W Is for Wasted Page 5

  Thus it was that I searched out a parking space for the second time that afternoon, this one three doors down from my studio. I put myself in charge of William’s rolling bag and I even went so far as to remove the cat carrier from the backseat, lugging it in one hand as I maneuvered the rolling suitcase with the other. William held open the gate and then trailed along behind me most reluctantly, I thought. I carried the duffel as far as Henry’s back door and set it down.

  “You can do the honors,” I said. When I looked back at William, he was bent double, staring at the walk as though searching for a lost dime.

  “Back’s out,” he said.

  Henry opened the kitchen door. “Good heavens,” he said as he moved to William’s side. Between us, we helped him up the few shallow steps and into the kitchen. Moaning, William sank into Henry’s rocking chair. I went back for the suitcase and that’s when I saw the cat’s paw appear through a gap where it had worked the zipper down.

  I’ve never been present in a delivery room in the tender moment when a child is born, but I picture it much like this. The slit was no more than an inch long when the cat began to push through the opening. After the first paw, its head emerged and shortly after that, one shoulder, followed by a second white paw with a very long front leg attached. Cats are amazingly agile, as was plain to see. I watched, hypnotized, as though witnessing a miracle. “Hey, William?” I said, but by then, the cat had wiggled free and streaked off toward the shrubs.

  Henry snapped to attention. “What the hell was that?”

  Weakly, William said, “Surprise!”

  4

  Tuesday morning I rolled out of bed at 6:00, brushed my teeth, and pulled on my sweats and running shoes. A baseball cap eliminated the need to deal with my hair, which was flat on one side and standing straight out on the other. When I left the house, the only hint that the cat was still in the vicinity was a pair of mouse feet and a long gray tail on my welcome mat. I tied my key into the laces of one shoe and set out at a slow clip, hoping to warm up before I began to jog in earnest.

  Henry’s dinner invitation from the night before had been superseded by our efforts to persuade the cat to come out of the bushes. Since William was incapacitated, it fell to Henry and me to crawl around on the newly aerated lawn, coaxing the cat with kitty treats and threats, all to no avail. Once it got dark, we’d been forced to abandon the attempt and hope that the cat would at least remain where it was until morning.

  The day promised to be warm. In typical California fashion, the damp and chill of the week before had been replaced by temperatures slated to reach the low eighties. A lingering marine layer hovered like thick white batting, but that would burn off by midday. As though in proof of this, a column of bright yellow sunshine illuminated the ocean just offshore, looking as though a monster hole had been punched in the clouds.

  I completed the three-mile loop and slowed to a walk. I hadn’t seen my homeless pals and I wondered how many times the notion of their whereabouts would cross my mind. It was like having a tune lodged in my head, endless replays of a melody I couldn’t seem to block. The week before I’d known nothing of the dead man and nothing of his friends. Now I was troubled by their absence. In deciding to dismiss the matter, I’d succeeded only in tempering its effect. Terrence still hovered on the periphery while I waited for someone to step forward with a few concrete facts. I suppose I’d assumed that once I knew what his story was, I could forget about him entirely and his cronies along with him.

  Home again, I showered, dressed, ate my cereal, and read the paper. When I left the studio, there was still no sign of Henry, William, or the cat. Either Henry had lured it inside or it had remained stubbornly out of reach. I left the mouse parts where they were in case the cat was looking forward to a snack later in the day. I hadn’t even known we had mice on the property and now the population was down by one.

  Driving to the office, I spotted a pedestrian in a familiar herringbone sport coat poised to cross the street half a block ahead. He gave a quick look in each direction and then fixed his gaze on the sidewalk as he stepped up on the curb, heading in the same direction I was. I slowed and peered closely. Apparently, Fate wasn’t done with me because sure enough, it was Dandy in baggy black trousers and a pair of bright white running shoes. I pulled over to the curb and rolled down the car window on the passenger side. “Dandy? It’s Kinsey. You want a ride?”

  He smiled when he caught sight of me. “That’d be nice. I was on my way to your office.”

  “Hop in and I’ll deliver you to my door.”

  I flipped the locks. Dandy opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat, bringing with him the cloudy smell of old cigarettes, which seemed to cling to his clothes. His pale pink dress shirt was freshly ironed and had the stiffness and sheen of spray starch. I had to guess he’d spiffed himself up in anticipation of the visit. I could smell soap and shampoo and the saturated scent of alcohol wafting through his skin. It was an odd combination; his efforts at personal hygiene undercut by his habitual intake of whiskey and nicotine. I experienced a piercing sense of protectiveness because he seemed so unaware of his effect.

  He held up my business card. “I never met a private eye, so I thought I better see for myself.”

  “The office isn’t much, but you can be the judge. I take it Pearl wasn’t panting to see me again.”

  “She doesn’t like to walk. Me, I hoof it all over town. I apologize for her being rude the other day.”

  “Is she always that hostile?”

  “I wouldn’t fret if I were you. It’s nothing personal. Terrence was a good friend and his death was a blow. She hasn’t been handling it well.”

  “Why take it out on me? I didn’t even know the man.”

  “She’s disputatious, though she’s not as tough as she’d have us believe. She may give you a hard time, but she’s a pussycat at heart.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I took a right turn off Santa Teresa Street onto Caballero Lane, which was one block long. My office was the center one in a line of three small stucco cottages. In addition to the cheap rent, the location was close to the heart of downtown, in walking distance of the public library, the courthouse, and the police station. I pulled up in front. There were ample parking spots available because the bungalows on either side of me were empty and had been since I moved in. Dandy got out and waited while I locked the car and joined him on the walk. He had a courtly air about him. Maybe it was the dress shirt or the hint of humor in his eyes. I thought he seemed surprisingly intelligent, and then I had to stop and correct myself. Being homeless and being smart aren’t mutually exclusive states. There might be any number of reasons he was on the street.

  I led the way up the front steps. I unlocked the door and opened it for him. “I’m putting on a pot of coffee if you’re interested.”

  “I’d like that,” he said as he followed me in.

  “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

  “Thank you.”

  I rinsed out the coffeepot and slotted it onto the machine, putting a fresh filter in the holder, which I popped into place. Over my shoulder, I could see Dandy in the outer office, where he browsed the various law books and texts in my collection, everything from California Criminal Law to a 1980 edition of the Shooter’s Bible. There were also the technical tomes about burglary and theft, Scott’s Fingerprint Mechanics, arson investigation, the criminal mind-set, and Adelson’s Pathology of Homicide.

  When he drifted into the inner office, I left the coffee brewing in the kitchenette and joined him. It crossed my mind, just briefly, that he might try pilfering an item, but then I remembered I didn’t have anything of value. No cash, no dope, no prescription medication, and no bottle of booze in my bottom drawer. If he wanted a ballpoint pen, I’d be happy to gift him with one.

  He’d taken a seat in one of the two guest chairs, clearly curious about my domain. I took my place on the other side of the desk and tried seeing the place
through his eyes. As it happens, my office is devoid of personal touches. I have an artificial ficus tree that I think lends the room a hint of class, but the fake plant is about it. There are no family photographs, no travel posters, no bric-a-brac, and no paperweight advertising “Bail Bonds, Quick Response.” For the most part, my desktop was clear, all of the paperwork consigned to folders tucked away in the file cabinets lining one wall.

  He smiled. “Cozy.”

  “That’s one word for it,” I said. “Can I ask a personal question?”

  “As long as I’m not under oath.”

  “I was wondering what brought you to Santa Teresa.”

  “This is my hometown. I grew up three blocks from here. My father taught math at Santa Teresa High back in the forties and fifties.”

  I made a face. “Math’s not my strong suit.”

  “Nor mine,” he replied. His smile activated dimples I hadn’t noticed before. His teeth were charmingly buckled and flashed white against the dark of his complexion.

  “Did you go to Santa Teresa High by any chance?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. I graduated class of nineteen and thirty-three, long before you were born. I attended City College for two years, but I couldn’t see the point.”

  “Really? Same here. I went two semesters and then quit. Now I wish I’d stuck it out, but I sure don’t want to go back.”

  “Better to get an education while you’re young. My age, it’s too late.”

  “Hey, mine, too. Did you like school? I hated it. High school, at any rate. I was a low-waller, smokin’ dope half the time.” Low-wallers were the kids who loitered before and after classes on a low wall that ran along the backside of the school grounds.

  “I was straight A’s. Then life came along and I guess while you went up in the world, I went down.”

  “I wouldn’t call this up.”

  “Up from where I stand.”

  I didn’t know if he viewed himself as a victim or a realist. I could hear the coffee machine gurgle to a halt and I got to my feet. “What do you take in your coffee?”

  “Milk and two sugars, please.”

  “Sugar for sure. Milk could be a problem. Let me see what I can do.”

  I left the office and went down the hall to the kitchenette, where I opened my pint-size refrigerator and gave the milk carton a sniff. Slightly off, I thought, but I’ve heard that sometimes the residue of milk on the pour spout sours before the rest. I filled two mugs with coffee and added milk to mine, checking for the telltale curdling that suggests beaucoup bacteria at work. No evidence of spoilage, so I added a big dollop to his coffee and returned the carton to the fridge.

  I handed him his mug and two paper packets of sugar and resettled myself in my swivel chair. I held up a finger. “Before I forget . . .” I leaned down and extracted the three packs of cigarettes from the shoulder bag at my feet and pushed them across the desk. “Consider this a bribe.”

  “Much appreciated. I’ll pass along a pack each to Felix and Pearl.”

  “Pearl, in particular. I was hoping to elevate myself in her opinion.”

  There was a dip in the conversation. My usual practice is to let the silence lengthen until the other fellow gets squirmy enough to speak his mind. This time, I took the lead. “I’m assuming you didn’t walk all this way to pay a social call.”

  “Not entirely. Don’t take this wrong, but your asking about Terrence really set Pearl off.”

  “As I’m keenly aware. What’s the big deal?”

  “She says you smell like a cop.”

  “That’s because I was a cop, once upon a time. I was with the STPD two years and then I got out. I like playing by the rules when it suits, but I don’t like answering to anyone.”

  “Understandable,” he said. “Then again, Terrence hadn’t been dead a full day when you came sniffing around. Her words, not mine.”

  “‘Sniffing’ seems an odd choice. I told you I was hoping to locate his family, which is not a federal offense. Right now, he’s a John Doe. His name might be Terrence, but that’s the extent of what we have. The coroner’s office is swamped this week, so I said I’d see what I could find out. What’s she think I’m up to?”

  “She’s suspicious by nature while I’m the opposite. I believe most folks are honest until proven otherwise.”

  “My policy as well,” I said. “What else is bugging her? We might as well put all our cards on the table as long as you’re here.”

  “She thinks you’re not being honest about who you’re working for.”

  “What, like I’m an undercover agent? I’m self-employed. None of my work has anything to do with Terrence, dead or alive. You don’t believe me, you can search my files.”

  “You don’t work for St. Terry’s?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re not associated with the hospital or the university in any capacity at all?”

  “No way. I’m freelance. I’ll swear to it,” I said. “I don’t have clients in the medical profession or any related field. And that includes dentists and podiatrists. I don’t know how else to assure you of my sincerity.”

  “I’ll pass that on to her.”

  “Are we square?”

  “As far as I’m concerned.”

  “Good. Then it’s my turn. Why did Terrence need the services of a PI? I asked before and I didn’t get an answer.”

  “He didn’t spell out the particulars, but I know what was on his mind. He believed he had kin in the area. Growing up, he had an uncle he very much admired. The two were close when he was a kid, but he hadn’t seen the man for years. Said he came to visit his uncle here shortly after the man moved to Santa Teresa. Later he heard the fellow died. He hoped to connect with family members, assuming there were any left.”

  “He never mentioned his uncle’s name?”

  “No. I happened to overhear him talking about it to someone else.”

  “Why pick me when there are half a dozen private eyes in town?”

  “You know a fellow named Pinky Ford?”

  “Of course. How do you know him?”

  “He’s a man about town, in some sense of the word. I haven’t seen him in weeks, but he lives in a big yellow Cadillac he parks here and there. Terrence was asking around and Pinky told him you were a decent sort.”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  Dandy cocked his head. “How do you know Pinky? He doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “Long story I’ll save for another time.”

  “I may take you up on it,” he said. “Meantime, what else can I tell you about Terrence?”

  “Do you know where he was from?”

  “Bakersfield. I don’t know if he was born there, but the way he told it, that’s where he lived most of his life.”

  “You met him at Harbor House?”

  “That’s right. He arrived here in January on a Greyhound bus. He’d been in prison up at Soledad. He said it was a life sentence, but that’s all I know. He didn’t like to talk about it. He slept a couple of nights under a freeway overpass and figured out it was a bad idea. The panhandlers with cardboard signs aren’t as nice as the rest of us. You stand by the road begging, that’s a different work ethic. Terrence tried the Rescue Mission, but they wouldn’t take him unless he swore off alcohol, which he wasn’t about to do. He heard about the shelter and when he showed up, the first person he met was Pearl. She introduced him to Felix and me. Harbor House, you don’t have to be sober, but you’d better not be obstreperous. Make trouble and you’re out.”

  “It seems like a cool place,” I said. “I stopped by the day before yesterday looking for you.”

  “Sunday, we throw darts. Sports bar down the block has a weekly tournament.”

  “Are you any good?”

  “Depends on what day it is and how much I’ve had to drink.”

  “I noticed the woman in line ahead of me had a shelter ID card. At least I think that’s what it was. I wondered if Terrence had one. I
ask because he didn’t have any identification on him when the coroner brought him in.”

  “Oh, he had a card. I’m sure of it. Harbor House issued one so he could take his meals with us. Someone walked off with all his stuff, so maybe it was in his cart.”

  “He wasn’t a Harbor House resident?”

  “Not him. He didn’t want a bed. Nights, he didn’t like to be around other folks. He spent most his time drunk and he hung out with another fellow in the same sorry shape. Now and then he tried cleaning up his act without much success.”

  “So he was in Santa Teresa, what, eight or nine months?”

  “Sounds about right. He loved it here. He said he was never going anyplace else. March, the other fellow died and Terrence went on a bender that landed him in jail. After that he sobered up for a couple weeks. Then he started in again and one day collapsed in the street. He was lucky he didn’t die that round. Pain meds and alcohol are a bad mix.”

  “No fooling. Pain pills? What was that about?”

  “Up at Soledad, some fellows went after him with lead pipes. Busted up his leg bad, leaving him with a limp and a load of agony. He didn’t sleep well because of it. He had to get up now and then and walk around so it wouldn’t seize up. That was another reason he preferred to be outdoors, so he wouldn’t bother any of the rest of us.”

  “I saw the damage to his leg when I was at the morgue. What triggered the attack?”

  “He wouldn’t say. Some things you’d ask and all he’d do is shake his head. When he spiraled down the second time, he ended up in St. Terry’s. They put him through detox and then into rehab. Next thing I heard, he was on the street again. I didn’t think he’d last a week. I figured it was just a matter of time before his demons got ahold of him and took him down.”