W Is for Wasted Read online

  “Is that what happened?”

  “Naw. He got into a program that put him back on his feet.”

  “Apparently not for good.”

  Dandy smiled. “There’s no such thing as ‘for good’ when you’re one of us. It’s ‘for good’ until the first drink or you’re back to chipping heroin. Meth, if you’re really on a downward slide. Terrence went back to his old ways and that was the end of him. Pearl didn’t want to believe he’d started drinking again. Broke her heart, if you want to know the truth. He finally got clean and then he couldn’t maintain. Might sound odd coming from me. Nobody knows better than another drunk how hard it is to quit. Pearl believed he’d cleaned up his act. He gave her his word and she took it seriously.”

  “Do you know when he was last seen by a doctor? It would help if the coroner’s office found a physician who’d sign off on the death certificate.”

  “There was a doctor headed up the program. He’s the one terminated Terrence for disobeying the rules. I know he wasn’t feeling well the last couple of weeks. Much as he drank, it wasn’t any big surprise. He was a wreck of a human being and then he died and that’s the end of it.”

  “What about his family? Any kids?”

  “He burned that bridge a year ago. He was on the outs with his ex-wife and estranged from his kids. I don’t know the whole of it, but I gather his kids as good as slammed the door in his face. He claimed he did everything in his power to make things right, but they weren’t buying it.”

  “What was the issue?”

  Dandy’s smile was benign. “Being drunk’s the issue. What else you got? He gave up on his kids because they gave up on him. That’s the kind of pain for which there’s no relief.”

  “It must have been hard on him.”

  “He learned his lesson that round. He wanted to be clean and sober before he contacted his kinfolk, which is why he carried your name in his pocket for months. He needed a go-between, someone to smooth the way for him. After what happened with his kids, he was through with surprises, I can tell you that.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “The way he told it, his kids had no clue he’d come knocking at the door. He’d called and told ’em he wanted to make amends, but I guess they never thought they’d actually see him again and good riddance from their perspective. I believe he’d had a fair amount to drink by the time he got there. I fussed at him good when he told me how he’d gone about it. Said, bro, it’s not cool. It’s not cool at all. When there’s bad blood, you don’t do that—show up drunk and think your kids are going to welcome you with open arms. Doesn’t work that way.”

  “Family’s tough. It’s like walking through a minefield, hoping you won’t get blown to bits,” I said. “I wonder what he was in prison for.”

  “He never said. Something bad must have gone down.”

  “I’m sorry he didn’t call me.”

  “He might have been too sick. With him back on the booze, he was probably ashamed of himself. He disappeared for a month last summer and then he came back.”

  “Disappeared to where?”

  “Los Angeles, but I don’t know what he did there. Give a fellow his space is my attitude.”

  I tilted back in my swivel chair and propped my foot on the edge of the desk. “Depressing, isn’t it?”

  “Not every life turns out.”

  “Which I should know by now,” I said. “The coroner’s investigator says all Terrence had on him were the clothes on his back and the sleeping bag he died in. Didn’t he own anything else?”

  “’Course he did. Had a shopping cart where he kept his cookstove, his books, and a custom-made tent. All gone by the time we got to the beach on the morning he died. He also had a fancy backpack with an aluminum frame. Somebody walked off with everything.”

  “That’s too bad. What kind of books?”

  “These were textbooks mostly. He loved anything to do with plants. Trees, shrubs, container gardening, propagation. He knew everything there was to know about California oaks. Drop of a hat, he’d talk your ear off. It was hard to shut him up once he got started.”

  “Was he a teacher?”

  “No, but he sure knew a lot. He said before he went to prison, he’d been working on a landscaping degree. He was a tree trimmer by trade, which was how he supported his family, but he wanted to be a landscape architect. Nights and weekends, he took classes.”

  “Must have been a bright guy.”

  “Very. He was a sweet man, too.” Dandy shifted in his chair. “Something else. Pearl didn’t want me to tell you this, but I don’t see why not. She thinks he had money. Lots of it.”

  “Really. Do you agree?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m not sure where it came from, but he didn’t live check-to-check like the rest of us. He kept a roll of bills in his pocket this big around.” He made a sizable circle with his thumb and index finger.

  “But that makes no sense. If he had money, why was he living on the streets? Why not rent a room?”

  “He didn’t care to spend his money that way. You might feel safe sleeping in your own bed, but to him, it was a nightmare. Furnished room was just like a cell to him. Too hot, too small, too noisy. Camping out feels like freedom. Even I know that and I never been in jail. Except a time or two . . .” he added, just to keep the record straight. “Point is, what he could afford wasn’t relevant.”

  “So where do you think the money came from?”

  “Beats me. He might have gone to prison for embezzlement. He might have robbed a bank. He didn’t seem like the sort who’d do either one, but what do I know? Any rate, he knew what he wanted done with it when he passed.”

  “Such as what?”

  “All I know is he went to that office-supply place up on State? He bought him a kit full of legal forms so he could draw up his last will and testament.”

  “That was enterprising.”

  “Yes, it was. He filled it out and had us sign as witnesses. Felix, Pearl, and me.”

  I could feel my head tilt, like a dog picking up a high-pitched whine inaudible to us humans. “How long ago was this?”

  “July. I believe it was the eighth.”

  “So on the eighth of July, you witnessed his signature?”

  “So did Felix and Pearl. We all did.”

  “Then you must know his full name.”

  Dandy’s change of expression was nearly comical. I’d nailed him and he knew it. He’d been neatly sidestepping the matter of Terrence’s identity, but he’d forgotten to censor the secondary references. Once I’d called him on it, he wasn’t quick enough to fabricate a cover story. He looked at me as though I were blessed with psychic powers. “I’m right about that, aren’t I?”

  “I never lied. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “But why didn’t you speak up? We’ve been talking all around the subject and you knew his name the whole time.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “I asked the first time we met. That was the whole point. I came down to the beach to find out who he was and I asked you straight out. The three of you were sitting right there.”

  “Pearl said not to tell.”

  “Are we still in grade school? Who made her the boss? I’m trying to do something nice for the man. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Whether he was on good terms with his kids or not, they have a right to know he’s gone.”

  I noticed he’d stopped making eye contact and he was busy picking at a snag on the knee of his trousers.

  I said, “So what was his name?”

  I didn’t think he’d answer. I watched him shift in his chair, wrestling with his conscience. On one hand, there was Pearl, the Holy Terror. If she found out he’d leaked the information, she’d break both of his clavicles, put him on the rack, and stretch him until she’d torn off his arms. On the other hand, there was me, all-around good person, generous with my coffee, and only occasionally guilty of sticking my nose into other people’s business. “Dandy?”

&
nbsp; “R. T. Dace. He went by his middle name, Terrence, but you never heard it from me.”

  I turned an imaginary key in my lips, locking them shut before I tossed away the key.

  5

  Fifteen minutes later, I dropped Dandy at the Harbor House. He hadn’t asked for a ride. I’d offered . . . nay, I’d insisted. I wanted to get rid of him so I’d have a chance to think about what he’d said. Having chided him for withholding information, I’d been less than forthcoming myself.

  I’d actually heard the name R. T. Dace before. Twice as a matter of fact. I couldn’t remember the dates, but I knew of two distinct occasions in which people called to ask for him. What the heck was that about?

  I left the shelter trying to recall the circumstances in which the phone calls had come in. It was distracting, trying to pin down the reference in a moving vehicle while hoping to obey traffic laws and avoid running over pedestrians. I turned into one of the public parking lots that looked out over the beach to the ocean beyond. I pulled into a slot and killed the engine. I laid my head back and closed my eyes, slowing my breath, working to silence the chatter in my head.

  The inquiries had come months before, probably midsummer. I’d taken the first call at the office. I remembered that much. I tried to picture the cases I was working at the time, but my mental screen was blank. I set the point aside and focused on the fragment of conversation that had stuck in my mind. I was eating lunch at my desk when the phone rang. I put a quick hand against my mouth, chewing and swallowing in haste before I picked up. “Millhone Investigations.”

  “May I speak to Mr. Millhone?”

  The caller was male, on the young side, and his voice, while deep, suggested an underlying anxiety. I was already thinking it was a sales call, some boiler-room trainee learning the ropes. I’d pushed the caution button in my head while I tried to guess the nature of the upcoming pitch. Telemarketers inevitably say “How are you today?” in a tone that’s patently insincere, using the question as a means of engaging you in conversation. I said, “There isn’t a Mr. Millhone.”

  The fellow cut in, but instead of the expected spiel, he said, “This is Dr. . . .”

  I blanked on the name instantly because I had zeroed in on the voice, thinking it might be one I recognized. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m trying to reach Mr. Dace.”

  “Who?”

  “Artie Dace. I understand he doesn’t have a phone, but I hoped you’d put me in touch with him. Is he there by any chance?”

  “You have the wrong number. There’s no Mr. Dace here.”

  “Do you know how I can reach him? I tried the shelter, but they won’t confirm the name.”

  “Same here. I never heard of him.”

  There was a brief silence. “Sorry,” he said, and the line went dead.

  I remembered dismissing the call the moment I hung up, though I half expected the phone to ring again. Wrong numbers seem to come in clusters, often because the calling party tries the same number a second time, thinking the error is connected to the dialing process. I stared at the handset and when the phone didn’t ring, I shrugged and went about my business.

  The second call came within a matter of days. I know this because the name Dace had been planted recently enough that I hadn’t yet deleted it from memory. I’d closed the office early and I was having my calls forwarded. Henry and I were sitting in the backyard when the phone in my studio began to ring. I’d left my door open for just this reason, in case a client tried to reach me. When the phone rang a second time, I leaped to my feet and trotted into the apartment, where I caught the phone on the third ring. “Millhone Investigations.”

  “May I speak to Mr. Millhone?”

  This time the caller was a woman and I could hear noise in the background that suggested a public setting. “This is Kinsey Millhone. What can I do for you?”

  The woman said, “This is the Cardiac Care Unit at Santa Teresa Hospital. We’ve admitted Mr. Artie Dace and we’re hoping you can give us information about what medications he’s on. He’s in and out of consciousness and unable to respond to questions.”

  I squinted at the handset. “Who’s this?”

  “My name is Eloise Cantrell. I’m the charge nurse in the CCU. The patient’s name is Artie Dace.”

  This time, I’d picked up a pen and pulled over a scratch pad, making a note of the nurse’s name. I added CCU. “I don’t know anyone named Artie.”

  “The last name is Dace, initials R. T.”

  “I still can’t help you.”

  “But you do know the gentleman. Is that correct?”

  “No, and I don’t understand why you’re calling me. How did you get my name and number?”

  “The patient was brought in through the emergency room and one of the nurse’s aides recognized him from a prior hospitalization. Medical Records located his chart and the doctor asked me to get in touch.”

  “Look, I wish I could help, but I don’t know anyone by that name. Honest.”

  There was a stretch of silence. “This isn’t in regard to his hospital bill. He’s covered by Medicaid,” she said, as though that might soften my stance.

  “Doesn’t matter. I don’t know anyone named Dace and I certainly don’t know what medications he’s on.”

  Her tone turned cool. “Well, I appreciate your time and I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

  “No problem.”

  And that was the extent of it.

  I opened my eyes and looked out at the ocean. Maybe Dace had tried to reach me, but he’d been ill at the time. The doctor whose name I’d missed and the charge nurse, Eloise Cantrell, had probably discovered my name and number in his trouser pocket the same way the coroner’s office had. His handwritten note had said Millhone Investigations along with my office number. Both callers had erroneously assumed that Millhone was a man. Dandy had just told me Dace carried the information with him for months, hoping to sober up before he asked for help.

  Though there were still gaps in the story, I was feeling better about the string of events. There’s something inherent in human nature that has us constructing narratives to explain a world that is otherwise chaotic and opaque. Life is little more than a series of overlapping stories about who we are, where we came from, and how we struggle to survive. What we call news isn’t new at all: wars, murders, famines, plagues—death in all its forms. It’s folly to assign meaning to every chance event, yet we do it all the time. In this case, it seemed curious that Pinky Ford, whose life had touched mine six months before, had made another appearance, this time connecting me to the man in the morgue. It did help me to understand how some of the lines connected. Dace’s choosing me wasn’t random. He was acting on the recommendation of a mutual acquaintance. The referral hadn’t netted me a job, but there was always the chance that a casual mention would result in future employment. In the meantime, the two phone calls regarding him and my name and number on that paper in his pocket were no longer mysterious in the overall scheme of things. I paused to correct myself. There had actually been three calls, the last one being from the coroner’s office.

  Now that I thought about it, I’d had a number of hang-ups on my office answering machine. There must have been six in all, someone calling while I was out and electing not to leave a message. There was no reason to assume that the caller was the same in every instance and no reason to imagine it was R. T. Dace on the other end. But it was possible. Nothing to be done about it at this point, and I felt a momentary, formless regret.

  As long as I was only three blocks from home, I decided to stop off and see what kind of luck Henry was having with the cat. I’d left that morning long before William’s appointment with the neurologist, and I was interested in an update on his condition as well. I found a parking spot across the street from Rosie’s place and noticed that the tenting was down. I could see a workman closing the downstairs windows, and I assumed that both the restaurant and the apartment upstairs had undergone a th
orough airing out.

  I locked my car, walked the half block, and made my way into the backyard. There was no sign of Henry, no sign of the cat, and no sign of William. Henry’s kitchen door was open, and when I tapped on the frame, there was a lengthy delay and then William hobbled into view from the direction of the living room. He held the door for me and I stepped into the kitchen.

  “Henry’s not here, but he’s due back momentarily. Have a seat and don’t mind me if I stand. Hurts too much to get up and down. I’m better off on my feet.”

  “I see the termite tenting’s down. Will you be staying here or going home?”

  “I’ll go home if I can manage it. I’m sure Henry will be glad to see the last of me.”

  “What about all the kitchen equipment and supplies? Won’t they have to be moved back in?”

  “I suppose that can wait until Rosie gets home.”

  “I’ll be happy to help. If you’ll direct our efforts, Henry and I can do the work.”

  I pulled out a kitchen chair and settled my shoulder bag on the floor nearby. William leaned against the counter with his cane to provide balance. I could see past him into the backyard, so I knew I’d spot Henry as soon as he appeared. “How’d your doctor’s appointment go?” I asked.

  “Dr. Metzger did a thorough examination and didn’t seem to think an MRI would be necessary for now. He made a point of saying ‘for now.’ ‘Always have ammunition in reserve’ was the way he put it. He prescribed an anti-inflammatory, pain medication, and a muscle relaxant. I’m also to do physical therapy three times a week. I have a heating pad that I’m to use before therapy and an ice pack for after.”

  I sensed William’s discomfiture that his medical prognosis had been downgraded from near death, past acute, down to the mundane level of pills, ice packs, and PT. Added to that shame was his miscalculation with regard to the cat. I said, “Well, thank heaven you came home when you did. If you’d stayed in Flint four more days, no telling how bad your sciatica would have been. At least you’re under the care of a specialist.”