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Bernie opened the bag, held it so Beck and Shirl could see. They peered inside. Their old faces pinkened a bit. Then the women looked at Bernie and their eyes went hard, both sets at the exact same time.
    â€œWhat did you do to Roland?” Beck said.
    â€œNot a thing,” Bernie said. “Other than help out with his search. Chet here’s probably the best searcher in the Valley.”
    The women looked my way. They nodded, like what Bernie had just said made sense. There was none of that alarm you sometimes get when people lay eyes on me for the first time. Beck and Shirl liked me and my kind.
    â€œElrood’s in perfect health,” Bernie was saying, “and you’ll have him back as soon as we’re done here.”
    â€œDon’t call him that,” said Shirl.
    â€œAnd we don’t want him,” said Beck.
    We went inside, and up some stairs to a closed door. Shirl took a key from her pocket, unlocked the door and pushed it open.
    And there was Plumpy! He lay on a nice little bed in a nice little room with wood-paneled walls: old wood with knotholes, very homey. Plumpy wore red Santa pants and a red Santa shirt. He was leafing through a magazine, but he sat up as we came in.
    â€œHi, Bernie.” His gaze went to the garbage bag right away.
    Meanwhile, Bernie had moved to the open window, was looking out. “Why the hell didn’t you just jump out, Plumpy? It’s maybe ten feet, and way less than that if you hung from the sill.”
    â€œDo I look like an acrobat, Bernie? What’s in the bag?”
    â€œYou know,” said Bernie.
    Plumpy looked sad. I walked over and pressed against his leg, just being friendly. He gave me a pat.
    â€œDon’t suppose I’m in for a cut,” he said.
    â€œCan do,” Bernie said.
    â€œWhat the hell?” said Beck.
    â€œNo way,” said Shirl.
    Bernie turned to them. “There’s damage at his place, thanksto Elrood.”
    â€œDon’t call him that,” Shirl said.
    â€œAnd isn’t it a rental?” said Beck. “You think a scumbag like him”—she jerked her thumb at Plumpy—“is gonna pay for repairs in a rental?”
    â€œAre you, Plumpy?”
    â€œProbably not,” said Plumpy.
    Bernie reached into the bag, counted out some money, handed it to Plumpy. “Ten grand, in case you change your mind.”
    â€œMuch obliged,” Plumpy said. He rose, stuffed the money in his Santa pants, and headed for the door. Beck and Shirl parted to let him pass, parted real slow.
    â€œGot any plans?” Bernie said as he went out.
    I heard Plumpy clomping down the stairs. “You know my plans,” he called back to us. “Santa 365.”
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    Bernie dumped all the money on the bed, studied Suzie’s printout. “According to this, you two are owed four hundred thirteen thousand seven hundred one dollars.”
    â€œLess ten grand for the putter,” Beck said.
    â€œAs for the putter—”
    â€œYou think it should be more?” said Shirl.
    â€œMore?”
    â€œWe love the putter,” Beck said.
    â€œLove anything connected to Jayne Mansfield,” said Shirl.
    â€œYeah?” said Bernie.
    â€œWe looked a lot like her, back in the day,” Beck said.
    â€œPeople always said,” said Shirl.
    â€œMinus that rack,” Beck said.
    â€œAnd not even so minus,” said Shirl.
    â€œUm,” Bernie said.
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    In the end, they agreed on some number, all very complicated what with the amount in the bag not quite adding up to the amount that was missing. And did I hear right? We were taking a ten-percent finder’s fee? Ten had to be a lot more than two, as far as I go when it comes to numbers. And who was the finder? Chet the Jet! Were we still rich? I thought so.
    We drove back through Ocotillo Springs, slowing down as we passed the Animal Rescue fundraiser. The woman we’d seen before was all alone, standing