by Sue Grafton
“Fellow passed on. She wants to know who he is. No reason to be rude.”
“I asked why it’s any of her concern? She ain’t answer me, so why should I answer her?”
I said, “There’s nothing complicated going on. The coroner’s office wants to contact his next of kin so his family can decide what to do with his remains. I’d hate to see him buried in a pauper’s grave.”
“What difference does it make as long as it don’t cost us anything?”
Her hostility was getting on my nerves, but I didn’t think this was the time to introduce the notion of sensitivity training when she was already “sharing” her feelings. She went on. “What’s it to you? You a social worker? Is that it? You work for St. Terry’s or that clinic at the university?”
I was doing an admirable job of keeping my temper in check. Nothing sets me off quicker than belligerence, warranted or otherwise. “I’m a private investigator. Your friend must have found my name in the yellow pages. I wondered if he’d had a problem he needed help with.”
“We all need help,” Pearl said. She held out a hand to Dandy. “Gimme up.”
He stood and pulled her to her feet. I watched while she dusted imaginary blades of grass from the back of her pants.
“Nice making your acquaintance,” Dandy said.
The white kid took his cue from his companions and stubbed out the last half inch of the cigarette. He stood and took one last sip from the soda can before he crushed it underfoot. He might have left it in the grass, but since I was standing right there watching him, he tucked it in his backpack like a good Boy Scout. He gathered his sleeping bag, bundled it carelessly, and secured it to his backpack with a length of rope.
Clearly, our chummy conversation was coming to an end. I said, “Anybody know where he was from?”
No response.
“Can’t you even give me a hint?”
The white kid said, “Terrence.”
Pearl hissed, trying to shut him up.
Meanwhile, I was drawing a blank. “Which is where?”
Felix was staring off to one side. “You ast his first name.”
“Got it. Terrence. I appreciate the information. What about his last name?”
“Hey! Enough. We don’t have to tell you nothing,” Pearl said.
I was about to choke the woman to death with my bare hands when Dandy spoke up.
“You have a business card? I’m not saying we’ll get back to you, but just in case.”
“Of course.”
I reached into my shoulder bag and took one out, which I handed to him. “I jog most weekday mornings, so you can always look for me on the bike path. I’m usually here by six fifteen.”
He examined the card. “What kind of name’s Kinsey?”
“My mother’s maiden name.”
He looked up. “You happen to have any spare smokes on you?”
“I don’t,” I said, patting my jacket as though to verify the fact. I was about to add that I didn’t have any spare change either, but it seemed insulting as he hadn’t inquired about my financial state. Pearl had lost interest. She grabbed her shopping cart and began hauling it toward the bike path, wheels digging into the soft grass.
When it was clear the three were moving on, I said, “I appreciate your help. If you think of anything useful, you can let me know.”
Dandy paused. “You know that minimart a block down?”
“Sure.”
“You pick up a couple packs of cigarettes and it might put Miss Pearly White in a mood to chat.”
“She can bite my big fat ass,” Pearl said.
“Thanks a bunch. Really fun,” I sang as they ambled away.
2
I retraced my route, this time hanging a right onto Bay and then a left onto Albanil. I found a parking place two doors down from my studio and let myself in through the squeaking gate. I continued around to the backyard and skirted the flagstone patio. I unlocked my door and tossed my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool.
My studio was created when my eighty-eight-year-old landlord, Henry Pitts, built a spacious new two-car garage and converted his former one-car garage into a rental unit. At the time I was looking for a place near the beach. I’d been scouting the area on foot in hopes of spotting a For Rent sign when I came across the notice he’d posted in the neighborhood laundromat. We met, chatted briefly, and agreed to a three-month trial period during which we could decide if the arrangement suited us.
From the first, I thought he was adorable—tall and lean, with bright blue eyes, a healthy head of white hair, and a wicked smile. As it turned out, Henry and I were perfect for one another, not in any romantic sense, but as good friends living close to each other. Not infrequently I’m on the road for work purposes, and during the periods when I’m home I tend to keep to myself. Henry is similarly self-sufficient and as committed to independence as I am. I’m tidy and quiet. He’s tidy and gregarious, with a strong sense of decorum, which means he minds his own business unless I’m in need of a dressing-down, as is sometimes the case. He’s a retired commercial baker and he was happy to have someone on whom to lavish his freshly made cinnamon rolls and chocolate-chunk brownies. Soon we were making the trek to the neighborhood tavern for dinner a couple of nights a week. He would also issue an impromptu dinner invitation when he’d made a beef stew or a big pot of vegetable soup.
When I first moved in, I was thirty-two years old and he was eighty-two, an age gap I considered negligible. What’s fifty years’ difference between friends? I’ve been his tenant now for going on seven years and can’t imagine living anywhere else. The only blip on the radar screen was an unfortunate incident when a bomb exploded and blew the roof off my place. Henry assumed the role of general contractor during the reconstruction, redesigning and furnishing the whole of it as though he’d been doing it all his life. He fashioned the remodel after a ship’s interior, complete with a porthole in the front door.
Given the plunging late-afternoon temperatures, I was happy to be back in my cozy little place. The space is compact. Numerous built-in cabinets and cubbyholes provide more storage space than you’d think possible. Though a mere fifteen feet on a side, the downstairs comprises a living room, a makeshift corner office, a full bath, and a five-foot bump-out to accommodate a galley-style kitchen. A small spiral staircase leads up to a sleeping loft with a Plexiglas skylight above the bed and a bathroom with a window at tub level that looks out into the trees.
By way of modern conveniences, I have a stacking washer and dryer, a microwave oven, and a lightweight vacuum cleaner for my few square yards of cotton shag wall-to-wall carpet. I don’t often cook, unless you want to count heating a can of tomato soup as a culinary accomplishment. Those of us who don’t cook seldom have to worry about a sink full of dirty dishes, so a dishwasher would have been beside the point. After breakfast, I wash my cereal bowl and spoon, juice glass, and coffee mug, and leave them in the dish rack to air-dry until I need them again. Lunches I eat out, except for days when I take a sandwich, an apple, and cookies to munch while I’m sitting at my desk. On the rare nights when I have dinner at home, I put together one of my favorite sandwiches and serve it on a folded paper towel that I can then toss in the trash. This, by the way, is yet another argument for being single. Whatever I choose to do, there’s no one to complain.
Henry was tied up that night, catering a small dinner party for Moza Lowenstein down the street. Rosie’s Tavern was closed for the week because Rosie and William had flown to Flint, Michigan, the day before to help care for Henry and William’s sister, Nell, who had undergone a second surgery on the hip she’d broken in the spring. She was just getting out of rehab, and Rosie and William had agreed to be on hand until the following Friday, offering assistance when she was discharged. William is Henry’s brother, older by one year. Their sister, Nell, at ninety-nine, is the oldest of the five Pitts “kids,” with Charlie and Lewis, ages ninety-one and ninety-six respectively, filling in the gap.
> An addendum to the plan was that Rosie was having her building fumigated while they were out of town. In anticipation of the process, the restaurant kitchen and storage areas had been emptied, and Henry’s second and third bedrooms were now jammed with all manner of foodstuffs. I didn’t inquire too closely what had motivated the purge. Rosie’s devil-may-care Hungarian dishes often feature animal organs, finely minced and sauced with a slurry of alarming black specks and chewy bits. I didn’t want to think about mice, weevils, and cigarette beetles.
I knew Henry would report on the family drama at the first opportunity, which I anticipated in the next few days. In the meantime, I was on my own, a happy circumstance for someone of my sometimes prickly disposition. I changed into my sweats and put together a deluxe hot hard-boiled-egg sandwich and poured myself a glass of Chardonnay. After supper, I curled up on the sofa with a mystery novel until I put myself to bed.
• • •
The next day, Saturday, I cruised the beach area hoping to see my homeless pals. I didn’t intend to make this my life’s work. I thought the coroner’s office had a better chance than I did of picking up a proper ID on Terrence Last-Name-Unknown. However, since I’d scored the dead man’s first name the day before, my modest success was now spurring me on. Pearl’s antagonism was a motivating factor as well. If she’d known me better—or at all—she’d have realized that her surliness was more of a challenge than an insult.
I was still debating the purchase of the cigarettes Dandy had implied might open the floodgates where Terrence was concerned. I questioned the ethics of supplying the trio with tobacco products as a means to an end. Given current scientific research, I think it’s fair to point out that smoking’s not a healthy practice, and I was reluctant to foster the habit among those who could ill afford it. On the other hand, as Pearl had so tartly observed in our first conversation, what business was it of mine?
Having sacrificed my principles, I was left with the burning question (as it were) of which brand to buy. I had no way to evaluate the virtues of filtered cigarettes versus nonfiltered, or mentholated versus nonmentholated, so I was forced to throw myself on the mercy of the minimart clerk, who appeared to be fourteen years old—too young to buy cigarettes let alone to sell them to me.
I said, “I could use some help here. What’s the cheapest brand of cigarettes you have?”
He turned and picked up a pack of Carlton’s, which he placed in front of me.
“Is this what the homeless smoke?”
Without a change of expression he reached under the counter and pulled out a generic brand I’d never heard of.
“I need two more.” I’d already decided I’d better provide a pack for each so no feelings would be hurt.
He put two additional packs on top of the first.
“How much?”
“A buck nine.”
“That’s not bad,” I said. I don’t smoke myself, so I didn’t know what to expect.
“Each.”
“Each? Are you kidding me?”
He was not. I paid for the three packs and tossed them into my shoulder bag. Three dollars plus change seemed like a lot to pay, but maybe I could claim the deduction on my Schedule A when tax season rolled around.
There was no sign of the threesome as I drove along Cabana Boulevard on my way home.
• • •
Sunday, I made another trip to the beach, my Grabber Blue Mustang attracting the usual curious stares. If my homeless friends wanted to duck me, it wouldn’t be hard to do. I drove at a speed so slow it made other drivers honk. I passed the recreation center and followed the wide curve that skirted the lagoon that served as a bird refuge. I knew Pete Wolinsky had been shot to death somewhere along here, but it seemed ghoulish to park and search out the spot.
I rolled through the small parking lot along the water’s edge and drove back the way I’d come, scanning both sides of the road. This was clearly unproductive, so I shifted to Plan B. At Milagro, I turned right and drove to the homeless shelter. Harbor House was situated in the middle of the block. The lot is narrow, the building itself set back from the street. There were eight parking spaces in front, all of them in use. A metal accordion gate had been pulled across the front door and secured with a padlock. A hand-lettered sign pasted on a side window said NA SUPPORT GROUP MEETS MONDAY AT 2:00.
While Narcotics Anonymous might not meet on weekends, surely the shelter itself was open. I backed up six steps and peered in both directions. To the right of the building, a heavy-duty fence prevented passage. To the left, a double-wide drive ran between Harbor House and the service station next door. I followed the asphalt path. Tucked between the building and the drive, a stucco arch opened onto a courtyard where a small group of men and women had gathered to smoke. Landscaping was an afterthought: two palms, a few shrubs, and random patches of grass. Sand-filled coffee cans did double duty as receptacles for cigarette butts and freshly hawked-up goobers. Though I felt out of place, what worked to my advantage was that in turtleneck, jeans, and scuffed boots I looked like everyone else.
A metal folding chair was planted in the archway, but no one manned the entrance and no one took notice as I crossed the patio to a door that stood open to the air. I went in, wondering if I’d be asked about my reasons for being on the premises. Being rule governed, I operate in a world filled with imaginary restraints. I’m happiest when signs are posted—NO SPITTING, NO PUBLIC URINATION, NO WALKING ON THE GRASS. I might not obey but at least I knew where I stood.
For the record, I should say this: I don’t romanticize the plight of the homeless or project sentiment where none is required. My take on the indigent is that some are there because of temporary setbacks, some by default, and some for lack of an alternative. Some are needy, some are off their meds, some have opted out, some have been ousted from facilities where they might be better served. Many are there for life and not always by personal choice. Alcoholic, addicted, aimless, illiterate, unmotivated, unskilled, or otherwise unable to prosper, they sink to the bottom, and if they’re down for any length of time, they lose the capacity to climb back out of the hole into which they’ve fallen. If there’s a remedy, I don’t know what it is. From what I’ve seen of the problem, most solutions perpetuate the status quo.
The room I entered was large, furnished with an assortment of couches and chairs, many occupied. The foot traffic in and out was constant. A handsome gentleman in his midsixties was perched on a rolling chair behind the counter to my right. There was a woman ahead of me in this two-person line and I waited my turn. She removed a laminated card from her jeans pocket. By shifting slightly, I saw that it bore her name, an ID number, and a photo likeness.
She pushed the card across the counter. “Hi, Ken. Could you check to see if I have mail?”
She leaned on the counter and peered over the edge. On the desktop below there was a ceramic mug full of toothbrushes, still sealed in cellophane packaging. “Can I have one of those?”
By way of reply, he held up the mug and watched as she selected a red toothbrush and put it in her fanny pack. He said, “I heard you were sick. Feeling better?”
She made a face. “I was in the hospital two days. I passed a kidney stone—little bitty thing about the size of a grain of sand—and I’m puking my guts out and shrieking like a banshee. The ER doc thinks I’m faking to score a few Vicodin and that pissed me off. I raised a stink until the other doc signed an order to have me admitted. I finally got a shot of Demerol, no thanks to the asshole who turned me down.”
“But you’re okay now?”
“I’d feel better if my check came in. I got two bucks left to my name.”
He took her ID card and turned away, using his feet to scoot himself from the counter to a metal file cabinet behind him. He put the ID on top and began a finger stroll through the files. After a moment he said, “Nope. Not today.”
“Can you go through the bin? Might be a big manila envelope with some other paperwork. They said it we
nt out Tuesday, so it should be here.”
He leaned down to a large white plastic United States Postal Service bin, where oversize and bulky packages were lined up. He took his time, looking at the name on each piece.
“Sorry.” He rolled himself back to the counter and returned her ID. “Did you talk to Lucy? She was looking for you.”
“I saw her Thursday, but not since. What’d she want?”
“No idea. You might take a look at the board and see if she left you a note.”
She stepped away from the counter and disappeared around the corner at the far end where the bulletin board was apparently mounted on the wall.
Ken turned his attention to me. “What can I do for you?”
I toyed with the notion of a ruse, but I couldn’t see the point. “I’m looking for information about a fellow named Terrence. I don’t have his last name, but I’m hoping you’ll know who I mean. He died a couple of days ago.”
“We can’t give out information about our clients. The social worker might help, but she’s not here today.”
“What about Dandy or Pearl?”
His expression remained neutral, as though even acknowledging the existence of a client would violate protocol. “Can’t help. You’re welcome to come in and take a look.”
Surprised, I said, “Really? You don’t mind if I walk around?”
“This isn’t a private club. Anyone can join,” he said.
“Thanks.”
I circled the common room, which was spacious enough to accommodate the twenty-five people present without any suggestion of crowding. There was a big television set in one corner, but the screen was dark. There was a lone bookcase in evidence, the shelves lined side to side with an ancient-looking set of encyclopedias. One fellow had commandeered a couch for napping purposes, and he was curled up with a jacket over him. There were a few ongoing conversations, but in the main people weren’t doing much. An exception was the two women who sat at either end of a Naugahyde couch with knitting projects. One unraveled row after row of a pink sweater, which shrank in her hands, reduced to a lap full of kinked yarn. The other woman struggled with size-19 needles and a ball of thick green wool. The article she was knitting was impossible to identify, something with bumps and irregular edges and holes where stitches had gotten away from her. I don’t knit often these days, but I’m acquainted with the perils. The same aunt who browbeat me into memorizing the rivers of the world by length (the Nile, the Amazon, the Yangtze, the Mississippi-Missouri, the Yenisey, the Yellow, on and on) also taught me to knit and crochet—not for the pleasure of it, but with the intent to promote patience. This for me at age six when no child is content to sit for more than a minute at a time.