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The Scent of Jasmine
By Jim Colombo
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Copyright 2001 Jim Colombo
Summary
The story takes place in San Diego during 1974. Rita works in sales for a printed circuit company. Parone is an ex-marine who is a deputy. They meet because her client has died before he signed the dotted line. Rita is in a difficult spot and tries to finesse her way out. Parone has seen too many fools like the dead john in bungalow 7. He detests women like Rita who strut when they show their wares. They never toil. They offer the tease of sexual fantasy while luring a weak fool filled with lust. They take more than they give. But like the battered bull in a bull fighting ring, Parone charges onward each time he sees red, hoping that this time might be different.
It's Friday night, eleven-thirty, when the ambulance and the forensic team arrive.
Flashing red lights illuminate the dim marquee of the El Rancho Motel. San Diego city
lights glow in the distance. The county deputy gets out of his car and waves the
ambulance driver to bungalow 7. The manager of the motel approaches the deputy with
caution. The manager is bald with a strip of white hair around his ears. His hands are
in the front pockets of his yellow sweater buttoned down the middle. His baggy gray
slacks hang on his narrow hips. "I made the call. I've owned this motel for ten years
and ain't had no trouble until tonight." The frail man's right arm slowly raises and points
to the young lady. "She's the one. Got me out of bed about eleven. Tells me some guy
just died and then bursts into tears, so I get her a cup of coffee. She settles down
and I call the sheriff."
Deputy Parone begins with discreet glances at the lady, which extend to
scrutinizing her lean, tan body. He hasn't heard a word the manager said. "He's in
number 7." The manager is perturbed and walks away. The younger member of the
forensic team summons Parone, he composes himself and walks to the bungalow. He
enters and finds a fat man wearing a tee shirt and brown socks, lying face down on the
floor on the right side of the bed. The older member of the team carefully pulls the dead
man's arm and rolls him over on his back. He has a bump on his head. His eyes are
bulging, ready to pop out. His face is purple, his mouth is open with saliva running
down his cheek, and his painful look says it all. The younger inspector examines the
dead man's clothes and tags each garment. The decedent's personal effects consist of
a set of keys, two half empty packs of Lucky Strikes, a wallet with business cards from
National Electronics indicating he is a purchasing agent, a retired military identification
card, a California driver’s license, sixty-two dollars, and family pictures. The dead man
was in his mid-fifties, overweight, and out of his league.
She's late twenties, slender, sexy, with long shapely legs, and blonde hair that
falls to her waist. She is wearing a red silk dress that reveals more than it covers. A
new 1974 red Fiat with temporary plates is parked in front of bungalow 7 with the top
down. They did not plan to spend the night. It's a comfortable August evening. A full
moon hangs on a black canvas surrounded with sparkling pearls. She paces like a
caged animal outside of the bungalow puffing on a cigarette. She stops and lights her
next Pall Mall with the remnants of the first. She leans back, takes a deep drag filling
her lungs, which accentuates her generous breasts hanging at a slight angle, and
exhales at the stars.
Parone approaches the lady with apprehension. “I'm Deputy Parone. It looks
like he died of a heart attack. Is there something that I can do for you?"
“Could you call his wife?” Her hand trembles as she takes a long puff. Mascara
running from her tears has created black circles around her green eyes. She gazes into
the black void of night, tries to compose herself, and turns to Parone. “It’s not what you
think.”
Parone can't hide his sarcastic smile. “Really, lady. Why don’t you tell me what I
think."
“My name is Rita Cole. I work for Lytron. I’m in sales. We were discussing a
transaction when ....”
Parone interrupts, "With his pants off. Don't insult my intelligence. What
happened? ”
“I’m not a whore. I didn’t bring him here to get paid for sex. Are you going to arrest
me for prostitution? Look. I work for a boss who says entertain the guy and get the
sales order. We were going to have a few drinks, dinner, and then close the deal. I had
to give something to get something. My boss calls it value added service, whatever it
it takes to close the deal. He gets what most of you guys dream about and I get a
commission on a $300,000 purchase order. I didn't know he had a bad heart. This
guy has a wife and kids. Give them a break.”
"He should have thought about his family before he drove here with you. I guess I
would be in tears if I just lost a commission on $300,000 You’ll have to come to the
station and give a statement. You got a business card?”
“Yeah. Do I have to go tonight?”
Parone senses her impatience. He's getting upset. “There’s a dead man in
there. You may not give a damn about him, but you better give a damn if your story
doesn’t jive. Now it can be difficult or it can be easy.”
Frank, a young deputy and Parone's partner, waits for Parone to finish talking.
“She’s clean. No priors.”
“Thanks, Frank. We’ve got a holding cell where you can spend the night with ten
new friends and use the same pot when you squat. What’s it going to be?”
Rita looks at Parone with doe eyes and tries to melt his frozen stare. Her words
softly float towards him. “Okay. My boss arranged a deal with this guy and I was
the dessert. I paid for the room. Here is the receipt. I didn’t take any of his money.
He’s a buyer. We make printed circuit boards and this was a big order. I had to close
the deal. He gets what he wants and goes home happy. Nobody gets hurt.”
“You wanta tell that to his wife? I see a dead man who thought he was going to
get a piece of 24 karat ass and died before he hit the finish line. He has a bump on his
forehead. How did it happen?”
“His eyes got wide and his pace increased. I thought he was getting ready when
he dropped on me. I couldn’t breathe. I had to push him off. Jesus Christ, what do you
want?”
“I don’t give a damn about dames like you. I feel sorry for his wife and kids.
What’s the name of your boss and his phone number? I’ll give him a call.”
Rita's charm fails to penetrate Parone. She is getting desperate. She's
impressed with Parone's physique. She hasn't had a hard body like him in a while and
is challenged. “His name is Lou Dubin. We are at the Santa Ana plant. The main office
is in Santa Clara. We work for Milan Tarvo. They will confirm my story.” She writes
their names on the back of her business card and offers it to Parone. It falls from her
hand. Parone picks up the card and scans her on the way up. Rita feels his stare and
sets the hook. She stretches ever so slowly while turning her hips, offering a buffet of
lust. “What time do you want me to come for a statement?” she asks with a flirtatious
glint in her smiling eyes.
Parone's mind races back to answer the question. “I’m going to verify your story
and if it checks out consider yourself lucky. I’ll give you a call tomorrow afternoon.”
The coroner’s team tags and bags the dead man. Rita is looking at the wilting
rose bushes by the manager's office. She cringes when she hears them zip up the bag
The ambulance rear door slams shuts. Rita lights her third cigarette. “Can I go?”
“One last question. Is that perfume expensive?
“It's jasmine, fifty dollars an ounce from France. Why?”
“You smoke too much. The smell of tobacco cancels the fragrance.”
“I have a spot that smells like rose petals. Curious?”
Parone offered her a compliment and she threw it back with a challenge. He
flinches at the thought and is lost for words. Rita enjoys the embarrassment she has
inflicted. Parone is attracted to ladies like Rita, but always feels awkward. “Some
other time. Take off.” He's upset with himself for opening an old wound. He was
engaged twice and disappointed twice, leaving deep scars.
Rita sashays by Parone so that the gentle breeze delivers her fragrance, teasing
his nostrils with fantasy. Her perfect ass is kept hostage as it twists and presses
against the tight red silk miniskirt. She walks with elegant sass to her car, opens the
door, slides in, and turns on the ignition. The radio is loud and she drives into the night
listening to Fleetwood Mac. Her scent lingers, and Parone wonders how a night in hot
pursuit under the sheets with her would be, how much it would cost, and if it would
really smell like roses.
“The coroner is leaving. Shouldn’t we go?” asks Frank.
Parone returns from his fantasy on a distant planet. “Ah…yeah, let’s go. God
damn broad.” Parone hates women who rent sex by the minute. He calls them
chocolate-coated whores. Some fool leaves believing he was the best she's ever had
while she douches for the next fool. Parone recognizes his attraction to Rita, but recalls
the hurt of previous encounters. Women like Rita are the reason he is single.
Frank sees Parone in one of those moods again and cautiously asks,
“Who’s going to tell his wife? She lives in El Segundo.”
“I will. I’m getting tried of this shit.” Parone slams the car door shut. Frank
turns on the ignition. Parone will have to tell another stranger life is not fair.
The ambulance turns onto Interstate 5 south to San Diego. The deputy turns
north. Parone is a tall man in his forties with short brown hair. He has a hard body
from lifting weights. The Marine Corps cultivated the man he is today. He was an MP in
Hawaii. He has never married. All women run out of love after a couple of days in bed.
Parone looks at the family picture from the wallet of the deceased man. “You
dumb fool. I hope you roast in hell.” Parone will tell the widow the awful truth, why her
husband won't be coming home, and watch the hurt devastate her with grief, pain, and
then anger. He'll apologize for not knowing the answers to the same questions that she
and others have asked when their world crumbles. Why?
Parone recalls the scent of jasmine and those long legs. He's attracted to
Rita like a moth to a flame. The curiosity beckons until extinguished by the flame. Most
of Parone's experiences with women were in whorehouses. He detests women who
strut when they show their wares. They never toil. They offer the tease of sexual
fantasy while luring a weak fool filled with lust. They take more than they give, and fake
the experience, but Parone still pays for it. He's human and has needs. It's a routine
now with no emotion or conversation, like butchering a deer. He hates slick guys like
Dubin and Tarvo who get everything with ease and discard people like refuse when
their utility expires.
The next morning Parone makes his inquiries. Dubin is pure bullshit. The stench
permeates the conversation. He can imagine Dubin's $400 suit, slick hair combed back,
and flashing perfect white teeth. Parone wants to meet Rita's pimp, who calls it
salesmanship. Lytron is a multi-million-dollar business whose owner has skyrocketed to
success. There are three printed circuit shops in Santa Clara, one in Stockton where
the illegal aliens work, and the new facility in Santa Ana. Rita’s story checks out.
Parone glances at the morning newspaper while drinking last night's reheated
coffee. There is a small story on page five about the untimely death of a buyer who
worked at National Electronics. Parone recalls the pain and sense of helplessness
when he informed the widow. There is a story on page one of the business section
about National rescinding a large contract they had awarded to Lytron. That was the
deal Rita was hustling. The contract was awarded to Printex, Lytron’s rival. There is
justice. His faith in human nature is restored.
Printex had recently built a plant in Santa Ana to win some defense contracts
in Southern California. They had offered a sweetheart deal that National Electronics
couldn't refuse. Printex would make all of National’s prototype printed circuit boards for
a nominal fee and not charge for tooling or design. This gave Printex all future
production orders and National received favorable pricing.
Milan Tarvo in Santa Clara reads the same news in the San Jose Mercury News.
He calls Dubin in Santa Ana. "What the hell happened to the National deal? You said it
was a done deal."
Dubin removes the phone six inches from his ear and replies, "Rita was a
tornado in bed. He had a bad heart."
Tarvo interrupts Dubin and yells, "Fill the god damn void in sales. Have Rita
work her magic and hustle up the lost revenue."
Rita flies to Chicago to generate sales. She dredges the bars and trade shows
for three weeks. Each night she entertains a different gent. The act is getting old
and her welcome wagon is getting sore. Milan dumps on Dubin each day and Dubin
encourages Rita to do whatever it takes to get Milan off his ass. She has a string of
small fish, but she needs a whopper.
The fourth week she meets a purchasing manager at a redneck bar in Wichita.
He works for a small company that is starting to make citizen band radios. The gent is
polite and single. He pays for dinner and the room, and gives her the order. She takes
him to paradise and back and gives her word for price and delivery. They shake hands,
finish the bottle of Wild Turkey, and sleep until dawn.
Rita leaves first and hurries to her motel to give Dubin the good news. She has
pulled a rabbit out a hat. Tarvo is pleased that once again Rita has saved Lytron. He
gives her a week in Hawaii in appreciation. When she returns, Milan has fired Dubin,
and she is the southern California sales manager. Milan Tarvo never liked middlemen
or failure.
Rita calls Parone and tells him about her promotion. Two months have passed
and he has failed to enjoy one day without thinking about Rita. She is an itch he has to
scratch. He agrees to a simple meal, nothing to dress up for. Parone is a curiosity for
Rita, the strong, macho type who eventually crumbles. Rita needs a man to satisfy her
needs and protect her when required. Parone is a mustang she can tame to fill Dubin's
void.
Parone arrives early at Rita's apartment to take her to Luther's Chops and Ribs.
He is cautious but excited. She greets him with a lunge and slides her fragrant cheek
against his neck. It's the same fragrance--jasmine--that he has recalled for the past two
months. She offers dessert instead. Yes, it did smell like rose petals. She let him
pour the rose water. Parone is exhausted from pleasure and lies on his back. Rita lays
her head on his chest. They embrace and float back to earth. His stomach growls.
"Hey, Parone, what's your first name?" asks Rita.
"You didn't give me a chance to tell you. It's Dave.
"Dave, are you in the mood for a late night snack?"
"You bet." Parone enjoys the sight of her wearing his tee shirt, cowboy boots,
and hat while she fries two thick marinated pork chops in a skillet. Rita opens a can of
corn, pours it into a pan, and turns on the stove. She takes a large bowl from the
refrigerator containing chopped lettuce and sliced tomatoes. She opens a jar of
marinated artichoke hearts and pours it over the salad. He savors the sight of her and
the smell of rosemary, thyme, sage and garlic sizzling in pork fat. "You weren't planning
on going out for dinner."
"These pork chops have been marinating for two days. So where are you from?"
asks Rita.
"Chico, north of Sacramento. I grew up on a cattle ranch. I joined the Marines in
'63. I wanted to see action in Vietnam and spent three and a half years in Hawaii as an
MP. How about you?"
"Wisconsin. My dad was a dairyman. We made cheese, and had some hogs, a
chicken coop, and my mom had a vegetable garden. When I was sixteen I wanted to
be a dancer and hick kicked to New York City. How did you get that scar on your
butt?"
"I woke up one morning alongside the ugliest Japanese whore I ever had. I was
drunk and had slept most of the night. She wanted to get paid. I tossed her aside. I
bent over to grab my shorts and she stabbed me in the ass with a letter opener."
"Hell hath no fury....."
"Don't I know. Not only did I get stabbed, but she gave me the crabs. I had to
get penicillin and tetanus shots."
Rita sets the table and serves Dave. He gets a second beer from the refrigerator
and waits for her. She smiles and says, "Let's eat."
"Looks great... smells great... and taste great. Best chops I've ever had.
"Thanks. Nothing like home cooking."
"You bet."
Parone never feels the burn of her brand while spending the night in her corral.
She makes coffee and fries bacon and eggs for breakfast. "Can I take you to Luther's
next time?
Rita walks over and sits in his lap. She hugs him, leaving her signature of
jasmine. "Sure, any time. I want a thick steak, mushrooms, baked potato, and plenty of
beer."
"You got it. Breakfast was delicious. Thanks."
It is Sunday noon. Parone motions to get up to leave. He thanks her again and
holds her hand as they walked to the front door. Rita feels like a young girl, alive again.
He feels an inner glow from her spirit. It's different this time. Rita tugs his arm to get his
attention. "One for the road, cowboy." They kiss. Parone begins to feel the weight of a
relationship. He has been single too long. He feels apprehensive, but it's sure nice
having someone in his life. The moth is attracted to the flame again. Maybe this will be
different. It's worth one last ride. Parone walks down the steps and turns to wave
goodbye.
"Hey Dave, can we go fishing some time?"
. Parone imagines Rita putting a live worm on a hook. end:jpc
