Lovely kept on chewing grass. And how strange was this? It was me who started feeling pukey! Some things are impossible to explain. I moved away from her, circled around for a bit, and laid myself down. I don’t like feeling pukey. Was it Lovely’s fault? I leaned in that direction.
“Meaning, among other things, your father’s dead?” Bernie said.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Summer said.
“What happened to him?”
“Heart attack.”
“When?”
“About eight years ago.”
“So not associated with the kidnapping.”
“No,” Summer said. “He was always the heart attack type.”
“In what way?” Bernie said.
“Mostly in the dishing-it-out way, until his own came around. He was the explosive type.”
“Violent?”
“With anybody he thought was weaker, oh yeah. In a . . .” She stopped herself, then spoke more quietly. “In a heartbeat.”
“You, for instance?”
“We’re not going there.”
“Your mom?”
“She lives in Florida.”
“I meant—”
“I don’t give a shit what you meant. She lives in Florida.”
“In what circumstances?” Bernie said.
“Huh?”
“Your family took a half-million-dollar hit.”
Summer gestured at the surroundings. “Does this look like poverty?”
“No,” Bernie said. “But I take it you’re married now.”
“I brought plenty to the table,” Summer said. She gave Bernie a real unfriendly look. “What are you up to?”
“Just trying to fill in the blanks,” Bernie said. “What do you think happened to the money?”
“Don’t know and don’t care,” said Summer. “Is that your angle? You’re after the money?”
Oh? This was interesting. I waited for Bernie to say “exactly,” or “no doubt about that,” or “bet the ranch, baby.” We were on our way! I could just feel it!
But Bernie said none of those things. Instead I heard, “I’d like to know what happened to it—that’s not the same. And if I do come across the money, your mother will be on the receiving end.”
I got up, puked, and felt much better. At that moment I heard a car coming, not yet in sight. I kept a close watch on the track that led from the corral to the driveway. Lovely went on eating grass. Was she following any of this?
“Why my mother?” Summer said.
“Assuming she’s the rightful heir,” Bernie said. “Normally after all these years you’d expect the money to be gone, but this time may be different.”
“Why?”
“Just a hunch,” Bernie said. “A two-parter, really. Hunch one—the kidnappers stashed the money somewhere safe.” He’d been looking my way; now he turned to Summer. “Hunch two—they entrusted it with someone for safekeeping.”
Summer gazed at Bernie. Some humans had eyes that were good at keeping you out. Hers were like that.
“And now, as I mentioned, the sentences are over,” Bernie said. “Billy and Travis are out.”
“Then why aren’t you trailing them?” Summer said. “Why hassle me?”
Bernie gazed right back at her. “Have you seen Billy? I mean recently.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
A big fancy car came up the track. Summer moved toward it.
“If he gets in touch, call me,” Bernie said.
Summer stopped and turned. “Are you out of your mind?”
The fancy car parked beside the Porsche, and two women got out and hurried over.
“Where is she?” called one.
“There—hidden behind that overgrown mutt. Lovely! Lovely! Yoo-hoo!”
I looked around for an overgrown mutt, saw none. The case had taken a bad turn. Summer joined the women, the interview abruptly over. Had it gone well? I didn’t get that feeling. A big fuss started up over Lovely. She left off eating grass and sampled the sugar cubes they were practically shoving down her throat. I wanted those sugar cubes myself, even though I don’t care for sugar. I wanted them badly! What if I sidled over in the nicest way and—
“Chet?”
• • •
“A lot to process, huh, big guy?” Bernie said as we drove off.
Uh-oh. We were processing? We hadn’t processed since the Sneezy Siragusa case, all about a missing chef, namely Sneezy, whose food Bernie never touched, not sure why, although no one was actually missing—meaning we didn’t get paid, so how could processing be the way to go? But what a bad thought! If Bernie said process, we processed.
“Where to even begin?” he said. “How about with the fact that Summer showed zero reaction when I implied that Travis Baca was not only out of the slammer but among the living? Doesn’t that prove all this is in the past, as she said, no longer on her radar in any way?”
He glanced over at me, like . . . like for my opinion. I stuck my tongue out—although not as far it could go, not even close—and licked the tip of my muzzle. Hey! It was kind of dry. I licked it again.
“But in direct opposition is the near certainty that there was some sort of relationship between her and Billy. He wore a ski mask, but she recognized his voice—did you catch her start to say his name when she came to the part about the trucker? See where we’re going with this?”
I gazed into the distance, saw the tops of the downtown towers, golden in the sun. My best guess? We were going home.
“A near certainty but not a dead cert certainty, huh?” Bernie said. “I hear you.”
• • •
When we got home, a car was parked in the driveway, one of those big old cars with the tailfins, although this one looked all shiny and new.
“Do we know any old Caddy collectors?” Bernie said.
Not that I knew of, although there’s no guarantee I understood the question. My ears went up all by themselves, letting the rest of me know it was time to be on high alert. We parked on the street and hopped out, me actually hopping, and Bernie pretty far from it. Maybe his leg was having one of its bad days, although why now, when we hadn’t been on a long hike, or chased any perps through a drainage ditch, or other fun things like that? But no time to figure out tough problems, or even easy ones, my specialty, because Smoky Cabot was climbing out of the car in our driveway. He came over to us with a nice big smile, nice in Smoky’s case because it shrank the tattoos on his cheeks, making them less visible. But that’s just me.
He tossed Bernie a small bag of pot, the smell arriving ahead of the bag. Bernie caught it easily, the way Bernie catches things, just swallowing them up in his hand.
“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.