"Q" is for Quarry (14 page)

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You know what? This is called ‘denial. ’ This is you trying to minimize a problem that could be damn serious. Hell, give me the gal’s name and I’ll call her myself.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Then
you
call.”

“I will. I was going to do that.”

“Now.”

“Con, cut it out! It’s past five. She’s probably left for the day.”

“Then call the service, leave CC’s number, and have her paged. We can wait. You don’t call her, I will. I’m sick of hearing you bellyache.”

“You don’t even know her name.”

“I’ll find out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Quit arguing. Maybe she’ll give you some Valium to help you sleep at night.”

Stacey shook his head. “I hate making a fool of myself because of you.” Despite his grumbling and protests, he did go off to find a phone.

Dolan and I sat without looking at each other. I didn’t like the sound of it any more than he did. Finally, I said, “Are the two of you okay? You seem testy.”

“We’re fine. He’s just pissing me off. It’s not about his back. The man’s depressed. He thinks the cancer’s spread and that’s why he doesn’t want to get it checked.”

“I missed that, I guess. He seemed fine as far as I could tell. I mean, aside from his back.”

“That’s because he puts on an act for your benefit. You should’ve heard him before you showed. The shit’s wearing him down. If he’d had a gun on him, he’d have blown his brains out. He’s that close.” Dolan held up his thumb and index finger a quarter of an inch apart.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am. He wasn’t even going to do the chemo until I talked him into it. As far as he’s concerned, this is the end of the line so why play it out? Get the damn thing over with is his attitude.”

“But suppose the cancer’s moved into his bones?”

“Now, damn it, don’t you start. Don’t be so negative.”

“I’m just saying I can understand where he’s coming from.”

“Well, keep your opinion to yourself.”

“My opinion’s not relevant. He can do anything he wants. It’s his life.”

“Wrong. He could use a pep talk. He needs someone to make him realize how selfish it is.”

“To kill himself? How so?”

“People who commit suicide are the ultimate narcissists. What makes him think everything revolves around him? I’m in this, too. Thirty years down the drain and all because he’s a cowardly damn chickenshit and won’t see this through.”

“But what if he’s terminal? I don’t understand what you want.”

“I want him to think about someone else for a change.”

“If you don’t get to think about yourself when you’re dying, when do you?” I said.

Stacey reappeared moments later and we dropped the conversation. He declined to sit, remaining by the table with his fists pressed into the small of his back.

Dolan fired up another cigarette, pausing to cough into his fist. “What’d she say?”

Stacey waved the cigarette smoke away from his face. “She’ll see me first thing tomorrow morning; maybe take an X-ray or do a CT scan.”

“What’s the matter with her? Did you tell her how bad it is? She should see you right now and find out what the hell’s going on.”

“Goddammit. Quit nagging. This isn’t an emergency so lay off that stuff. Anyway, I’m tired and it’s time to go home. I can’t be sitting here drinking all night like some I could name.”

“Sit down. You haven’t had dinner yet. You have to eat. It’s my treat.”

“I got food at my place. You two stay. I can get a cab.”

“I’ll take you,” I said. “My car’s right outside.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can manage on my own.”

“Really, I don’t mind. I need to get home myself.”

I reached for my shoulder bag and took out the keys. Stacey was already moving toward the door as I slid out of the booth.

Dolan stubbed out his cigarette. “I’ll take care of it.”

In the end, we left at the same time; Stacey in Dolan’s car and me in mine. I watched Dolan turn off, heading toward the freeway. I took a right on Cabana Boulevard and followed the road as it wound along the beach. It was not quite dark, but a fog was rolling in off the ocean, enveloping the shore. I parked in Henry’s driveway. He’d be home tomorrow in the late afternoon. I let myself into his place where I did a quick tour, making sure all was in order. No broken water pipes, no power outages, and no sign of disturbances. For a moment, I stood in his kitchen, drinking in the lingering scent of yeast and cinnamon—Henry’s home-baked sweetrolls. Surely, I could survive one more day.

I was home minutes later, safely tucked away for the night. 5:56 on a Friday evening and I had no plans. I made an olive-and-pimento-cheese sandwich on whole-wheat bread, which I cut into quarters. I poured myself a glass of wine and settled on the couch where I took up the Jane Doe file and started back at page one. Sometimes you work because there’s nothing else to do.

At 1:35 that morning, I was awakened from a sound sleep: Dolan on the phone, calling from the ER at St. Terry’s.

“Stacey’s back got worse after I dropped him off. He called me at midnight and asked me to bring him in. They took one look at him and rounded up the doc on call. I’m waiting to hear what the fellow has to say.”

“You want me to come over?”

“Hang on a second.” He put a hand over the mouthpiece and conducted a muffled conversation with someone else, then returned to the line. “I’ll call you back in a bit. Soon as I find out what’s going on.”

I replaced the handset, now wide awake. If Dolan intended to phone again, there was really no point in going back to sleep. I flipped on the light and fumbled for my running shoes. Given my new efficiency measures, I was fully suited up in sweats and crew socks. I needed only brush my teeth and run wet hands through my mop and I was ready to go.

I parked on a side street across from the hospital emergency entrance. I love the town at that hour. Traffic is sparse, the streets are empty, most businesses are shut down. The temperature had dropped into the forties and the lights in the emergency room looked inviting. Apparently, the usual weekend traumafest hadn’t gotten under way as yet, because the front desk was deserted and all was quiet. I found Dolan reading a magazine in the reception area. He rose when he saw me.

Without even thinking, I gave his cheek a buss. “How’s he doing?”

“They’re in the process of admitting him. I could have saved you a trip. I tried calling you back, but I guess you’d already left by then.”

“Don’t worry about it. I was up anyway. What now? Will they let you see him again?”

“They gave him something for the pain and he’s out of it. He probably won’t know the difference, but I’ll feel better if I do. After that, I thought I’d make a run over to his place and pick up some of his things. Toothbrush and comb, stuff like that.”

“Why don’t I find us a cup of coffee? There’s bound to be a vending machine on the premises somewhere.”

We sat together for half an hour, sipping treacherous-smelling lukewarm coffee from thick paper cups with handles like flat-folded butterfly wings. He said, “What were you doing home? I was all set to leave a message. I figured you’d be out on a date.”

“People don’t
date
anymore; at least I don’t,” I said.

“Why not? What’s wrong with it? How else are you going to meet someone?”

“I don’t want to
meet
anyone. I’m fine, thanks so much. What about you? You’re single. Are you dating these days?”

“I’m too old.”

“Me, too,” I said, peering over at him. “How long ago did your wife die?”

“Ten months today.” He was silent for a moment. “I’ll tell you what’s been hard. She bugged me for years to go on a cruise. I hated the whole idea. Tahiti. Alaska. She’d bring me color brochures full of these pictures of happy couples, all of ’em thirty years old, standing on the deck, holding champagne flutes. Sunset. Romance. Inside’d be a picture of this mountain of food you could stuff yourself with twenty-four hours a day. Just the sight of it’s enough to make your ulcers perforate. I hate being cooped up, and I was worried I’d be stranded with a bunch of fools. Does that sound unreasonable?”

“You think it was a cruise she wanted or just a trip someplace?”

Dolan turned and gave me a look. “I never thought to ask.”

I got back to my place at 2:45 A.M. and then slept restlessly until 10:00. The Santa Teresa County Jail is housed in a 25,000-square-foot building, two-stories, 120 beds, designed to be staffed by only two corrections officers, one of whom monitors the state-of-the-art security panel with its bank of television screens.

Still feeling half-dead from lack of sleep, I pulled the VW into one of the slots out front and went through the main entrance doors, where I picked up a copy of the visitation request form. I filled in my name and gave it to the clerk at the counter, then hung out in the lobby area while the word went down to Pudgie that he had a visitor. I could picture his puzzlement, as I was reasonably certain he’d never heard of me. Curiosity (or boredom) must have gotten the better of him because the clerk returned and said he’d agreed to see me. She gave me the booth number where I could meet him.

Ten of us entered the elevator: two lone women and three mothers with assorted small kids. I pressed DOWN, wondering if I looked like the sort of person who’d have a boyfriend in jail. The elevator descended by inches while we all secretly worried about getting stuck. Once the doors opened on the floor below, we spilled into a room that was probably twenty feet by twenty. Molded beige and gray plastic armchairs, chunky and square, were arranged in a double row down the middle of the room, with additional seats around the perimeter. The floor was a glossy beige vinyl tile. The walls were cinder block, painted a matte two-tone beige. A posted sign read KEEP FEET OFF WALL, though there was nothing to suggest how one might accomplish violating such a . . . well, feat. In the visitors room, eight stationary stools, with a handset at each place, were lined up on either side of a large glass-enclosed aisle. I sat down and placed my shoulder bag at my feet. I rested my elbows on the counter, feeling as if I were seated at the lunch counter of an old five-and-dime.

I knew from the police report that Pudgie was born Cedric Costello Clifton in 1950, the same year I was. He had a birthday coming up, June 7, so I’d aced him by a month and two days. The door opened on the jail side and a few inmates straggled in on the other side of the glass, hands linked behind their backs, a requirement any time they were moved from place to place. Pudgie appeared and took a seat on a stool that was a match for mine. His face was moon-shaped, and he wore glasses with big round frames perched on a surprisingly dainty nose. His facial hair was disorganized—rough mustache and a beard that ran from patchy to thick as it drifted across his cheeks. There were miscellaneous whiskers scattered almost to his eyes. His dark hair looked jangled, a texture that on a woman would be attributed to a bad home permanent. He wore the usual jail garb: a white T-shirt, blue cotton elastic-waisted pants, and rubber shoes. I’ve seen similar outfits on surgical residents in the corridors of St. Terry’s. He was bulky through the shoulders, his chest and biceps bulging from years of pumping iron. The hair on his left forearm only partially masked an entire gallery of elaborate tattoos: a spiderweb, a skull wearing a sombrero, and a graphically portrayed sex act. There was also a big-breasted woman with flowing black tresses whose torso was laid out between his elbow and wrist. His right arm seemed to be bare of art. He studied me for a long time. Through sheer effort, I held his gaze without breaking eye contact. Finally, he lifted the handset on his side of the glass and said, “Hey, how you doin’?”

I held the handset loosely against my ear. “I’m good, Mr. Clifton. How about yourself?”

“I’m doing okay. I know you?”

“My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator. I appreciate your seeing me.”

“Why don’t you skip the ‘mister’ shit and tell me what you want.” Behind the round lenses of his glasses, his eyes were a mild hazel under ill-kempt brows.

“I was wondering if you’d answer a few questions.”

A slight smile appeared. “About what?”

“Something that happened in 1969.”

“Why ask me?”

“This isn’t about you. It’s about someone else.”

“Goody. And who’s that?”

“You remember being arrested in Lompoc in August of ’69?”

“Yeah.” He replied with all the caution of someone who’s not quite sure what he’s agreeing to.

“You gave the officer a home address in Creosote, California. Can you tell me where that is? I never heard of it.” I’d looked it up on the map, but in the manner of a polygraph, I thought I’d start with baseline questions, whose truth value was easily verified.

“Little town out near Blythe. Two miles this side of the Arizona line.”

“How’d you end up in Lompoc?”

“I was traveling to San Francisco. I had a buddy who’d just come back from six months living on the streets up there. He told me you could buy dope right out on Haight. ’Ludes, grass and hash, peyote, acid. Free sex and free clinics to treat crabs and the clap if you picked up a dose. Sounded like a good deal to me. Still does, come to think of it. Anymore, you lay a hand on a chick, she blows the whistle on you.”

I glanced at the sheet of paper I’d taken from my bag, though I knew what it said. “According to this, you were picked up for vagrancy and possession of an illegal substance.”

He loosened up at that, face creasing into a smile. Apparently, he’d made an entire career out of substance abuse and denial. “What a crock of shit
that
was. I’m standing on the side of the road, thumbing a ride, when this cop car comes by. Couple rednecks in uniform. Fuckin’ pigs. These two pull over and pat me down. Turns out I had some pot on me. One fuckin’ joint. And for this I’m locked up. I should’ve sued for harassment and false arrest.”