Scents and Sensibility (33 page)

We followed a stream of garlic and vinegar potato chip scent down a long draw and up the far end. Some low mesquites stood at the top, and we paused there, taking in the view. I've seen plenty of nighttime desert views, but not one like this. For starters, in the distance we had that gigantic cactus man, all lit up in bright colors and sometimes strobing from his eyes, strobing bothering my own eyes more than just about anything. A little closer rose the big golden tent, now glowing like the sun, and between the cactus man and the tent stood the stage. Too far away to see the band, but I could hear their music, faint in the night, mixed with shouts from the crowd, some of which sounded surprisingly clear. Down on the flats, the circle of saguaros—stolen saguaros, if I was in the picture—was also all lit up, and searchlights shone on the entrance gate, where I could make out a line of people. A barrier made of yellow tape—like crime scene tape except wider—ran from both sides of the gate into the distance, and flashlight beams bobbed here and there along the insides of the barrier.

“That'll be security,” Bernie said. He pointed. “And there are our kids.”

I caught their shadowy forms on the flats, moving toward some house-sized rocks that interrupted the flow of the tape. No lights shone near those rocks. Kids: you had to love them.

“Let's go,” Bernie said. But we didn't start right off. Instead, he turned my way, knelt, looked right in my eyes, and gave me a real big hug. Not our usual MO on this kind of night, but very nice all the same.

T
he kids were long gone by the time we reached the big rocks, and the sounds and smells of the festival were a lot stronger. Pot, cocaine, booze of many kinds, human sweat, Porta-Potties: a rich mix, but not strong enough to mask the scent of those garlic and vinegar potato chips. I could even separate out the potato part, by the way, which may surprise you.

We moved past the rocks. A flashlight beam was poking around to one side, too far off to reach us. We went the other way, circling toward the two-humped hill, looking like white stone in the moonlight. As we got closer, we could see people climbing the hill, all of them stony white themselves. Also they weren't wearing much in the way of clothing, although some were masked and others had antlers on their heads. Not the antlers again? But yes.

We started up the two-humped hill, soon passed a naked pair of antler dudes peering at their cell phone screens. “Anything?” one said.

“Just one bar, but . . . nope, it's gone.”

“So no pizza? How the hell are we . . . ?”

Bernie and I kept going, but as we did I spotted a big dude in the shadows of a sheer rock wall cut out of the hillside: a clothed, unantlered dude, although he wore a white mask that covered his whole face. I sniffed the air and caught no whiff of him at all, the cool night breeze blowing in the wrong direction. A few steps later, I turned to check on him. He was gone.

We reached the dip in the two-humped hill, mounted the other side, and looked down. Wow! We were practically right on top of the golden tent. Flaps were open on all sides and people went in and out. Little fires burned here and there on the desert floor, and a big crowd was in wild dancing motion in front of the stage, the musicians dancing wildly, too, except for the drummer, who looked like she was chewing gum. Fireworks burst nonstop all over the night sky. The breeze rose up in our faces, carrying the smell of lots of humans in high excitement. Did the smell spread from one to another, carrying the excitement with it? No clue. All I knew was that I myself was not a fan of big excited human crowds, no offense. And meanwhile, I'd left out the most amazing part of the whole scene, namely the gigantic cactus man, now glittering in Christmas tree light colors, its eyes strobing back and forth across the desert like . . . like it was searching for something. All of that added up to a sort of roar that filled the night, hard to explain.

Bernie shrugged off the backpack, took out the water bottle, and my portable bowl. He was thirsty already? Not like Bernie at all. He poured some water in my bowl, which I tasted, just being polite, and then tilted back his head and drank. His face turned stony white, and for a moment he looked . . . sort of older, hard to explain. He paused, throat exposed to the moon, and glanced down at me.

“What you growling at, big guy?”

No idea. But whatever I was growling at deserved it. I was sure of that.

Bernie slung on the backpack, and we started down the hill, steep at first, which meant a lot of zigzagging for Bernie and a lot of waiting for me, and then leveling out a bit. We were partway down the easier section, not too far from the bottom of the hill, when a second, smaller roar started up inside the big one. From behind a clump of barrel cactuses—their sharp spines, about which I could tell you plenty, sparkling brightly, what with all the light going on—came a motorcycle accelerating fast, front wheel raised in the air. A woman drove and a man sat behind her, both with long fair hair, streaming out behind them. She drove like she knew what she was doing. He looked like he knew what he was doing, too, if you can say that about a guy just riding on the backseat. What else? He had a silver gun in one hand. This was turning out to be a primo night for open carry. We knew these motorcycle riders, of course: Billy and Dee.

“Chet! After 'em!”

We ran, me and Bernie. Had I ever seen him run faster? I almost had to run myself, just to keep up with him. Did he stumble a bit when we hit the bottom, falling and losing the backpack? Maybe, but he was back on his feet before you'd even notice. Meanwhile, the motorcycle zoomed through one of the tent flap openings and into the golden tent.

“No, Billy!” Bernie shouted, a shout lost in the surrounding roar. I hardly heard it myself. We raced across flat ground, leaping right over—at least in my case—some antler people sitting around a fire, and charging into the tent.

In our business, a lot can be going on all of a sudden, and the trick is to . . . something or other. Bernie says it all the time; maybe he'll say it again someday. But for now, here's a clue: when you're not sure what's next, watch Bernie. So: I watched Bernie.

He was taking in everything at the speed of light, the fastest speed going, just another thing I know on account of him. When Bernie's taking things in at the speed of light, you can see the light speeding in his eyes. Who's more alive than Bernie? Nobody is the answer, amigo. And here's what we had to take in: a bar and buffet at the most distant part of the tent, with a few people drinking and eating those drinking snacks on tiny napkins, snacks which often, as in this case, include shrimp wrapped in bacon; a bunch of musicians lazing around on some couches, their instruments around them; and a sort of office with a few desks, off to one side; all of this lit by big lanterns that hung from above.

Bernie took all that in in no time flat, figuring out what mattered as only he can do, namely the scene over in that office: Dee on the bike and revving it, and Billy off the bike, gun pointed right at the head of a man who backed away clutching a—what would you call it? A cash box? Yes, a cash box. The man backing away, porkpie hat somewhat askew on his head, and his whole face sort of askew as well, was Clay Winners.

Bernie ran toward all that, me at his side.

“You owe me five hundred grand,” Billy was saying, his voice shaking. When human voices shake, we've got big trouble, in my experience.

“Didn't we put that to bed?” Winners said.

“You really thought I'd be satisfied with a goddamn cactus?” Billy said.

“I thought you'd be satisfied with staying alive.”

“You were wrong.”

Winners held the cash box tight to his chest, like a baby. “Point one,” he said, “there is no five hundred grand.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Billy said.

“Mickles grabbed half right off the top,” Winners said.

“Why'd you let him do that?”

“Figure it out.”

Dee cut the engine, got off the bike. “To save his ass, Billy.” She reached down, slipped a knife out of her boot. “We'll take the rest—two fifty.”

Winners backed another step, bumping up against a table. “Time marches on—how come you're still not getting the message?”

“Message?” Billy said. “Fifteen years in the pen and you get a cactus? That's the message?”

“I'm talking about getting what happened to the twins,” Winners said. “Can't make it any clearer. How stupid are you?”

Billy made a sound almost exactly like the snarl we have in the nation within. Things happened fast after that, so fast I didn't pay attention to running footsteps just on the other side of the tent wall, probably a mistake. First, the knuckles of Billy's trigger finger went white. Then Bernie shouted “No!” and grabbed Billy's shoulder. The gun went off anyway, but nobody got hit. Instead, an overhead lantern shattered and burst into flames. The flames jumped straight up to the tent roof, licked at it, and got huge. Screaming started up all over the place, a sort of piercing layer above the roar. I was looking up like everyone else, which was how come I didn't see Vroman until it was a little on the late side. He came bursting into the tent, a shotgun in his hands. Dee saw him first and slashed at him with the knife. But from too far away. He clobbered her with the shotgun barrel, and she went down. Bernie leaped in front of him. The light around us changed to bright red. Bright red burned in Bernie's eyes. Vroman raised the shotgun, a look in his eyes that meant pleasure was on the way.

He didn't know Bernie. Bernie stepped inside—so fast! so smooth!—and batted the barrel aside with one hand. With his other, he threw that sweet uppercut. It caught Vroman square on the chin. Vroman's eyes rolled right up and he toppled over, landing on his back. Next thing I knew I was standing over him, his throat between my teeth. A growl like I'd never heard rose up, drowned out all the roaring.

“No, Chet, no,” Bernie said, not loudly, but I heard. I felt his hand on my collar, very gentle, and let Bernie pull me off. That was when a huge section of flaming roof came floating down, wrapping itself around Winners like an enormous coat of fire. For a moment he just stood there with his mouth open, cash box to his chest. The he cried a horrible cry and struggled wildly inside the burning fabric, which clung to him harder with every move he made. The cash box came flying out of what now looked like a bonfire. Bernie caught it in midair. Winners's cries faded down to nothing; fire sounds amped up the other way.

Billy pointed his gun at Bernie. “Give.”

Dee rose, her nose bloody and twisted, but steady on her feet. “Enough, Billy.”

Billy looked at Dee in surprise and slowly lowered the gun.

“I should take you in, Billy,” Bernie said. “For the crime of throwing your parents under the bus.” A bit confusing: the only bus I recalled in this case was the school bus with the mean driver, and the Parsonses hadn't been on the scene. “But I just don't feel like it,” Bernie went on. He tossed Dee the cash box. “Anywhere you can lay low?” he said to her.

Dee glanced at the cash box like she couldn't believe she had it. “I've got a cousin in Matamoros,” she said.

“Adios,” said Bernie.

They hopped on the bike, Dee cranking the engine, Billy on the back with the cash box.

“Wait,” he yelled to her. He opened up the cash box, grabbed a wad of banded-together money, and flipped it to Bernie. “Make sure they get this.” Then Dee gunned it and they took off, out of the fire and into the night.

Yes, by that time we were in the middle of a great big fire, the whole tent in flames from one side to the other. I could feel my fur getting singed, not a good feeling at all. We ran, me and Bernie, just as more flaming roof came down, falling like a blanket over Vroman and what was left of Winners.

•  •  •

Outside everyone was running and screaming. We ran, too, but didn't scream. We don't actually scream in the nation within, and Bernie's not a screamer. The whole tent went up with a huge
BOOM
and we got thrown to the ground. We picked ourselves up, scrambled, rolled, scrambled some more. Fireworks went off in another boom, and the sky exploded in all kinds of color. We came to rest against the base of cactus man, on a tilt now but still strobing away.

Bernie and I sat there, side by side, catching our breath, eyes glued to the fire, no longer spreading across the ground, but growing higher and higher. That was when the big, broad man in the white mask stepped out from behind the leg of cactus man. We turned to him real quick, but he was ready, had a gun trained on us before we could get to our feet.

The man spoke. The breeze was right now, carrying his scent, so I knew who he was before I heard the sound of his voice. “Familiar with the word ‘nemesis,' Bernie?”

Bernie nodded.

“You're mine.” He took off his mask. It was Mickles, of course, the strobe lighting up and blanking out his face. “So you can imagine how good I'm feeling right now.” He glanced over at the fire. “You've actually simplified my life tonight.”

“Because there's no one left who knows you extorted two hundred and fifty grand from a kidnapper?”

“Winners couldn't really be called a kidnapper,” Mickles said. “More like a trustee.”

“How did you find out he was holding the ransom?” Bernie said. “By promising Billy and Travis you'd cut them a deal, even let them go?”

“They're scum,” Mickles said. “You know that. Scum's owed nothing. That's not the problem. The problem is you're wrong about nobody knowing. You know, Bernie.” He pointed the gun at Bernie's head. Not his poor head! A crazy thought at the time, perhaps, but I knew Bernie's head had been bothering him. And now this! I got mad. And when I'm mad, I'm at my very fastest. I sprang.

Mickles started to swing the gun my way, but he wasn't quick enough. I hit him on the shoulder, spinning him around, and the gun went flying. Then Bernie was on him. They wrestled around. And what was this? Mickles on top? He punched Bernie right in the mouth and blood poured out. I charged in. After that came some more wrestling around and a moment later we were all on our feet.