Read Online The Sound and the Furry by Spencer Quinn - Free Book Online

Removed a straw hat, possibly the kind called
     a boater, from my mouth? He took it into the bar and returned without it. My confusion
     cleared up a bit. Have you ever noticed the whole world of smells you get inside a
     hat that’s been worn for a while? I hope the answer’s not no: that would be sad.
    We walked a few blocks on steaming streets, little rainbows appearing and vanishing
     around every corner. Only a few blocks, and heat was something I was very used to,
     having spent my whole life in the Valley, but by the time we stopped in front of a
     small yellow house with green trim and a green door, I felt the way I do after one
     of our all-day rambles in the desert. Not that I couldn’t have gone on much, much
     longer. Don’t think that for a moment. I can go on for as long as you like. Maybe
     not as long as you like, but Bernie? Count on it.
    Duke knocked on the door. A voice on the other side called, “Who the hell’s there?”
    “Me,” said Duke. “Who else?”
    “What do you want?”
    “What do I want? I’m your fuckin’ brother, God save me. Open up.”
    “Is this about Baron’s crackpot idea?”
    Duke glanced at Bernie, did a quick finger-circling thing at the side of his head.
     What did that mean again?
    “Not sure what you’re referencing, bro,” Duke said. “But I have the gentleman in question
     right here.”
    “You’re a moron,” said the man on the other side of the door. “And Vannah is worse.
     Know what’s dumber than a moron?” The door opened. On the other side stood a dude
     who looked a lot like Duke except more so, if that made any sense. He was smaller,
     leaner, stragglier, and more goateed, the big difference being that his goatee was
     salt-and-pepper, while Duke’s was all pepper. He wore only his underwear—not nice
     clean boxers, like Bernie’s, but tighty-whiteys that could have used some time in
     the washing machine. With him dressed that way, you didn’t have to be an expert to
     spot his ankle monitor. But I am an expert, in case that’s not clear yet.
    Bernie eyed him for a moment and said, “Cretin.”
    “Huh?” said the even-more-Dukish dude.
    “Cretin is dumber than moron,” Bernie said. “Wasn’t that the question? Not a particularly
     meaningful question, since those terms have no scientific basis.”
    “Huh?” the even-more-Dukish dude repeated.
    “Lord,” said Duke, “this here’s the detective, Bernie Little. Bernie, my big brother,
     Lord Boutette.”
    Bernie and Lord shook hands. Lord’s hand was smaller thanBernie’s—most always the case whenever Bernie shook someone’s hand—but real strong-looking.
    “Uh-huh,” said Lord. “Nice to, uh . . .”
    “Same,” said Bernie. “And this is Chet.”
    Lord Boutette looked my way. “Is he gonna bite me?”
    “Why would he do that?” Bernie said.
    “Hell if I know,” Lord said. “But he sure does look like he’s fixin’ to take a piece
     outta me.”
    “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” Bernie said.
    And whatever Bernie says is the way things are, which kind of mixed me up inside right
     about then, because—for no particular reason and coming from out of nowhere—I had
     felt a sudden and very strong, pretty much irresistible urge to take a piece out of
     Lord Boutette. A nice big fat piece, in fact. That couldn’t happen and it was my job
     not to let it happen, no matter what. I clamped my jaws together tighter than tight,
     although maybe not completely tight. My teeth wanted to bite and bite hard, as though
     they—oh, no: don’t tell me my teeth also had a mind of their own! What was happening
     to me? Then came Bernie’s hand on my head, just a light touch. I felt better.
    “I’ve had bad luck with dogs,” Lord was saying.
    “Yeah?” said Bernie. “Why do you think that is?”
    Lord screwed up his forehead. There was a pause—like he was waiting for some action
     in there—and during the pause, Duke said, “Can we go inside, for