Chet The Dog

Posts Tagged ‘Foster’

Chez Nous

What I wanted to do, and pretty badly, was grab Foster by the pant leg. It was pretty clear to me by now that he had to be a perp, but if he was an FBI dude, then how was that possible? One idea was to just grab him by the pant leg anyway and let things get sorted out later. I couldn’t think of another idea. But sometimes all it takes is one idea, or not even. This is all happening at our place on Mesquite Road, in case anybody needs reminding. I know I would.

“You’re saying all that about you having worked for Albie for years was just a lot of blowing smoke?” Bernie said.

“Albie was a hooked fish,” Foster said. “He said what he was told to say.”

“And what did you hook him for?” Bernie said.

“That’s a long story,” Foster said. He turned to Ray. “Which maybe the kid shouldn’t hear. Not unless I take him in, and this may not be the time.

Ray started backing toward the door.

Jawing

“FBI?” Bernie said.

Foster nodded.

FBI? I remembered an FBI dude named Ernest who Bernie called Deadly Ernest. What a case that was! Although actually the details are vague, except for when we found ourselves chasing a perp through the kitchen of a famous steakhouse. Bernie said they’ve reopened now, but it’s not likely we’re going back.

“You’re asking me to believe you spent years working undercover for Albie Rose?” Bernie said. “The FBI does some wacky things, but not that wacky.”

“Aw, come on, Bernie,” Foster said. “You’re a smart guy. You must have figured out that Albie said whatever I told him to say.”

What that was all about I leave to you. But I didn’t like the tone of Foster’s voice. We’re very sensitive to that in the nation within the nation. I got this sudden urge to bite. Hard to explain: it’s like this force I feel in my jaw muscles, a powerful force and hard to deny.

Surprise/No Surprise

Ratko was out of the parade. My memory was clear on that. Strange how the memory works. Just the other day I all of a sudden had a memory going way back to my puppyhood – at that crack house in South Pedroia. It’s actually not a very pleasant memory – my first pleasant memories come from the time in K-9 school, even the last day, because that last day, not perfect, was how come Bernie and I got together – so maybe I’ll go back to forgetting it soon.

But the point was: no possibility of Ratko, there in our house on Mesquite Road. So it wasn’t a surprise to me when Foster, dressed all in black, stepped out of the office. Our office, which was kind of annoying.

“You look surprised to see me,” Foster said.

Did Bernie look surprised? Yeah, he kind of did, and that was a surprise. This surprise no surprise thing was getting confusing.

“I’m surprised to see anyone in our house without an invitation,” Bernie said.

Foster smiled. “Got something even better than an invitation,” he said, taking some paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Here’s a warrant, duly signed by a judge, almost totally sober at the time.”

Ellipsis Raises Its Ugly Head

We entered our place at Mesquite Road, me, Bernie, and Ray.

“Looks like there’s no one here,” Bernie said, sounding surprised.

I was surprised that he was surprised, on account of fresh human scent being all over the place. Actually not human scent, but the scent some humans – men in this case – spray on themselves in order to … I’m not sure what. But forget all that, or at least some of it. The point was I’d smelled that spray-on scent on two men, meaning one or both of them were here. The two men were Ratko and Foster. But wasn’t Ratko out of the parade? So that meant …