A Brush With Death by Joan Smith

be glad to see Gino Parelli, but I was. I believe there is some height requirement for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Gino Parelli obviously escaped it. He is about five feet four inches of repulsive ugliness. His crinkly reddish hair is thin on top. His white, doughish face looks as if it had been modeled with a rolling pin, the roller dragged along those slack cheeks, with the extra buildup of jowly mass around the edges. His stocky body, just verging on fat, was encased in a blue suit that might possibly have some historical value. It looked as old as time. If you banned vulgarity from his vocabulary, he'd be mute. Oh yes, and he's an M.C.P. to the nth degree. I figured he must be good at whatever he did, or John wouldn't have been so eager to see him.
    He joined us in the bar, pulling off a fur-hooded coat that made him look like an Eskimo. John welcomed him and reminded him who I was. “Oh yeah, I remember you now,” he said, running his eyes over me. “I thought at first you were a hooker. No offense. You're the violinist's niece or something, right? Toronto, the Carpani case. How's your uncle?"
    “Fine."
    “I read in the papers he's back from his European tour. Did he manage to steal any more Stradivariuses?"
    I squelched the urge to say, “You can read?” I did, however, say, “My uncle did not steal the Carpani Strad. He bought one that he didn't know was stolen."
    “And kept it, as I recall."
    “With the owner's permission.” It isn't an indictable offense to sweet-talk a gullible countess into a lengthy loan.
    That was the extent of his scintillating conversation with me. “So what's up, Weiss?” he asked, turning to John.
    John outlined the situation succinctly. Parelli nodded, gave an occasional grunt, and then said, “I'm starved. Let's go somewhere and chow down."
    “It's getting late. The dining room here is probably closed,” I pointed out, hoping he'd finish up his beer and his business and go home.
    “This place?” he asked, as though I'd suggested he dine in a sewer. “You gotta be kidding. This is a clip joint. We're going to Ben's Deli. The best smoked meat in the country."
    John's eyes lit up with delight. “No kidding! I love smoked meat."
    My taste in food is catholic, but as it happens, I hate smoked meat, even from the famous Ben's. It looks raw, and too much like a cow. I, decked out in my fancy hairdo and wearing Sherry's borrowed coat and Giorgio, ordered fattening fries and a piece of cheese cake and listened while the men talked.
    I think Parelli noticed the perfume. “What's that stink?” he asked once, sniffing in my direction. “You smell like an expensive whore."
    “When did you ever come close to an expensive one?” I asked.
    “Are you kidding? I arrested one today—dope dealing on the side. She smelled just like you."
    “You must have a sharp nose—to smell perfume over all the garlic,” I replied, looking at his garlicky dill pickle as big as a squash. He held it in his hand, like an ape eating a banana, and chomped on it.
    Over coffee, they began to sort out what was to be done. “So you want me to horn in on the case and see what the fuzz found in this Latour case?” Gino asked.
    “I'd really like to know."
    Parelli kept chomping on the pickle. “Can do, Weiss. No sweat. If what you say is right, this isn't just a local case. The RCMP'll be involved. They'll be glad for an extra badge willing to work the holidays. I'm on holidays myself, but what the hell. Christmas is a crock, right? Squealing kids, noisy toys."
    “How many children do you have, Gino?” I asked, amazed that he'd ever found a woman undemanding enough to marry him.
    “Me? None that I know of. I'm not married. It's my sisters—Maria, Theresa, Angelina, Gina—a dozen and a half between them. Oh and my brother Tony. He has four or five. They all come home for Christmas. Poor Ma. She'll be baking her butt off all week. Week? Did I say week? She starts in August. What the hell, it's