Scents and Sensibility

by Spencer Quinn

  Instead, I followed Shooter’s scent. It led me to a narrow alley that ran alongside the Cactus Sound building and—

  “Hey, Chet!”

  —through what you might call a sea of pee smells, typical of alleys, and around to the back, ending at a pickup dusty with desert dust, desert dust so often carrying the smell of greasewood. And not only greasewood in this case, but also the scent of saguaros, hard to describe but slightly reminiscent of the smell of tequila, a drink that Bernie stays away from. So: we had desert, saguaro, and Shooter. I barked this low rumbly bark I have, sending a message.

  “What?” said Bernie, coming up behind me. “What?” He eyed the pickup, then knelt and rubbed the dusty layer off a bumper sticker. “ ‘Cactus Man Festival—Wild in the Wilderness.’ ” He gazed at the bumper sticker, which seemed to be all about a saguaro with a human face, sporting a porkpie hat. Meanwhile, I heard a faint clink from above, the sound made by metal rings sliding on a curtain rod, for example. I looked up at the back of the Cactus Sound building. From a window up there Winners was staring down at us. He wasn’t wearing the porkpie hat—turned out to have closely trimmed hair, pure white like his beard—which was why I didn’t recognize him at first. I barked, not loud, but sharp and urgent.

  “Trying to tell me something, huh, Chet? Let me guess.” And in the act of thinking up his guess he—finally!—raised his eyes to that upstairs window. The curtain was now closed. “Pot, right?” Bernie said. “You smell pot all over this pickup, meaning that the verboten line is pure cock and bull.”

  No! Well, yes. But no! And cock and bull? What was Bernie thinking? Those were barnyard smells, well known to me from cases we’d worked in ranch country, but totally absent here. Plus neither cocks nor bulls were favorites of mine—in fact, placed far down my list. I’ve had run-ins with both, enough said. Although never both at the same time, which would be a nightmare. But back to Bernie. This wasn’t about pot. It was about—

  “Good work, big guy.” He gave me a pat, quick but very nice. “Got an idea. Let’s hit the road.”

  I liked pats. I liked doing good work. I liked hitting the road. But this wasn’t about pot. That wasn’t what I was smelling by the dusty pickup. Well, I could if I wanted to: the whole Valley smelled of pot, from the meanest streets of Vista City to the fanciest mansions in High Chaparral Estates, but not every tool is a hammer, as Bernie says, or something like that. Also there was don’t take a spoon to a fork fight. And others. I felt a big yawn coming on. No fighting that, as I’m sure you know. The big yawn took over, leaving me with nothing to do but sort of wait on the sidelines, and while I was waiting, my gaze happened to rise once more to the upstairs window, the curtain again open, revealing Winners in his porkpie hat, now with another man beside him. This other dude had one of those real big shaved heads with a very broad face, although the features—nose, chin, eyes—were kind of small. Not the ears, though, which were sizable and had gold hoops in the lobes. I got ready to bark my head off, but the yawn wouldn’t let me. Winners pointed out Bernie—now checking out his phone—to the big-headed dude and closed the curtain. The yawn finally came to an end. I barked, a kind of bark I have when the horse is out of the barn. Better to have them in the barn than on the loose, no question.

  • • •

  “You want me to make a drug buy?” said Smoky Cabot.

  “Basically,” said Bernie.

  “What do you take me for?”

  “A habitual smoker of illegal substances.”

  “And proud of it,” said Smoky.

  We were in the front room of Smoky’s Tattoo Emporium, no customers around at the moment, which suited me just fine. Those needles going in and out, in and out? I don’t like to watch. But I can’t stop!

  “But,” Smoky went on, “I don’t make drug buys for cops.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “Private eyes aren’t cops?”

  “No.”

  “I never knew that.” Smoky scratched his nose, pretty much the only untattooed part of him. Tattoos were some sort of decoration, unless I was missing something. For decoration, I myself rocked only a collar, black leather for formal occasions—I’d once been Exhibit A down at the courthouse, where the judge slipped me a biscuit from under his robe and sent a real bad dude up the river, even though it had no water in it—and my gator-skin collar for everyday. No time for the gator story now, the point being a collar was plenty of decoration for me. “If I say yes,” Smoky went on, “what do I get out of it?”

  “You can keep the product,” Bernie said.

  “How much?”

  “Whatever a C-note will buy.”

  “Count me in,” Smoky said. “Where and when?”

  “Know Cactus Sound in South Pedroia?” said Bernie.

  “Heard of it—the festival dude. I know the festival. Cactus Man—Wild in the Wilderness. Next week, actually. I’ve got a concession.”

  “Lost me,” Bernie said.

  Whoa! Bernie lost in a back-and-forth with—let’s admit it—one of those dudes who’s not completely here? That never happened. I didn’t know what to do. Then I caught sight of the huge tiger head on Smoky’s chest—he was only wearing shorts and boots—and I didn’t know what to do even more, if that makes sense. A tiger that smelled like Smoky: I suddenly wanted to sort of bite it. Very bad, you don’t need to tell me. I backed away, got a grip.

  “At the festival,” Smoky said. “Set up my tent, run the needles off a generator, business is pretty much nonstop day and night.”

  “It’s a music festival?” Bernie said.

  “Kinda,” said Smoky. “They got music but it’s more like an event. People are starting to come from all over—LA, Las Vegas.”

  “These are kids?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “In what way?”

  “I mean kids, sure, plus bikers and hipsters, what you’d expect, but also corporate types, getting in touch with . . . you know, their inner whatever the hell it is. Corporate types from LA, I’m talking about.”

  “I get the LA part,” Bernie said.

  “You should check it out.”

  “I might.”

  “Chet would be a big hit.”

  “Why is that?”

  Smoky pointed at me with his chin. “Just look at him.”

  Smoky: maybe not completely here, but that could be a good thing. Bernie handed over some cash. I hoped it wasn’t much.

  “What’s the dude’s name?” Smoky said.

  “Winners.”

  “How come you think he deals drugs?”

  “I don’t think that yet,” Bernie said. “It’s what I’m trying to establish.”

  “Gotcha.”

  • • •

  “How about we sniff around the World Wide Web?” Bernie said.

  What was this? Hadn’t we just gotten home? I was still at my water bowl, topping up that well inside me. But sniffing always sounded like a good move—although the “we” part was a little mysterious, sniffing not being Bernie’s best thing—and sniffing around the whole world sounded even better. I trotted to the front door and stood there, eyes on the knob, waiting for Bernie. Why wait, when in fact I can turn most knobs myself? I thought about that. Meanwhile, Bernie didn’t seem to be coming. I waited some more, standing completely still, eyes on that knob. Time passed. I thought about how to slide bolts open, something Bernie and I had been working on. You slide the bolt open with your paw and then get a steak tip: that’s all there is to it. Give it a try sometime. When I’d thought all there was to think about bolts, I thought about nothing at all. Time slowed down in a very pleasant way. After a while I grew aware of keyboard sounds, Bernie tapping away. I gave myself a quick shake, always the right move after a period of standing completely still, trotted down the hall and looked into the office.

  Bernie sat at the desk, peering at the computer screen. He glanced up. “What’s that look mean?”

  My look? It meant let’s go. L
et’s start sniffing the wide world. What was the holdup? And why was he even asking me? Wasn’t it his idea in the first place?

  “How come you’re sniffing like that?”

  Because! Just because!

  “Hey! You’re clawing the door?”

  Clawing the door? I most certainly was not. All I was trying to do was simply and without fuss . . . I paused, one paw in midair, actually quite close to the door. Then I walked around in a circle for a few times and lay down with a sigh. Bernie was as close as they come, but nobody’s perfect.

  Tap tap tap. I watched him tapping away through eyes half closed. A nice changeup when it comes to watching things. I recommend it. In this case, I saw how lovable Bernie was in a brand-new way.

  “Bingo,” he said, leaning a little closer to the screen. Then he paused, rubbed his head, and looked my way. “Why didn’t I think of this before? What’s wrong with me these days?”

  Wrong with Bernie? Nada. My tail started up, sending him the right sort of message. Bernie gave me a quick almost-smile and turned back to the screen.

  “Archived in the Valley Tribune from almost sixteen years ago. ‘Kidnapped Teen Home Safe, Two in Custody. Summer Ann Ronich, daughter of Samuel and Marlene Ronich of Cottonwood Hills, was found unharmed last night in an abandoned service station on old Highway Six. Two men, William “Billy” Parsons and Travis Baca, both of South Pedroia, have been taken into custody. Detective Sergeant Brick Mickles of Valley PD, who found Ms. Ronich and later made the arrests, was unable to confirm reports that a ransom was paid. “This is an ongoing investigation,” Mickles said. When asked if more arrests were expected, Mickles had no comment. Ms. Ronich disappeared last Friday while—’ ”

  The phone rang. Bernie gave it a look that changed from unfriendly to real pleased. He hit the speaker button.

  “Hi, Suzie.”

  “Hello, Bernie.”

  “Was just thinking of you this very moment,” he said.

  “In what context?”

  Bernie laughed. “How come you’re so goddamn quick?”

  “These things are relative.”

  He laughed again, but in a doubtful sort of way. “Been looking at an archived Tribune piece. By . . .” He checked the computer. “. . . Rance Perth. Know him?”

  “Rance was before my time,” Suzie said. “He took a PR job in Singapore. But that’s what got you thinking about me? Something in the Trib?”

  “Uh, yeah, actually.”

  “Meaning the context was peripheral.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t—”

  “By definition.”

  “Uh-oh,” Bernie said. “Suzie? Is something wrong?”

  Her voice changed, hard to say how. It didn’t get loud or harsh or even edgy. More like cooler, maybe. “I’m not sure how to answer,” she said. “You can’t have forgotten our last conversation.”

  Bernie looked my way, as if for help of some sort. But what could I do? “Uh, of course I haven’t.”

  Then came a pause, before Suzie, her voice even less warm than before, but puzzled, too, said, “Were you planning to respond?”

  Bernie shot me another help me! look. Maybe a long walk in the canyon was the answer? That was my only thought. “I was,” Bernie said. “I am. It’s just that I’ve been so busy with this case and—”

  “Who isn’t busy?” Suzie said.

  Another pause, longer than the last. Finally Bernie said, “You’re right. I should have . . . no excuses.”

  “I’m in London right now,” Suzie said. “Marv Lister just left me a message. He said something’s come up at the London office of SecureX that’s right in your wheelhouse. He wants to fly you over for a meeting. What should I tell him?”

  Now came the longest pause of all. Bernie was looking my way again, but this time didn’t appear to be seeing me, as if he was looking at something far away, even thought there was nothing behind me but the hall and the closed door to Charlie’s room.

  “I wouldn’t do well in London,” Bernie said.

  “What does that even mean?” said Suzie.

  “I’m not suited.”

  “How do you know? It’s changed a lot. When was the last time you were here?”

  “Never.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve never been to London.”

  “I see,” said Suzie. “Then this conversation is really about something else, isn’t it?”

  Bernie shook his head. But he didn’t say anything. You see that same combo from Charlie sometimes, and Bernie looked a lot like him just then. “My tongue-tied little boy,” Leda says. Meaning Charlie, not Bernie, in case I’m unclear. Meanwhile, over on Suzie’s end: Click. That was when Bernie finally got his tongue free, perhaps too late, if I was following this right. “Does she think I don’t love her?” He looked at me. This was a bad moment of some sort, no doubt about that. My tail started up in an encouraging sort of way. Bernie didn’t seem to notice.

  • • •

  “We’re like historians,” Bernie said, topping up his glass. “Or maybe anthropologists, even archaeologists.” Did you know bourbon can talk? This is what it sounds like. We were still in the office, the bourbon coming out not long after the phone call. Bernie was back at work, tapping at the keyboard, making a call or two, writing notes on scraps of paper, sipping bourbon from his favorite glass, the one with the trumpets on the side. Trumpets had come up in this case already; it was possible I’d remember the details later. I loved the sound of trumpets, especially when Roy Eldridge starts up at the end of “If You Were Mine,” one of our favorites. The fur on my neck stands right up! I lay on the office floor, trying to think of some way to get Bernie to play the song, and came up empty.

  Shadows moved across the floor, inching toward me. I shifted away, more than once. Ice clinked, also more than once. Then Bernie was on his feet, sheets of paper in one hand, empty glass in the other. “Dig around long enough, big guy, and sometimes you hit pay dirt.”

  Digging had gone on? Had I fallen asleep, somehow missed it? I smelled no dirt on Bernie, fresh or otherwise. Bernie digging without me was at the top of the list of things that make no sense. This had to be the bourbon, still talking.

  “Turns out,” he said, leafing through the pages, “that Summer Ann Ronich got married five years ago, lives on a ranch east of the aircraft boneyard.” He looked up. “Old Highway Six would actually be a shortcut.”

  Boneyard? I was at the door, bourbon, London, and even trumpets, all forgotten.

  TWENTY

  * * *

  Two-lane blacktop, open country, cottonwoods growing tall in the deepest parts of the dry washes: old Highway Six was our kind of road. “Right there is where the old gas station must have been,” Bernie said, pointing out a foundation slab so overgrown it was almost invisible. “Killed off by the interstates.” The interstates? Brand new to me, but they sounded dangerous. I made another mental note, although I wasn’t sure what to put in it. We rounded a curve at the top of a long rise, and there caught an unusual sight, rows and rows of airplanes stretching across the desert as far as I could see, the sun glinting off their wings in a dull way, like their wings had no shine on them at all.

  “Had an English prof at West Point,” Bernie said. “He wrote a poem about this, kind of an ‘Ozymandias’ thing.” He went silent. Ozzie Mendoza? Had I heard that right? I was fond of Ozzie, now sporting an orange jumpsuit at Central State on account of an ATM scam involving peanut butter, but he didn’t seem like the writing type to me, not with the puzzled way his mouth hung open all the time. Meanwhile, Bernie gazed at the airplanes, dusty and droopy-winged, going no place. “The class had to write a poem on the same subject,” he said. “I took a different approach—more an Arlington National Cemetery comparison. C minus.”

  Not easy to follow, any of that, always the case when poems came up. But C minus had to be pretty good, almost certainly top of the class and possibly best ever at West Point. That was my takeaway. A lone vulture gli
ded down from the sky in that heavy way they do and landed on the nose of the nearest airplane. It stood there, spreading its wings wide and facing in our direction. I could smell the .45 in the glove box.

  • • •

  We drove through an open gate, one of those ranch gates with a wrought-iron sign overhead. “Moonlight Ranch,” Bernie said. “What’s the point of naming a ranch if it’s not a brand? And no one’s going to brand Moonlight on the sides of their cattle.” I sure hoped not: it sounded horrible.

  A grove of trees rose on one side, shading a big glass house backed into a hillside. “An Architectural Digest–style ranch house,” Bernie said. “Look out for an Architectural Digest–style herd.”

  I sat up my straightest, understanding nothing, meaning you had to be ready for anything, a mind-set that had actually served me well in the past. No herds seemed to be in sight, but the track split, and off to one side stood a corral with a woman inside it. She seemed to be talking to some small creature I couldn’t quite make out. We drove to the corral, parked, and got out. The gun stayed in the glove box. Why was it on my mind all of a sudden? I didn’t know.

  The woman was saying, “Who’s the prettiest little princess in the whole wide world?” But not, I didn’t think, to us, although she must have heard the car. Put it this way: I’d have heard the car in her place. At that very moment, I happened to be hearing a snake slithering through some bushes beyond the far side of the corral, plus a phone ringing in the ranch house, invisible from where we were. But forget all that. The woman heard us now for sure, and turned our way.

  “Summer Ronich?” Bernie said.

  Summer Ronich, if this was her, looked like the kind of woman who has an effect on Bernie. She had glossy hair, smooth, tan skin, big blue eyes, and wore a riding outfit with red cowboy boots and a red cowboy hat that hung down her back. But here’s the strange thing: that look on Bernie’s face when a certain kind of woman is having an effect on him wasn’t there. All that was kind of interesting but got blown away by an amazing sight in the corral, namely the creature who was supposedly the prettiest little princess in the whole wide world. This creature stood facing the woman, eyes on nothing, tail swishing around in a lazy way you could almost call sloppy. I can’t say I’d never seen a creature like this in my entire life because I had. This creature looked exactly like a horse, except smaller. A lot smaller. Smaller that me? Oh, yeah. About the size of Iggy. Hard to believe, but true. A horse—in this case a creamy-white horse with a golden mane and a golden tail, and smelling very horsey—the size of Iggy! I hunched down and pawed at the ground a bit, all I could think of to do.