirens were louder.

“Where’s your car?” Bernie said.

“Don’t have one,” Ray said.

“Yeah, you do,” Bernie said. “Your father – “

Ray’s voice rose. “I don’t have a damn father.”

Bernie paused. “Bob said he saw you driving an econobox in Bakersfield.”

“It broke down when I got to Vegas,” Ray said. “I took a taxi here.”

“You haven’t done a very good job of covering your tracks,” Bernie said.

“Why should I?”

“That’s the operative question right now.”

“What does that mean?”

Bernie didn’t answer. We hurried through Albie’s house, out the gate and onto the road.

“Hop in,” Bernie said. “Uh, Chet? You’ll have to get in the back.”

The back? It was just a shelf. I hated being in the back. Did that mean Ray was getting the shotgun seat?

“Chet? We’re running out of time, big guy.”

The thing with Bernie: he always asks me so nicely. I saw flashing blue lights through the trees on the next block.

Spence and Admin say thanks for all the birthday wishes – and that great card!

Still time to try your luck at the pop quiz (see June 23 post).

Facts And Nothing But

“C’mon, big guy.”

I opened my eyes. Still at the Dry Gulch, but nighttime now, and Colonel Bob was gone.

“That sure was interesting,” Bernie said as we drove home, me riding shotgun, my favorite spot, the night air rushing by.

No question about it: the Dry Gulch was always interesting. Max’s Memphis Ribs is another restaurant I like. The owners’s this great guy, Cleon Maxwell.

What else? Am I leaving anything out? Missing something? Not that I can think of.

Sharon Kay Penman, noted author of historical fiction, wrote this tribute to her late dog, Cody.

http://sharonkaypenman.com/blog/

Little Phil (not entirely a good guy): Philip_Sheridan.jpg‎

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cl9t90y4BKs

Notice from Admin: Site changes happening in the next few days, so there may be 

some digital wackiness. 

Theory

“There comes a time,” Bernie said, “when it helps to have a theory of the case, even if it’s premature. Just between us, of course.”

In the Porsche, riding shotgun. We were in a nice part of the Valley, passing a golf course with water spraying everywhere. I stuck my head way way out, sniffed that lovely water. What was Bernie saying? Something interesting, I’m sure. And I always like hearing the sound of his voice.

“Let’s try this on for size,” he said, or something like that. “Martin Ramirez and Ezra Printz were both in the Stockton mental hospital at the same time. This goes far back – kind of like a Ross Macdonald novel, now that I think of it.”

Ross Macdonald? A new one on me. Some perp, no doubt. I’d have him by the pant leg soon enough. That’s the way our cases end.

We Get Productive

I opened my eyes, at the same time hearing the last fading of a sound like whimpering. Who could have made that? I looked around, saw I was in Fetzer’s gallery. No one there but Bernie and Fetzer, so it must have been Fetzer. 

“Come on, boy – work to do,” Bernie said.

I was up in a flash. I gave myself a real good shake, the kind that sets off a rippling in my coat, front to back. In moments we were out of there and back in the Porsche, me in the shotgun seat.

“Can’t believe how productive that was,” Bernie said.

Whatever that meant, it sounded good to me. I’d had one of those real deep naps and was rarin’ to go.