Scents and Sensibility (32 page)

“You work for conservation?”

“Kind of,” Bernie said. Then he nodded a decisive kind of nod. “Yeah, we do.”

“Cool,” said one of the kids.

“We're big on conservation,” said another.

“So why not tell him?” said the girl who'd first come out of the tent.

“Tell me what?” said Bernie.

The kids exchanged a look.

“It'll stay within this circle,” Bernie said.

“Circle?” said a kid.

“The three of you and the two of us,” said Bernie.

“Chet's part of the circle?”

“Certainly.”

The kids nodded to one another.

“Well,” said the girl, “when we got here, they were driving away with a saguaro.”

“In the back.”

“Like, of the pickup.”

“Yeah?” said Bernie. “Who's they?”

“The festival people.”

“It said ‘Cactus Man.' ”

“Like, on the door of the pickup.”

“So what does this even mean?” the girl said.

“It means the Cactus Man men are stealing cactuses,” said a kid.

“Looks that way,” Bernie said.

“I meant the deeper meaning,” said the girl.

B
ack in the car, Bernie drank water. He looked a bit pale, which made me worried, and then he swallowed some pills, and I worried more.

“Someone got me a good one, big guy. Bet you even know who.”

I tried to think.

“Same person who chained you up? And where did all that happen?”

A memory swam into view: ruined hut, golden tent, gigantic cactus man towering up to the sky.

Bernie closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead. I squeezed up against him. He smiled, gave me a pat, turned the key. We drove back to town.

And soon were back in South Pedroia. We parked in front of Cactus Sound and went to the door. Bernie was about to knock when our wino buddy—sitting on a barrel a few doors up the street, paper bag in hand—rose and came our way.

“Spare any change? Preferably the paper kind.”

Bernie reached into his pocket. “If we came here every day, you'd be rich.”

“Nah,” said the wino, taking the money Bernie gave him, “I'd just be drinkin' off the top shelf.” He raised the paper bag, took a nice big swallow from the bottle he had inside, and paused. “Meaning I seen you before?”

Bernie nodded.

The wino peered at him and then at me. “Got a vague memory,” he said. He made a cackling sound that scared me, although it might have been laughter. “As opposed to what, huh?”

“I didn't say anything.”

“No, you're all right. And this dog here seems familiar.”

“Chet's his name. He was with me the other night.”

“Other night, huh? Like the dark side of the moon. But spittin' goddamn image, all I can say.”

Bernie went still. “You're saying Chet looks like some other dog?”

“Yeah. Doncha think?”

“Who's this other dog?”

The wino bent down, lowered his hand, palm down. “ 'Bout so high, hangs out here.”

“Here on the street?”

“Nah. The studio. Cactus Sound. The asshole loves the little guy, only goddamn thing he's loved in his whole life, other'n money.”

“The asshole have a name?”

“Just about anyone I ever met,” the wino said. “But I'm talkin' about Clay Winners.”

“Owner of the studio.”

“ 'Mong other things.” The wino took another long swallow.

“Like dealing drugs?”

“Wouldn't know nothin' on that score.” He squinted at Bernie over the top of the bottle. “You a cop?”

“No.”

“Don't like cops.”

“Do they like you?”

The wino cackled again. “Sure as hell do not, with a capital goddamn N.” He took another drink, looked disappointed, turned the bottle upside down, and shook it. Nothing came out. He placed the bottle carefully against the curb. “Guess I'll catch up on some shopping,” he said. “Nice talkin'.”

“Before you go,” Bernie said, “how well do you know Clay Winners?”

“Asshole and me go way back,” the wino said. “Worked for him practically a century, felt like.”

“Doing what?”

“Janitor, messenger, coffee boy—you name it. Till he canned my sorry ass.”

“Way back, huh?”

“Way, way back.”

“Far enough back to remember Billy Parsons?”

“Snatched that little cutie—what was her name?”

“Summer Ronich.”

“Somethin' like that.”

“What was that all about?” Bernie said.

“Hell if I know,” said the wino. “Some crackpot idea. Crackpots the both of them—Billy and . . .”

“Travis Baca.”

“Somethin' like that. Scared so shitless it was funny.”

“You're talking about Travis?”

The wino burped. “Beg pardon,” he said, covering his mouth. “Talkin' 'bout the both of them, him and Billy. They showed up here after it all blowed to smithereens.”

“Here at the studio?”

“Met Winners in the inner sanctum.”

“What's that?”

“Like in the church. Never been to church?” He glanced down at the empty bottle in the gutter.

“Don't go away,” Bernie said, moving toward the car.

“Huh? Where to?”

Bernie popped the trunk, came back with a bottle of bourbon that looked pretty full, handed it to the wino.

“Well, well,” said the wino, examining the label. “Reminds me of my golden youth.” He took a careful little sip. “Ah.”

“All yours.”

“Much obliged.”

“Getting back to the inner sanctum,” Bernie said.

“What we called Winners's office.” The wino licked his lips, long and slow. “Like he was the pope, kind of thing.”

“And Billy and Travis went in there when they were on the run?”

“Not for long. They were gone real fast. Not that real fast did them any good. They were cooked.” He took another drink, more than a sip this time. “Cops musta been right on their heels. Detective showed up maybe the next morning.”

“Detective?” Bernie said.

“Real big guy—your height but . . .” The wino spread his hands out wide. “He went into the inner sanctum, too.”

“With Winners?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What did they talk about?”

“Couldn't tell you. I was just passin' by. Cleanin' toilets, so musta been a Wednesday. Hated cleanin' toilets. Musicians, you know?”

“Did you ever see the detective again?”

“Nope. But I saw Billy.”

“You saw Billy?”

“Hardly recognized him. Prison'll do that to a man.”

“So this was recently?”

“Sure.”

“He came here?”

“That's right. Walked right past me, no time of day, like I was a stranger, and went in. I heard this shouting match from inside. Little while later, some flunky came out and tied one of them cactuses—”

“A saguaro?”

“Yeah. Tied a saguaro to the roof of Billy's car. Then Billy came outside and drove off, his face all red, like . . . like a real embarrassed kid. Winners and that motherfuckin' hoodlum stepped out to watch him go, had themselves a good laugh.”

“Hoodlum?”

“For real,” said the wino. “Name of Vroman. You don't wanna go near him. He's what you might call a stone killer. No heart inside, if you see what I mean.”

“Any killings you know about for sure?”

“Don't know about for sure, but I'd kind of like to know the story of that . . .” He glanced at me. “Getting a bit confused here with the dogs.” He raised the bottle toward his lips, but Bernie snatched it away.

The wino backed off a step or two. “Thought we were friends.”

“Friendship's a two-way street.”

“So the unfriendly types always say.”

Bernie gazed at him, then made a little nod. “Fair enough.” He handed back the bottle. “But right now I need you at your sharpest, that's all.”

“What for?” The wino held tight to the bottle but didn't make any attempt to drink.

“Your clearest memories,” Bernie said.

“My memories is kind of muddy,” said the wino. “Goin' back to childhood.”

“Maybe you're out of practice. Weren't you going to say something about the puppy who looks like Chet here?”

“Hey! How'd you know that?”

“Just a guess.”

“But I hardly knew it myself. You're like a genius or somethin'.”

Tell me something I don't know, Mr. Wino!

“The puppy,” Bernie said.

“Right, the puppy—a puzzlement, put it that way. Turned up right here riding with the nice lady.”

“What nice lady?”

“Kind of like you—gave me a gratuity. Not everybody does. Hardly anybody, truth be tol'. Can't blame them. 'Course, if I spiffed myself up . . . but then I wouldn't have to . . .” His voice trailed off. He gave the bottle a quick peek.

“The nice lady had the puppy with her?”

The wino nodded. “Rode up front in her truck. She got out, slipped me a couple bucks, went inside.”

“The studio?”

“Yeah. Dog stayed in the truck. She left the window cracked open. He stuck his little snout out. I remember that clear as a bell. Then the lady come out with Winners. He got in the truck with her and they took off. I headed on down to Red's—”

“What's Red's?”

“Bottle shop. Run by thieves, but it's the closest.” His mouth opened, closed, opened again, revealing not much going on by way of teeth. I started feeling bad for him.

“And?” Bernie said.

“And what?”

“Did something happen after that?”

The wino nodded. “Purchased me a pint of Night Train.” He held up the bourbon. “This is a different story, friend. Reminds me of the possibilities in life.” All at once he looked worried. “I get to keep it, right?”

Bernie nodded. “Anything else come to mind about that sequence?”

“Sequence?”

“Lady, puppy, Winners.”

“Sequence, huh? I like that word. See quench, like you're the man.” The wino's eyes, dull until that moment, went brighter. “And what if another see quench starts up on that, the end turning into a new beginning?”

“Not following you,” Bernie said.

What was this? The wino getting angry? “Why the hell not? Simple thing.” He muttered to himself, then said, “Jeep comes around from the back.”

“From behind the studio?”

“Alley with parking.”

“You saw it on the way back from Red's?”

“How many times I got to tell you?”

“It followed the lady and Winners?”

“And the puppy. Thought you was smart.”

“Who was in the Jeep?”

“Vroman,” said the wino. “Din't I say so? He was drivin' and he was still drivin' when they come back.”

“Who's ‘they'?”

The wino cocked his head to one side. “Maybe you's not so smart after all. Vroman, Winners, and the puppy.”

“The lady?”

“Not her. End of see quench.” The wino gave Bernie a quick sideways look. “You sweet on her or somethin'?” he said.

“She's dead,” Bernie said.

“Condolences,” said the wino.

“All because she found out they were stealing cactuses.”

The wino nodded. “The legit part is a disguise. They take what they want.” He glanced at the door to Cactus Sound. “Fixin' to start up another see quench?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit out of luck—they's all split for the festival.” He offered Bernie the bottle. “Thirsty, friend? Happy to share.”

“I'm driving,” Bernie said.

The wino's eyes went dull.

•  •  •

“One thing about kids,” Bernie said. “They know how to sneak into places.”

News to me! I had a pretty high opinion of kids to begin with; now it rose even higher. We pulled up to the base of the hill where we'd seen the kids. No sign of them now, and their little tent was gone.

“So what we'll do,” Bernie went on, “is follow the kids, let them show us the way.”

Following the kids? Was that it? Easy peasy. I picked up their individual scents before we got out of the car, although even if I hadn't, it wouldn't have mattered: we'd caught a break when it came to tracking, namely garlic and vinegar potato chips. Not my favorite potato chip—a bit too much, in my opinion—and not the point. The point was that one of those kids was packing garlic and vinegar potato chips. I could have followed them with . . . with my nose closed. What a crazy thought! No repeats of that, if you don't mind.

Bernie got the backpack out of the trunk, filled it with water bottles, snacks, flashlight, binoculars, a box of ammo. Then he rummaged around under the seats, found the holster, strapped it on, and stuck the .45 in place. Open carry? We hardly ever did that. This was shaping up as a special night. Bernie stepped away from the Porsche, paused, went back for the bottle of pills in the glove box. He swallowed some, more than two, and we hit the trail.

It wasn't quite night yet, what with a fiery light blazing on one side of the sky. But stars were already popping into view overhead. Every time you looked, there were more. Once I heard Bernie explaining all about the stars to Charlie. Could have listened forever! Did I understand even one little thing? No. What I loved was Bernie's voice, although I can't say I was unhappy when Charlie said, “Dad? Now can we have dessert?”

Some of that fiery light reflected off the butt of the .45 and also Bernie's eyes. I felt pretty good. This was much better than a desert walk with Shooter. Not once did Bernie curl up for a little nap, and it wasn't just that. There was nothing like a walk with Bernie, plain and simple. I moved closer to him. He gave me a pat. “Moon'll be up soon, big guy.” And the very next time I checked, there it was, slightly shaved down from the night before. Bernie knew it all.