O Is for Outlaw

by Sue Grafton

“I’m Kinsey. And you’re Carlin Duffy. I’ve been looking for you.”

  He flashed a look in my direction and then stared out the windshield, his face shutting down. “Why’s that?”

  “You know Mickey Magruder.”

  He seemed to assess me and then looked out the side window, his tone dropping into a range somewhere between sullen and defensive. “I didn’t have nothing to do with that business in L.A.”

  “I know. I thought we’d figure out what happened, just the two of us. Your friends call you Carlin?”

  “It’s Duffy. I’m not a fruit,” he said. He looked at me slyly. “You’re a lady cop, ain’t you?”

  “I used to be. Now I’m a private eye, working for myself.”

  “What d’you want with me?”

  “I’d like to hear about Mickey. How’d the two of you connect?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know nothin’.”

  “Maybe you know more than you think.”

  He considered that, and I could almost see him shift gears. Duffy was the sort who didn’t give anything away without getting something in return. “You married?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Tell you what. Let’s pick us up a six-pack and go back to your place. We can talk all you want.”

  “If you’re on parole, an alcohol violation’s the last thing you need.”

  Duffy looked at me askance. “Who’s on parole? I done my bit and I’m free as a bird.”

  “Then let’s go to your place. I have a roommate and I’m not allowed to bring in guests at this hour.”

  “I don’t have a place.”

  “Sure you do. You’re living in the maintenance shed at Bernie Himes’s nursery.”

  He kicked at the floorboard, running an agitated hand through his hair. “Goddang! Now, how’d you know that?”

  I tapped my temple. “I also know you’re Benny Quintero’s brother. Want to talk about him?”

  I had by then passed the entrance to the nursery, heading across the freeway toward the mountains.

  “Where you goin’?”

  “To the liquor store,” I said. I pulled into a convenience mart in a former gas station. I took a twenty from my shoulder bag and said, “It’s my treat. Get anything you want.”

  He looked at the bill and then took it, getting out of the car with barely suppressed agitation. I watched him through the window as he went into the place and began to cruise down the aisles. There was nothing I could do if he cruised right out the side door and took off on foot. He probably decided there wasn’t much point. All I had to do was drive over to the nursery and wait for him there.

  The clerk at the counter kept a careful eye on Duffy, waiting for him to shoplift or maybe pull a gun and demand the contents of the cash drawer. Duffy removed two six-packs of bottled beer from the glass-fronted cooler on the rear wall and then paused on one aisle long enough to pick up a large bag of chips and a couple of other items. Once at the counter, he paid with my twenty and tucked the change in his pants pocket.

  When he got back in the car, his mood seemed improved. “You ever try licorice and beer? I got us some Good and Plentys and a whole bunch of other shit.”

  “I can hardly wait,” I said. “By the way, what’s the accent, Kentucky?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll bet it’s Louisville, right?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I have an instinct for these things.”

  “I guess so.”

  Having established my wizardry, I drove back over the freeway, turned right onto the side street, and pulled into the lot for the nursery. I parked in front of the gardening center, which was closed at this hour and bathed in a cold fluorescent glow. I locked my car, hefted my bag to my shoulder, and followed Carlin Duffy as he made his way down the mulch-covered path. This was like walking into a deep and well-organized woods, wide avenues cutting through crated and evenly spaced trees of every conceivable kind. Most were unrecognizable in the dark, but some of the shapes were distinctive. I could identify palms and willows, junipers, live oaks, and pines. Most of the other trees I didn’t know by name, rows of shaggy silhouettes that rustled in the wind.

  Duffy seemed indifferent to his surroundings. He trudged from one darkened lane to the next, shoulders hunched against the night air, me tagging along about ten steps behind. He paused when we reached the shed and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. The exterior was board-and-batten, painted dark green. The roofline was flat, with only one window in view. He snapped open the padlock and stepped inside. I waited until he’d turned on a light and then followed him in. The shed was approximately sixty feet by eighty, divided into four small rooms used to house the two forklifts, a mini-tractor, and a crane that must have been pulled into service for the planting of young trees. Anything more substantial would have required larger equipment, probably rented for the occasion.

  The interior walls were uninsulated, the floor dirt and cinder crunching under our feet. One of the rooms had been hung with tarps and army surplus blankets, draped from the ceiling to form a tentlike substructure. Inside, I could see a canvas-and-wood cot with a rolledup sleeping bag stashed at one end. We moved into the shelter, where illumination was provided by a bare hanging 60-watt bulb. There was also a space heater, a two-burner hot plate, and a mini-refrigerator about the size of a twelve-pack of beer. Duffy’s clothes were hung on a series of nails pounded into the side wall: jeans, a bomber jacket, a wool shirt, black leather pants, a black leather vest, and two sweatshirts. Being fastidious by nature, I had to ponder the absence of visible clean underwear and a means of bathing and brushing his teeth. This might not be the sort of fellow one would want to have a lengthy chat with in a small unventilated space.

  I said, “Cozy.”

  “It’ll do. You can set on the cot and I’ll take this here.”

  “Thanks.”

  He placed the brown paper bag on an orange crate and removed the six-packs. He liberated two bottles and put the balance in his mini-refrigerator, leaving several on top. He reached in his pocket, took out a bottle opener, and flipped the caps from two beers. He set his bottle aside long enough to open the bag of chips and a can of bean dip, which he held out to me. I grabbed a handful of chips and put them in my lap, holding onto the can so I could help myself to dip.

  “You want a paper plate for that?”

  “This is fine,” I said.

  Having cleared the orange crate, he used it as a stool on which he perched. He opened his box of candy-coated licorice and tossed two in his mouth, sipping beer through his teeth with a little moan of delight. Before long, his teeth and his tongue were going to be blacker than soot. He leaned over and turned on the small electric space heater. Almost immediately, the coils glowed red and the metal began to tick. The narrow band of superheated air made the rest of the room seem that much colder by contrast. I confess, there was something appealing about this room within a room. It reminded me of “houses” I made as a kid, using blankets draped over tabletops and chairs.

  “How’d you find me?” he asked.

  “That was easy. You got pulled over and cited for a defective taillight. When they ran your name through the system, there you were in all your glory. You’ve spent a lot of time in jail.”

  “Well, now, see? That’s such bullshit. Okay, so maybe sometimes I do something bad, but it’s nothing terrible.”

  “You never killed anyone.”

  “That’s right. I never robbed nobody. Never used a gun … except the once. I never done drugs, I never messed with women didn’t want to mess with me, and I never laid a hand on any kids. Plus I never done a single day of federal time. It’s all city and county, mostly ninety-day horseshit. Criminal recklessness. What the fuck does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, Duffy. You tell me.”

  “Accidental discharge of a firearm,” he said contemptuously. The crime was appar
ently so bogus, I was surprised he’d mention it. “It’s New Year’s Eve … this is a couple years now. I’m in this motel in E-town, having me a fine old time. I’m horsin’ around, just like everyone else. I pop off a round, and the next thing you know, bullet goes through the ceiling and hits this lady in the ass. Why’s that my fault?”

  “How could it be?” I echoed, with equal indignance.

  “Besides, jail’s not so bad. Clean, warm. You got your volleyball, indoor tawlits, and your color television set. Food stinks, but medical care don’t cost you a cent. I don’t know what to do with myself half the time anyway. This pressure builds up and I blow. Jail’s kind of like a time-out till I get my head on straight.”

  I said, “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven. Why?”

  “You’re getting kind of old to be sent to your room.”

  “Probably so, I guess. I intend to straighten up my act, now I’m out here. Meantime, it’s fun breakin’ rules. Makes you feel free.”

  “I can relate to that,” I said. “You ever hold a real job?”

  He seemed mildly insulted that I’d question his employment history. “I’m a heavy equipment operator. Went to school down in Tennessee and got certified. Scaffolds, cranes, forklifts, dozers, you name it. Graders, backhoes, hydraulic shovels, boom lifts, anything Caterpillar or John Deere ever made. Ought to see me. I set up there in the cab and go to town.” He spent a moment shifting gears with his mouth, using his beer bottle as a lever while he operated an imaginary loader.

  “Tell me about your brother.”

  He set the empty bottle at his feet, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his face animated. “Benny was the best. He looked after me better than my dad and momma. We done everything together, except when he went off to war. I was only six years old then. I remember when he come home. He’d been in the hospital and then rehab, on account of his head. After that, Momma said, he changed. She said he’s moody and temperamental, kind of slow off the mark. Didn’t matter to me; 1971, he bought the Triumph: three-cylinder engine, twin-style clutch. Wasn’t new at the time, but it was hot. Nobody hardly fooled with Harley-Davidsons back then. None of them Jap bikes, neither. It was all BSA and Triumph.” He motioned for me to hand him the chips and the can of bean dip.

  “What brought him to California?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I think it had to do with his benefits, something about the VA fuckin’ with his paperwork.”

  “But why not in Kentucky? They have VA offices.”

  Duffy cocked his head, crunching on potato chips while he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “He knew someone out here he said could cut through the red tape. Hey, I got us some nuts. Reach me that bag.”

  I pushed the brown bag in his direction. He pulled out a can of peanuts and pulled the ring. He poured some into his palm and some into mine. I said, “Someone in the VA?”

  “He never said who it was, or, if he did, I don’t remember. I se just a kid back then.”

  “How long was Benny here before he died?”

  “Maybe a couple weeks. My momma flew out, brought his body back for burial, and had his bike shipped home. I still go to see him every chance I get. They got this whole section of Cave Hill Cemetery just for veterans.”

  “How much was she told about the circumstances of his death?”

  “Some cop punched him out. They scuffled at the Honky-Tonk and Benny wound up dead.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  “You got that right. That’s when I started havin’ problems with the law,” he said. “I did Juvie till I was finally old enough to be tried as an adult.”

  “When did you get out here?”

  “Five—six months back. My dad died September. He had emphysema, smokin’ three packs a day. Even at the end, he’d risk blowing hisself up, puffing on butts while he’s hooked up to oxygen. Momma died a month later. I guess her heart give out on her while she was out rakin’ leaves. I’d been over to the Shelby County jail on a DUI. Now that was bullshit for sure. I blew—what, point oh two over the limit? BFD is what I say. Anyway, once I finished out my time, I hitched my way home and here’s the whole house is mine, plus furniture, motorcycle, and a bunch of other junk. Took me a long time to get the bike fixed up.”

  “Must have felt strange.”

  “Yeah, it did. I wandered around the place doing anything I felt like, though it wasn’t any fun. I got lonesome. You spend time in jail, you get used to havin’ other people near.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, Momma always kept Benny’s room just like it was. Clothes on the floor, bed messed up the way he left it the day he come out here. I went through the place, just a cleanin’ and sortin’ and throwin’ stuff out. Partly I was curious and partly I just needed me a little somethin’ to do. I come across Benny’s lockbox.”

  “What kind of lockbox?”

  “Gray metal, about so-by-so.” With his hands, he indicated a box maybe twelve inches by six. “It was under his bed, tucked up in the box springs.”

  “You still have it?”

  “Naw. Mr. Magruder took it, so he probably hid it someplace.”

  “What was in the box?”

  “Let’s see. This press pass, belonged to a fellow named Duncan Oaks. Also, Oaks’s dog tags and this black-and-white snapshot of Benny and some guy we figured had to be Oaks.”

  Duncan Oaks again. I wondered if Mickey’d put the items in a safe deposit box. Mentally, I made a note. Next time I was down there, I’d have to try again if I could pick my way in. So far, I hadn’t come across a safe deposit key, but maybe another search would yield results. “Tell me about your relationship with Mickey.”

  “Mr. Magruder’s a good dude. I like him. He’s a tough old bird. Once he knocked me on my ass so bad I won’t never forget. Popped me smack in the jaw. I still got a tooth loose on account of it.” He wiggled an incisor to demonstrate his point.

  “Why’d you come out to California, to track him down?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How’d you find him? He moved to Culver City fourteen years back. He’s cagey about his phone number and his home address.”

  “Hell, don’t I know? I got that from Tim, guy owns the Tonk. I tried the bar first because that’s where the fight between him and my brother took place. I figured someone might remember him and tell me where he was.”

  “What was your intention?”

  “To kill his ass, what else? I heard he’s the one who punched Benny’s lights out. After we talked, I begun to see things his way.”

  “Which was what?”

  “He figured he was framed, and I’d agree with him.”

  “How so?”

  “He had him an alibi. He was bonin’ this married lady and didn’t want to pull her into it, so he kept his mouth shut. I talked to this cop said he saw the whole thing. Mostly, insults and pushing. The two never even struck a blow. I guess somebody come along later and beat the crap out of Benny. What kilt him was havin’ that metal plate in his head. Blood seeped into his brain, and it swelled up like a sponge.”

  “Do you remember the cop’s name?”

  “Mr. Shackelford. I seen him at the Honky-Tonk earlier tonight.”

  “What about the snapshot in the box?”

  “Two guys out in the boonies, gotta be Veetnam. Sojers in the background. Benny’s wearin’ fatigues and his big old army helmet he’s decorated with this peace symbol. You know the one. Looks kind of like a wishbone with a thing stickin’ out the end. Benny’s got this shit-eatin’ grin and he’s flung his arm around the other fellow, who’s bare to the waist. Other fellow has a cigarette hangin’ off his lip. Looks like the dog tags he’s wearin’ are the same as the ones in the box.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “You know, young, unshaved, with these big old dark brows and a black mustache: dirty-looking, like a grunt. Hardly any chest hair. Kind of pussyfied in that regard.”

&
nbsp; “Any names or dates on the back of the photograph?”

  “No, but it’s Benny clear as day. Had to be 1965, between August tenth when he shipped out and November seventeenth, which is when he got hit. Benny was at Ia Drang with the two/seven when a sniper got him in the head. He shoulda been medevacked out, but the choppers couldn’t land because of all the ground fire. By time he got out, he said the dead and wounded was piled on each other like sticks of firewood.”

  “What was Mickey’s theory?”

  “He didn’t tell me nothin’. Said he’d look into it is all I heard.”

  “Where’s the lockbox now? I’d like to see the contents.”

  “Said he had a place. I learnt not to mess with him. He’s the one in charge.”

  “Let’s go back to Duncan Oaks. How does he fit in?”

  “Beats me. I figure he’s someone in Benny’s unit.”

  “That’s what Mickey was looking into. I know he placed a call to a high school in Louisville—”

  “Manual, I bet. Benny went to Manual, played football and everything.”

  “Not Manual,” I said. “It was Louisville Male High. He talked to the school librarian about Duncan Oaks. The next day, he hopped on a plane and flew east. Did you talk to him later, after he got back?”

  “Never had a chance. I called a couple times. He never picked up his phone so I finally went down. I’s madder than shit. I figured he’s shining me on.”

  “You didn’t know he’d been shot?”

  “Uh-uh. Not then. Some guy down there told me. Fellow lived next door. I forget his name now, something queer.”

  “Wary Beason?”

  “That’s him. I busted out his winda, which is how we got acquainted.” Duffy had the good grace to look sheepish about the window. He still didn’t seem to realize I’d been on the premises that night.

  I found myself staring at the dirt floor, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. How did the fragments connect? Tim Littenberg and Scott Shackelford were both in Vietnam, but the timing was off. Benny Quintero was there early in the war and then only briefly. Tim and Scottie went later, in the early seventies. Then there was Eric Hightower, whose second tour was cut short when he stepped on a mine and had his legs blown off. Again, that was long after Benny’d been shipped home. And why was any of it relevant to Mickey’s being shot? I knew Mickey well enough to know he was on to something, but what?