Scents and Sensibility Page 3

  Well, of course I knew he had a Slim Jim: I’d seen it and I could smell it. Normally Slim Jims can’t be resisted. But right now resisting seemed the way to go, although I had no idea why.

  “Come on, Chet—jump!”

  The Slim Jim smell grew stronger, as though Bernie was waving it in the air. My mouth started getting wet. Did I even drool a bit? I’m not denying it. But I stayed where I was, actually sat down in this special way I have of making myself very hard to move. And I would have stayed like that as long as it took, but a commotion started up on the other side of the gate.

  First came the sound of running, not human running but real running, no offense.

  “Oh my God,” said Ellie. “Shooter! How did you get out?”

  Bernie laughed. “Two peas in a—”

  “Shooter!” said Ellie. “Sit! Sit down this minute. Do you hear me? I said sit.” And a lot more like that, accompanied by the sounds of a chase, specifically the special kind of chase where a human tries to corral a member of the nation within, one of the very best games going.

  “Sweet moves for a little guy,” Bernie said. “A budding Crazy Legs Hirsch. But not very obed—”

  “Are you going to commentate or are you going to help?”

  Or something less than friendly like that. I might have missed it on account of Crazy Legs Hirsch. First I’d heard of him, but clearly a perp. News flash for Crazy Legs: get measured for an orange jumpsuit. But not right now. Right now I was caught up in more fun sounds—they’d reached the wild scrambling stage—and the next thing I heard was Bernie saying, “Hey, Shooter—how about a Slim Jim?”

  “He’s not allowed any damned—”

  All it once it got very quiet and still outside the gate, like the chase was over. How could it have been over so fast? I knew chases: this one was just getting started. Something was very wrong.

  “Good boy, Shooter,” Bernie said. “Come on over and get your Slim Jim. Attaboy. Now sit. Excellent. Funny little guy. Here you—”

  Some things in life can’t be tolerated. At the top of the list would be an upstart puppy getting hold of a Slim Jim meant for me. I’m sure you’d feel the same way, feel it so strongly that there’d be no holding you back from jumping that gate. Which you couldn’t do. Sorry for pointing that out. But there happened to be a gate-jumping dude extraordinaire on the premises: namely Chet the Jet!

  Bird’s-eye view: The next moment I finally got to understand what it meant, on account of that’s what I now enjoyed! What a life birds had! So why were their eyes mean and angry? No time to puzzle over that. Instead I just delighted in my view from above, a view of Bernie, Special Investigator Newburg, and Shooter, all standing in a sort of circle, completely unaware of me way above them. One correction: Shooter was sitting, not standing, in fact sitting just as Bernie had suggested, sitting up nice and proper in anticipation of the Slim Jim which Bernie was about to hand over right that instant. What’s an instant? Something pretty quick is all I know, meaning less than an instant had to be even quicker! Wow! Was I on fire or what? All this going on in my mind and at the same time I was dive bombing down like . . . like a dive bomber, whatever that might be. I snatched that Slim Jim out of Bernie’s hand just as Shooter’s cute little jaws were closing on it, one of the very best things I’d ever done! This Slim Jim was mine!

  I cut one way, then the other, raising a dust cloud, the Slim Jim hanging out one side of my mouth but completely secure, baby, better believe it. Did Ellie throw up her hands in fear and scream, “Oh! Oh!”? Did Bernie yell, “Chet! Stop! For God’s sake!”? Did Shooter come zooming after me, zigging and zagging with every one of my zigs and zags, plucky little dude, actually jumping up to make a play for that Slim Jim, and . . . and whoa! Snatching it right out of my mouth. None of that, amigo! I snatched it back, bowling him over in the process, and then without another thought, always a sign I’m at my best, I took off into the canyon at top speed, or even faster. And what do you know? The little fella took off right after me! We charged up a long rise, scrambled, and rolled down the far side, flew over a dry wash, and headed for points far distant, leaving the whole world in our dust.

  “CHET!”

  “SHOOTER!”

  “CHET!”

  • • •

  We came back much more slowly, Shooter and I side by side, our tongues possibly hanging out the slightest bit. It’s also possible we had thorns of some sort in our coats—I was pretty sure I did—and Shooter had learned a hard lesson or two involving javelinas and those pesky tusks of theirs. But most of all we were filled with the feeling you get from a job well done, although what the actual job had been wasn’t superclear to me. Something about a Slim Jim? That seemed right. As we climbed over the crest of the last rise and came to our back gate—mine and Bernie’s—I wondered about the chances of another Slim Jim real soon. Pretty good, right? I could think of no reason why not.

  The gate was closed and no sounds came from behind it. We walked alongside the house—Shooter giving me a little bump for no reason and me bumping him back for the reason that . . . that he’d bumped me! Phew! Almost forgot!—and found lots happening in the Parsonses’ front yard.

  For starters, we had some workers digging up the saguaro cactus, watched real closely by Special Investigator Newburg who was telling them to be careful and watch what they were doing and take it easy for chrissake. Then we had Bernie standing by the front door, watching her. And old Mr. Parsons in the open doorway, hunched over his walker. He didn’t appear to be watching anything, but he was the first one to see us.

  “The happy wanderers return,” he said.

  Hey! Mr. Parsons nailed it. He turned out to be one smart old customer. Shooter went trotting over to Ellie, and I trotted over to Bernie. But what was this? She took a quick glance at Shooter, then looked away? And Bernie did the same thing to . . . to me? I did the first thing that came to mind, which was to grab him by the pant leg. Gently, of course. Bernie was no perp, although wasn’t there something a bit perpish about not making a fuss over the return of a happy wanderer? I tugged at his pant leg a bit, still gently, and he steadied himself easily by getting a quick grip on the front step. Then I felt his other hand giving me a quick scratch between the ears, as only Bernie can do.

  “You’re incorrigible,” he said.

  Which had to be something good. I lay down at his feet.

  “And it’s going to take hours to get all those thorns out of you.”

  Life was perfect, or even better. As for Shooter, he was sitting over by Ellie and kind of whimpering. She wasn’t giving him the time of day—it was maybe afternoon, in my estimation, but no guarantees—and was in fact looking at Bernie. “See that look, Chet?” he said in a low voice. “It means I caved.”

  What was this? Caves were in the picture? We hadn’t done any cave exploration in some time and now didn’t seem right, but here’s something about me: I can make just about any time seem right!

  “Easy, Chet. What’s with you today?”

  Nothing. Nothing at all. I sat, calm, silent, but at the same time totally in charge of everything that was happening on the Parsonses’ front lawn. It’s always fun to watch humans at work. They tend to snap at each other at times, and flash dirty looks. Dirty looks: a fascinating subject, but not now. In short, after some snapping—mostly from Ellie at the workers—and some dirty looks—mostly from them back to her when she wasn’t watching—the saguaro got moved to a flatbed truck and driven away. After that, Ellie scooped up Shooter and carried him to the pickup. He gave her face a lick on the way over—almost always the right approach in this sort of situation, but she said, “That crap won’t work on me.” Then she plopped him down on the shotgun seat—leaving the window cracked open, but not as much as before—and came over to us.

  “Any word on your ‘anonymous’ benefactor having a permit?” she said to Mr. Parsons.

  “No ma’am.”

  “We have other ways of IDing the thief,” Ellie said, �
��but if you gave up the name, it would make all the difference in your personal case. Think about your answer.”

  Mr. Parsons stood straighter and for a moment let go of the walker. “I have nothing more to say.”

  “Then get ready to be cited for receiving stolen property.” Ellie headed for the pickup. “Among other charges,” she called over her shoulder.

  Bernie walked after her. I went with him, of course, hardly seems necessary to mention. We caught up to her by the pickup. Bernie lowered his voice.

  “I hope that was an idle threat on your part.”

  Ellie’s eyes, blue, as I hope I’ve already pointed out, now seemed more like the color of ice cubes. “Hope away,” she said, not lowering her voice at all. Was that why Bernie lowered his even more?

  “I’m asking you to give him a break. I told you I’d help.”

  “Uh-huh. I looked you up. You’re a private detective of mixed repute, although you seem to get results. But it’s all moot, because there’s no line item in the budget for private detectives.”

  “We’ll work for nothing,” Bernie said.

  Ellie shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ll handle this myself. But—” She glanced over at Mr. Parsons. “But if you can get me the name within twenty-four hours, I’ll cut him a break.” She got in the pickup and drove off. Shooter looked my way as they turned the corner at the end of the block and let out a series of barks I didn’t appreciate. How come he got to ride in the shotgun seat? Which maybe didn’t make a lot of sense since I had no desire to be in that pickup at all. But what can you do?

  Bernie turned to Mr. Parsons. “Don’t know if you caught any of—”

  “I’m not saying anything and that’s that,” said Mr. Parsons.

  “Understood,” said Bernie. He gazed down at the hole in the ground where the saguaro had stood.

  “Suppose it’s too much to expect them to fill it in themselves,” Bernie said.

  “Government,” said Mr. Parsons.

  “Got a shovel?”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Be my pleasure.”

  Bernie ended up filling in the hole. I did what I could to help, but undigging turns out to be different from digging in ways I have yet to master. When we were done, Bernie said to Mr. Parsons, “When was the last time you had a nice home-cooked meal?”

  Mr. Parsons shrugged.

  “Steak and eggs at our place,” Bernie said. “Fifteen minutes.”

  Fifteen minutes? Was that like now? I was already at our front door.

  FOUR

  * * *

  You’re quite the chef, Bernie,” said Mr. Parsons, wiping his mouth on a napkin. “I didn’t realize I was so hungry.”

  We sat at our kitchen table, me actually under the table and closer to Mr. Parsons’s end, in case he turned out to be a messy eater. Which he did not. But you have to learn to deal with disappointment in this life, and I was just starting to wonder how that might be done, exactly, when all of a sudden, in a sneaky, quiet way, there was Mr. Parsons’s hand down under the table, holding a nice fatty glob of steak practically right in front of my mouth. I snatched it up, and pronto. So that was how you dealt with disappointment? I’d learned a valuable lesson.

  “Maybe you haven’t been eating enough, Daniel,” Bernie was saying.

  “The thing is I enjoy sitting down to a meal with Edna. It’s not the same by yourself.”

  “There’s Iggy.”

  “And I love him. But . . .”

  But? What was that but? I loved Iggy, too, but with no buts about it. I wriggled myself out from under the table, kind of wanting company.

  “How about a beer?” Bernie said.

  Mr. Parsons checked his watch. “Isn’t it a little early?”

  “Planning on operating heavy machinery this afternoon?”

  Missed that one, myself, but it made Mr. Parsons laugh. Bernie got two bottles from the fridge, snapped off the caps with the opener—loved that sound! Snap off more caps, Bernie, more, more, more—and gave one to Mr. Parsons.

  “Cheers,” said Mr. Parsons.

  “Cheers.”

  Mr. Parsons took a little sip. “Do you think she’s serious?” he said. “Special Investigator whatever her name was?”

  “Newburg, Ellie Newburg,” Bernie said. “And yes is the answer.”

  “Not that I blame her—can’t have people digging up saguaros out of the desert, willy-nilly.”

  “True,” Bernie said. “But you had nothing to do with it.”

  Mr. Parsons gazed at the beer in his hand, then drank again—this time not a sip, more like the rest of the bottle, tipping it up, his throat exposed. I’m always interested in exposed throats, not sure why, which is how come I noticed that Mr. Parsons was one of those unlucky humans who—if I’d heard right—had some sort of an apple caught in there. Poor guy. Just watching it bob around made my own throat uncomfortable.

  “What’s that squeaky sound Chet’s making?” said Mr. Parsons. “Think he’s all right?”

  “Chet—cool it.”

  Squeaky sound? Me? I cooled it, so fast no one could have noticed anything.

  Mr. Parsons put down the empty beer bottle. “As for my involvement . . . ” he said in a very low voice, almost like he was talking to himself, which humans often do, especially with just me around. Like I’m not there! Hello? Mr. Parsons shot a quick glance at Bernie, maybe to see if he was watching; which of course he was, being Bernie.

  “What about it?” he said.

  Mr. Parsons sighed. “Depends how broad the definition is.”

  “I’m all ears,” Bernie said.

  What was that? I studied his ears, not small in human terms, but nowhere close to being all of him. And of course what they were actually for was a puzzler. I was a bit lost.

  “You’re a good neighbor, Bernie.”

  “You said that already.”

  “And that’s all I’ve got to say. Last thing I’d want to do—and Edna would never forgive me—would be to drag you into . . . anything.”

  “My money’s on Edna forgiving you pretty quick,” Bernie said.

  Mr. Parsons laughed. Human laughter is one of the best things they’ve got going for them, and I always enjoy the sound and the looks on their faces, usually kind of wacky—the insides of their mouths, packed with tiny teeth! And those feeble little tongues!—but in this case Mr. Parsons’s laughter turned with no warning into tears. Mr. Parsons put his head in his hands, went silent, a bit of moisture leaking through the spaces between his fingers.

  “Tell me about Billy,” Bernie said.

  Mr. Parsons went still. Then he slowly spread his fingers and looked at Bernie, his eyes drying fast. “He fell in with bad people.”

  “When was this?” Bernie said.

  Mr. Parsons lowered his hands and sat up straight. “You’re relentless, Bernie, in the nicest way. Edna pointed that out to me.”

  Bernie nodded. He’s the best nodder I’ve ever seen, has many different nods signaling this or that. There’s one for yes that actually means no! As for this particular nod, I had no clue.

  “In answer to your question,” Mr. Parsons went on, “Billy fell in with bad people more than once.”

  “You mentioned that he’s been living far away. Was he in prison?”

  “Northern State Correctional.”

  “You’re from up that way originally, as I recall?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long was the sentence?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “So it began around the time you moved here?”

  “Six months earlier. We . . . we needed a change, Edna and I.”

  “What was the crime?”

  “Kidnapping. Billy drove the getaway car—he was always a very good driver.” Mr. Parsons got an inward look in his eyes. “I taught him how to parallel park. He got it on the very first try.” He gave his head a little shake. “That was years before, of course. At the time of the . . . the event, Billy was
on his own, living down here in the Valley. He admitted to driving the car but claimed ignorance of any kidnapping. The jury didn’t believe him.”

  “Did you?”

  “I . . . I’ve never been sure. Edna believed him one hundred percent. We hired the best lawyer money could buy. Not a hardship—I was still working at the time. Shouldn’t even have mentioned it. She—the lawyer—wanted Billy to take a plea deal the DA offered, but Edna . . . but we, Edna and I, argued against that. Falling in with bad people can’t be the same as being a bad person yourself, can it?”

  “Depends on whether you judge by results,” Bernie said.

  Mr. Parsons’s voice sharpened. He didn’t even sound like himself. “Easy to say when it’s not your flesh and blood. Just imagine if it was Charlie instead of—” Mr. Parsons covered his mouth with his hand. “I’m so sorry, Bernie. Way out of line. Please forgive me. No excuse for . . .”

  “Nothing to forgive,” Bernie said. “Bottom line, I’d like to help you.”

  “I’m very grateful, but there’s nothing I need help with.”

  “Understood. But maybe at least I could get Ellie Newburg to back off.”

  “How?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  Mr. Parsons shook his head. “I can’t have Billy implicated in any way. He’s on parole.”

  “I’ve had some success in preventing people from getting implicated,” Bernie said. “But only when I knew the whole story.”

  Mr. Parsons just sat there. Silence went on and on. I heard a squirrel run across the roof. How I hated when that happened! Like they owned the place. They did not own the place. We owned the place, me and Bernie. I lost myself in thoughts of how to keep squirrels from running across the roof and was getting nowhere when Mr. Parsons finally spoke.

  “Iggy loves him, followed him around constantly the whole time he was here,” Mr. Parsons said. “If that makes any difference.”

  “It does,” Bernie said.

  “You have to promise me, Bernie.”

  Bernie said nothing.