W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“The younger one for sure. Anna’s the wild child. She does manis and pedis in some dump of a salon. The other girl, I never met.”

“‘Manis and pedis’—meaning manicures and pedicures?”

“Whoa! You are really sharp.”

I ignored the sarcasm. “Do you know how I can reach them?”

“What’s your stake in this?”

“What makes you ask?”

“I can’t believe you drove all the way up here for something you could’ve done by phone.”

“I didn’t have Ethan’s number. Besides, if I’d called I’d have missed him by a week, right? I thought it would be a kindness if they heard it from me instead of reading about it in the paper.”

“You’re a good Samaritan.”

“Some would call it that.”

“Any rate, you don’t want to rent the place, it’s time I locked up.”

“I appreciate the information about Ethan’s wife. I’ll see if I can track her down.” I held a hand out. “My name’s Kinsey Millhone.”

“They call me ‘Big Rat.’ And don’t ask. Long story and it really doesn’t have a point.”

We shook hands.

“If I run into Ethan, I’ll tell him you’re in town,” he said.

“He won’t know who I am. I didn’t find out about him until yesterday.”

“You expect to be here overnight?”

“Unless I catch up with him today.”

“I run into him, I’ll let you know. Where you staying?”

I didn’t think it was any of his business, so of course I lied.

“Don’t know yet. I haven’t found a motel. What would you suggest?”

“Padre Hotel. It’s been around for years. Used to be high-class. Now it’s so-so, but location’s good. Close to downtown.”

“What happened to Evelyn Dace?”

“She married someone else. Some guy from her church. I have a friend rents a little place above their garage.”

He slipped his wallet from his back pocket and removed a business card that he held out. “Tell you what. I get back to the office, I’ll look up Dace’s application and get you his wife’s name. Probably a phone number listed as well. Might save you some time. Give me a call in an hour or so and I’ll try to help you out.”

“Thanks.” I glanced down at the card, noting that his last name was Rizzo. I was betting his nickname, “Big Rat,” originated from the film Midnight Cowboy, twenty years before. Dustin Hoffman played the part of Ratso Rizzo.

Big Rat said, “I don’t guess he’s coming into money now his old man’s croaked?”

“None as far as I know, but it never hurts to ask.”

“Amen to that.”

•   •   •

I sat in my car for a moment, making a quick note about the club where Ethan played on weekends and an approximation of his wife’s last name. I watched as Big Rat locked the front door and climbed into his truck, which he’d parked at an angle in the foreshortened driveway. He backed out and swung wide, giving me a jaunty wave as he disappeared down the street. His red Nissan pickup with yellow flames custom-painted along the bed was as conspicuous as my car, which served as one more reminder to dump the Mustang and find something else.

I got back on Truxtun and turned right, trolling in an eastward direction. I confess I was having trouble getting the hang of how the streets were laid out. Some were numbered and some of them had names. The ones I was passing were lettered, as in E, F, G, H, and Eye, the latter probably spelled out so the I wouldn’t be mistaken for the number one. Truxtun and California Streets seemed to be parallel, but other streets were a-kilter, as though the whole geographical plain had taken a forty-five-degree turn. I was looking for the Beale Memorial Library, which according to my map was no more than half an inch away.

Once I spotted it, I parked in the lot to the left of the structure and headed for the entrance. The exterior was handsome, buff-colored, with a band of desert rose along the roofline. The building was new with a plaque on the side indicating that it had been dedicated only six months before, April 30, 1988. A time capsule had been sealed in the foundation to be opened in April of 2038. It might be worth a trip back just to see what was buried there. I’d be pushing eighty-eight years old and ready for a touch of excitement, assuming it didn’t prove too much.

The interior was spacious and smelled of new commercial carpeting. The ceiling was high and the light was generous. I couldn’t even guess at the square footage or the number of books the building housed, but the patrons had to have been thrilled with the facility. I asked a woman sitting at the information desk where I might find old city directories, and she suggested the Jack Maguire Local History Room on the second floor. I bypassed the elevator and trotted up the stairs. The door to the local history room was locked and empty from what I could see through the glass. I spotted a woman in a wheelchair working at a desk in the room next door.