V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

The lights in the front rooms were on timers, but the kitchen wasn’t part of the circuit. I left the room in darkness, using my penlight to do my usual walkabout, making sure all was well. Then I used his phone to place a call to him in Michigan. While it didn’t appear Len had bugged my studio, I thought Henry’s phone was clean. I asked about Nell and he filled me in on her condition, which was much improved. After that, I brought him up to date on my falling out with Marvin, the recording device on my office phone, and the problem I had with Pinky on my hands. I didn’t need to justify my request to park him at Henry’s for the night. I swore I’d call him again in the morning and fill him in on anything that transpired from that point on.

Darkness had settled over the neighborhood by then. I sat on Henry’s back step to wait. Ten minutes later, I heard a rustling in the shrubbery along the alleyway. If you pushed the chicken wire fence until it bowed, it was possible to slip through the gap. I got up and crossed to the side of the garage. When Pinky pushed through, it was a simple matter to usher him into Henry’s kitchen. I had to pray William wouldn’t go back to Rosie’s and blab the whole scheme to anyone who came in looking for a drink.

I locked the door behind us and led Pinky into the inner sanctum of Henry’s hallway. I closed the doors leading to the bedrooms, the living room, and the kitchen, and finally turned to him. He looked like he was having the time of his life, which I found irritating. He was surveying the hallway, probably hoping there was something to steal. “This is your place? I remembered it different.”

“It belongs to a friend of mine who’s out of town. You can stay here tonight, but you have to promise you won’t go into any of the other rooms. There are timers on the lights so they’ll be going off and on. People in the neighborhood know Henry’s gone, so if you’re moving around, someone might notice and call the cops, thinking there’s been a break-in.”

“Hey, right. Cops are the last thing we need.”

“That’s correct. Can you behave yourself?”

“Oh, sure, but I gotta tell you, I’m so hungry, I could eat my own arm. I been in the pawnshop all day and the only thing June had handy was a box of Milk Duds that made my teeth hurt.”

“Rosie was supposed to give you supper.”

“She did, but you should’ve seen it. I didn’t even know what it was. Little gristle bits in sauce. I pretended to eat and enjoy myself, but I have a delicate stomach and it was all I could do to keep from hurling chunks. Your friend have anything I could eat?”

“Hold on and I’ll check.”

I went through Henry’s kitchen cabinets in search of food. I knew all the perishables were gone because he’d given them to me. I found a box of Cheerios, but no milk. He did have a bottle of cold Coke and a small can of V-8. He also had a can of cashews, a packet of graham crackers, and some peanut butter. I considered the Jack Daniel’s, which Pinky could probably use, but decided not to tempt fate. I took out a tray and placed the items on it along with a paper napkin and some flatware. I wouldn’t have minded such a feast myself, but opted against keeping Pinky company. I took the tray into the inner hall and set it down for him. He popped open the Coke and chugged about half. While he was slapping peanut butter between graham crackers, I went into the bathroom and closed the blinds.

Coming out, I said, “You can use the bathroom if you leave the light off. Do you swear?”

Mouth full, Pinky nodded and held two fingers to his temple as though taking a Boy Scout oath. I’ve done the same thing myself and know how little it means.

He swallowed and then used his finger to clear the peanut butter from his teeth. “Can I trouble you for a blanket and pillow?”

“Fine.” The man was exasperating, but I’d signed on of my own free will and didn’t feel I had a right to complain. I opened the door to the hall closet, where Henry keeps his linens. I pulled out a pillow, a wool blanket, and a big puffy comforter. “You can put down a couple of big bath towels if the floor gets too hard.”

“Thanks. This’ll do nice.”

I pointed at him sternly. “Behave.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

I returned to my studio. I would have loved getting into my robe and slippers, but my day wasn’t over yet. Closer to bedtime, I’d pay Pinky another visit to make sure all was well. He struck me as a man with a limited imagination, which meant that entertaining himself might prove strenuous.

For dinner, I made myself a hot hard-boiled egg sandwich with mayo and put it on a paper plate. Then I poured myself a glass of Cake-bread Chardonnay and picked up the Santa Teresa Dispatch, still folded for delivery. I settled on the couch, opened the paper, and munched my sandwich while I read the news. It was the first chance I’d had to relax since I’d left home that morning. The obituaries were unremarkable and world news was standard: war in six different places on the planet, a train wreck, a mine collapse, and an infant born to a woman who was sixty-two years old. The Dow was down, the NASDAQ up, or it might have been the other way around.