Scents and Sensibility (23 page)

“Success!” Smoky said.

Bernie tossed the bag back to Smoky, who dropped it, bent to pick it up, dropped it again, finally corralling it. “I told you,” Bernie said. “Yours to keep. I just wanted to know if it could be done.”

“Can be done, all right,” Smoky said. “A well-run operation he's got goin' there. Won't sell to just any cat walking in off the street. I had to establish my bona fides in the drug community.”

Sometimes humans said things that didn't need saying. For example, why bother to point out that whoever Smoky was talking about didn't sell pot to cats? Cats don't smoke pot, or anything else. Not their type of thing at all. And I mean that in a good way, despite my history with cats, generally bad.

“Did you deal directly with Winners?” Bernie said.

Smoky nodded. “Clay Winners,” he said. “First names are best, when it comes to certain sectors of the economy. Turns out we know lots of people in common. It's really just a village, in some ways.”

“What is?”

“The drug business.”

“People get murdered in the drug business every day.”

“Did I say a friendly village?” Smoky said. “But nothing to fear from ol' Clay on that score. He's the peaceable type. Big-time, by the way. Just from a reference or two I picked up, I'd say he was one of the biggest dealers in the state, and I'm talking every substance out there.”

“Yeah?”

Smoky waved his hand. “The recording studio, the festival—those are just hobbies.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me—I've got antennas like you wouldn't believe.”

“You've done two stretches in the pen,” Bernie said. “That I know of.”

“I don't have an antenna for that,” Smoky said. “But—wow!” He smacked his forehead, good and hard. That always makes me nervous.

“Wow what?” said Bernie.

“Just had an idea—a creative idea. They can come at any time in my line of work. That's what makes it so rewarding.”

“You had an idea for a tattoo?”

Smoky nodded. “You're real easy to talk to, Bernie. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“What's the tattoo idea?” Bernie said.

“An antenna,” said Smoky. “Maybe with rays coming out of it, ba-doom, ba-doom, like it's scanning the universe.”

“I like it,” Bernie said.

“Want one?” said Smoky. “You can be the prototype. That's always a freebie.”

“I'll sleep on it.”

“That's a no in my business.”

Bernie smiled, about what I didn't know. But Bernie's smile lights up the day, which is the important thing. “Do you remember a club called the Black Rose?” he said.

“On Olive Street?” Smoky said. “I was a regular, back in the day.”

“When was that?”

“Way back. Tuesdays was amateur night. I played in a band at the time.”

“What kind of music?”

“
Sweetheart of the Rodeo
.”

“Meaning modern country?”

“Meaning
Sweetheart of the Rodeo
. That's all we did, just cover that one record.”

“What's your instrument?”

“Cowbell, tambourine, triangle, you name it.”

“Still play?”

“Grew up,” Smoky said. “Put away childish things.”

From the light in Bernie's eyes at that moment, I expected laughter, but none came. “Would back in the day include, say, fifteen or sixteen years ago?”

Smoky shut his eyes tight, kind of scrunching up his whole face, never a good look on humans, in my opinion, and he was no exception. “Might, yeah, now that I think on it.” His eyes opened. “Why?”

“Any chance you knew the owner?” Bernie said.

“Owner of the Black Rose?” Smoky said. “Course I knew him. Son of a bitch named Ronich, Sam Ronich. Every goddamn check he cut us was short. You know the type who cares about money, and only money?”

Bernie nodded.

“It's not the same as greedy,” Smoky said.

“What's the difference?”

“Couldn't tell you,” Smoky said. “Heard some stoner say it not long ago. I could maybe track down whoever it was.”

“Don't bother,” Bernie said. “Back to the Black Rose. Did you ever meet Ronich's daughter?”

“Summer?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool name, huh? She's still the only Summer I've run into.”

“Tell me about her.”

“A looker. And kind of classy, which sure as hell didn't come from her old man. Just a kid back then, couldn't of been more'n nineteen, twenty. Always on the dance floor. Let's see. What else? Great legs.”

“Did you dance with her?”

“How could I when I was up on stage?”

“What about other nights, when you weren't playing?”

Smoky shook his head. “Dancing's not my thing. How about you?”

“I used to like it, actually.”

“Yeah? I'd never have guessed.”

Did Bernie look a bit annoyed? “Why is that?” he said. Yes, annoyed, no doubt about it. But how come? I'd have never guessed Bernie used to like dancing, and who knows him better than me? And if he had liked dancing in the past, why not now? True, Suzie had once gotten him out on the dance floor at the Dry Gulch Steakhouse and Saloon, an event that had proved too exciting for me, so I'd had to wait outside in the car, but that had been it. Don't forget he's a great singer, sometimes accompanying himself on the ukulele. “Mr. Pitiful,” for example, is one of his very best.

“Uh, no reason,” Smoky said. “Just that you're kind of a tough guy.”

“Where does it say that tough guys don't dance?”

“Like, there's a book about it. Or a movie.”

“Yeah, right,” said Bernie.

“I could have sworn,” Smoky said. “But maybe not. My apologies.”

Bernie waved that away. “Not a problem. Do you recall any of Summer's dance partners?”

“You mean like by name?”

“That would be nice.”

For one bad moment, I was afraid Smoky was about to do that scrunching thing with his eyes again. This job has downs as well as ups, and if you're going to be successful—as the Little Detective Agency most certainly is, except for the finances part—then you've got to be ready for the worst. But in this case the worst passed us by. Smoky kept his eyes open and said, “There was this one little dude, actually a pretty smooth dancer himself.”

“Name?”

“Billy,” Smoky said. “Billy Parsons.”

Bernie went still for the tiniest bit of time. No one would even notice. That's Bernie, right there—all you need to know about him. And me. “Anything else stick in your mind about Billy Parsons, besides the dancing?” Bernie said.

“Not much. Decent weed.”

“He shared pot with you?”

“More like he sold it. He had some source down in Sonora. This was before all the legalization. Now Mexican weed's for shit. We've got the best right here in the good ol' U.S.A. These colors don't run.”

Bernie gave him a long look. “Are you stoned right now?”

“Wouldn't bet against it.”

“Do you run the tattoo needle when you're stoned?”

“That costs extra,” Smoky said. He blinked a couple of times. “Uh, Bernie?”

“Yeah?”

“What was that idea I had back there a little ways?”

“Antennas.”

“Thanks, man. I owe you. Anything you want, just say the word.”

“Billy,” Bernie said. “I want to know all you can tell me about Billy Parsons.”

Smoky shrugged. “There's not a whole hell of a lot. That was around the time I left town for a stretch.”

“In the pen?”

“It's not nice to think the worst, Bernie. I'm talking about when I got my calling.”

“That being?”

“My art. I got a scholarship to go to Amsterdam and study tattooing. Ended up spending three years there. That's where my . . . how would you put it?”

“Cosmopolitanism?”

“Exactly! That's where my cosmopolitanism comes from. When I got back, the Black Rose had closed down, and I'd moved on in life.”

“You've done that,” Bernie said.

“Thanks,” said Smoky. “You looking for Billy Parsons?”

“Yeah. Heard anything about him over the years?”

“Nope,” Smoky said. “What's he done?”

“He stole a cactus.”

“At one time, I'da said so what. But now I've evolved. We've only got the one environment, if you follow. I'll keep a sharp eye.”

They shook hands.

•  •  •

We entered the house. Bernie went into the kitchen.
Guggle guggle
and then came the scent of bourbon. I stayed in the front hall, sniffing around. Nothing suspicious had gone on in our absence, but I felt uneasy. There are times when you feel stronger than life, if that makes any sense, and then there's the reverse. I gazed out the window, saw nothing but the moon in the blue sky. Bernie had explained that to Charlie; all I remembered was the pepperoni slice Charlie had slipped me under the table.

In the kitchen, Bernie was saying, “They have tattooing scholarships?”

At that moment, a plain-looking car came slowly down Mesquite Road. It slowed even more as it went by, the driver gazing at our house. Hey! I knew this driver. He'd been in a Valley PD uniform the last time I'd seen him, which was outside the yellow house near the canal in South Pedroia: the gum-chewing cop—cinnamon-flavor—who'd shown up after all the action was over. Garwood Mickles, if I'd gotten it right, nephew of Brick. And now he was here? I didn't like that, not one little bit. He didn't appear to be chewing gum now, but I could smell cinnamon anyway. I didn't like that, either.

I started barking.

Bernie came into the hall, glass in hand. “What's up, big guy? He glanced out the window where—where there was now nothing to see. I kept barking anyway.

B
ernie stood beside me in the front hall, sipping bourbon and gazing out the window. I gazed with him. What a nice moment! In fact, it doesn't get any better, as you may or may not know.

“Clay Winners tells us drugs are anathema at Cactus Sound, but turns out to be one of the biggest dealers in the state,” Bernie said. “He also says the names Billy Parsons and Travis Baca ring no bell. See what logic demands here?”

I did not. But the moment stayed nice. I shifted closer to Bernie, possibly sitting on his feet. He scratched between my ears, a spot so hard for me to reach, and did his usual perfect job.

“What if the average IQ was, say, six hundred?” Bernie said. “Would I have solved the case already? Or would the fact that everyone else involved was that much smarter as well mean we'd be exactly where we are right now? Or even worse. Maybe, Chet, the whole construct of human progress is a sham. Then what have we got?”

What did we have? Was that the question? An easy one, always my preference. What we had was me and Bernie gazing out the window of our place on Mesquite Road, some expert head scratching under way, and not a care in the world. Was it possible Bernie had somehow missed all that? I gave him a close look, something I could do from where I was without turning my head. Human eyes may not be lined up in the best possible way. No offense, and not even the point. The point was—

“Uh-oh,” Bernie said.

What was this? Through the window, I saw Mr. Parsons coming out of his house. He wore striped pajamas and one plaid slipper; his other foot was bare. Maybe that was why he moved so slowly. I've never worn slippers myself, although I've . . . I've worn through a number of them with my teeth. Hey! Had I just come close to making an actual joke? That wasn't me, Bernie being in charge of the jokes at the Little Detective Agency. Meanwhile, Mr. Parsons had made his way to his car, all dusty since it hadn't been used in some time. He patted his pajamas pockets, searching for what I didn't know—certainly not keys on account of the keys being already in his hand. Bernie put down his drink, opened our door, and we stepped outside.

“Daniel?”

Mr. Parsons looked up. We crossed over onto his property. Iggy, somewhere inside their house, started up on his yip-yip-yipping. Wasn't Iggy in charge of security at the Parsonses' place? If so, they were in big trouble, which takes nothing away from Iggy, still the best pal anyone would want.

“Oh, hi, Bernie,” Mr. Parsons said. “Don't mind Iggy. He means well.”

“I know that, Daniel,” Bernie said. “Going somewhere?”

“If I can find the damn keys. Got them on me somewhere. Just a matter of a methodical search.”

“Where were you headed? We'd be happy to drive you.”

“That's all right,” Mr. Parsons said. “You've done too much for us already. Edna and I were discussing that just this morning.”

“So you're back home together.”

Mr. Parsons smiled. “That we are. Such a relief, I can't tell you.”

“Is the hospice—is the nurse here now?”

Mr. Parsons's smile got bigger. “No need to mince words. It's okay to say hospice.”

He kept patting his pockets: two on the chest of his pajama tops, two on the pants, all empty except for one of the chest pockets, which was sending out a biscuit smell. Iggy's biscuits were smaller than mine but every bit as tasty. I found myself closing the distance between me and Mr. Parsons.

“We know the score, Edna and I,” Mr. Parsons continued. “I'm not what you'd call a believer, Bernie, but I do believe she and I will be together in one form or another. Doesn't bear closer examination than that, if you see what I mean.”

“Don't think I do,” said Bernie.

“Closer examination means you start asking questions like what age are we going to be on the other side. Everybody twenty-five, for example, dads and moms and kids and grandkids and great grandkids and . . .” Mr. Parsons lost his breath. His mouth made motions that reminded me of a goldfish of my acquaintance on a day when he'd somehow come sloshing out of his bowl. Bernie went quickly to Mr. Parsons, put a hand on his shoulder.