J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

I gave my name to the hostess. She was a black woman in her sixties, with a manner about her that suggested she was wasting her education. Jobs are hard to find in this town, and she was probably grateful to have the work. As I approached her station I could see her reach for a menu.

“My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m having lunch with a man named Harris Brown, but I’m hoping to find the restroom first. Could you show him to a table if he arrives before I get back? I’d appreciate it.”

“Certainly,” she said. “You know where the ladies’ room is?”

“I can find it,” I said, incorrectly as it turned out.

I should have had a little map or dropped bread crumbs behind me. First, I found myself heading into a closet full of floor mops and then through a door leading to the alleyway out back. I retraced my steps and turned myself around. I could see a sign then in the shape of an arrow pointing to the right: “Telephones. Restrooms.” Ah, a clue. I found the proper door, with a ladies’ high heel in silhouette. I did my business with dispatch, moving back to the entrance. I arrived as the hostess was returning to her position. She pointed to the dining area to her left, a wing of the restaurant parallel to the entrance. “Second table on the right.”

Almost without thinking, I glanced through the two adjacent windows, spotting Harris Brown as he stood to remove his sport coat. Instinctively I backed up a step, obscuring myself behind a potted plant. I looked at the hostess and jerked a thumb in his direction. “That’s Harris Brown?”

“He asked for Kinsey Millhone,” she said.

I peered around the plant at him, but there was no mistake. Especially since he was the only man in there. Harris Brown, retired police lieutenant, was the “drunk” I’d seen on the Viento Negro hotel balcony less than a week ago. Now what was that about? I knew he’d worked the fraud investigation, but that was years ago. How had he picked up Wendell Jaffe’s trail, and what was he doing down in Mexico? More to the point, wasn’t he going to turn around and ask me the very same thing? He was bound to remember my handy-dandy hooker act, and while that in itself wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, I wasn’t quite sure how to explain what I’d been up to. Until I knew what was going on, it seemed less than cool to have a conversation with the man.

The hostess was watching me with bemusement. “You think he’s too old for you? I could have told you that.”

“You know him?”

“He used to come in here all the time when he was working for the police department. Brought his wife and kids in every Sunday after church.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Honey, I own the place. My husband, Samuel, and I bought it in 1965.”

I could feel myself flush, though she couldn’t have guessed the reason.

Dimples formed in her cheeks, and she flashed a smile at me. “Oh, I get it now. You thought I took this job because I’d fallen on hard times.”

I laughed, embarrassed that I was so transparent. “I figured you were probably happy to have the work.”

“Make no mistake about it, I am. I’d be happier still if the business picked up. At least I got old friends like Mr. Brown in there, though I sure don’t see him as often as I used to. What’s the deal? Somebody set you up on a blind date with him?”

I felt a momentary confusion. “You just said he was married.”

“Well, he was till she died. I thought maybe somebody fixed you up and you didn’t like his looks.”

“It’s a little trickier than that. Uhm, I wonder if you could do me a favor,” I said. “I’m going out to the lot to that public telephone booth. When I call and ask for him, could you let him use this phone?”

She gave me a look. “You’re not going to hurt his feelings, are you?”

“I promise I won’t. This has nothing to do with dating, I assure you.”

“As long as it’s not a put-down. I won’t participate in that.”

“Scout’s honor,” I said, holding fingers to my temple.

She handed me a take-out menu that was printed on heavy paper. “Telephone number’s at the top,” she said.

“Thanks.”

I kept my face turned away studiously as I left the restaurant, crossing to the pay phone in the corner of the lot. I propped the menu against the phone box and then fished out a quarter, which I put in the slot. After two rings the hostess answered.

“Hello,” said I. “I’m looking for Harris Brown—”