â T hereâs no Santa Claus,â Charlie said.
âWho told you that?â said Bernie.
âEsmé.â
âWhoâs Esmé?â
âAt school.â
âWell,â said Bernie, âeveryone has their own opinion.â
âItâs not an opinion, Dad,â said Charlie. âItâs a scientific fact.â
âOh?â
âFrom a scientist.â
âAny scientist in particular?â
âGroucho Marx.â
âEsmé told you that?â
âUh-huh.â
âKnow much about Groucho Marx?â
Charlie shrugged his skinny little shoulders. âHe was a scientist and he said there ainât no Santa Claus.â
âWhat do Esméâs parents do?â
âDrive her to school. Pick her up.â
âI meant for a living.â
âLike youâre a private eye?â
âYeah. Like that.â
âI donât think theyâre private eyes,â Charlie said.
âWhy not?â
âTheyâre rich.â
We turned a corner and drove down our street, namely Mesquite Road, the best street in the whole Valley, which may be in Arizonaâbut donât count on me for details like that. Our rideâmine and Bernieâsâwas a Porsche, one of a number that weâd had at the Little Detective Agency, each one older than the last. Itâs called the Little Detective Agency on account of Bernieâs last name being Little. Iâm Chet, pure and simple. CharlieâBernieâs kid, if youâve been paying attentionâlives with Leda, Bernieâs ex-wife, except for some weekends and every second Thanksgiving and Christmas, when heâs with us. But this was one of those every second Christmases! So imagine our mood! Tip-top!
This particular Porsche was brown with yellow doors. Maybe youâve seen it flashing by, so fast you just sighed and thought, Hey, at least someoneâs living the dream. That was Bernie behind the wheel, by the way, and me in the shotgun seat. Is there anything better than riding shotgun in the Porsche? Not that Iâd ever come across, and certainly not riding on the strange little bench behind the actual seats, which was where I happened to be now, what with Charlie in my spot. I loved Charlie, so it wasnât a problem, as long as it hardly ever happened again, preferably never. Plus the truth was not quite all of me was on the little bench, no little bench able to completely contain a hundred-plus-pounder such as myself. At some point my tail had managed to curl itself free and share the shotgun seat with Charlie in a companionable way. Was the kid somewhat crammed in against the door? Possibly. But it was nice to see my tail riding up front, kind of like my representative. My tail and I have a lot in common, if that makes any sense.
We turned into our driveway, as nice a driveway as you couldwish for. But hey! What was this? Someone else already parked here? That was very bothersome. Donât forget whoâs in charge of security at our place on Mesquite Road: namely me. This someone else was driving a bright red van with green Christmas trees painted on the side panels. The door opened and out stepped a round little dude with a big smile on his face. This was a round little dude we knew, although we hadnât seen him in some time.
âPlumpy Bonaparte?â Bernie said. âWhat the hellâheckâis he doing here?â
âThatâs a funny name, Dad,â Charlie said, as we parked behind the bright red van.
âUh-huh.â
âIs he a friend of yours?â
Excellent question on Charlieâs part. But no more than youâd expect from a son of Bernieâs. Bernie was always the smartest human in the room, as many perps can tell you, meaning Charlie had to be the smartest human son in the room. Wow! My most complicated thought ever! Was I getting better with age? Look out, world! I was so happy with myself that the
Legs McNeil, Jennifer Osborne, Peter Pavia