W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“He put together a folio for each of you that he illustrated himself.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I got a client just came in and she doesn’t like to wait. She’s a regular and she tips well. Job you do, I bet you don’t have to worry about things like that.”

“Am I supposed to pay here or at the desk?”

“Pay her,” she said, glancing at the receptionist.

Since she’d just mentioned a tip, I thought I’d better be generous. I took a ten out of my wallet and slipped it under the towel. That seemed to soften her attitude.

“If you want, Ellen and I can meet you later for a drink,” she said as I got up.

I made a face meant to convey regret. “I wish I could, but I’m due home and I’ve checked out of my motel.”

“You can’t find another room?”

“I could, but I have to get back.”

She seemed aghast, which I’m sure was an act. “So this is it? You pass on the papers and refuse to explain? Ethan’s saying things like ‘probate.’ I don’t even know what that is.”

“This is news to me as well. I’m learning as I go. You should have an attorney explain how the system works. That way, if you need legal advice—”

“So now we have to pay a lawyer? Are you nuts? You waltz in here telling us we’re disinherited and now we’re supposed to hire a legal expert? Where’s the money coming from?”

“I’m just suggesting you get an opinion from someone who’s not already in the thick of things the way I am. Call Legal Aid and see if they can help. I don’t think you should look to me for guidance when it may not be what’s best for you. Why don’t you talk to Ellen and see what she says?”

“Why is that my job? You’re the one who knows everything, so you explain.”

I closed my eyes, working to detach myself from the urge to fall on her forearm and bite all the way down to the bone. “Fine. If you’ll give me a phone number, I’ll be happy to talk to her.”

“You won’t talk to her to her face? What kind of shit is that?”

“I don’t know where she is.”

She stared at me for a moment and then gave a half shrug. “We could meet you at the Brandywine. By eight, her kids will be down for the night and Hank can babysit.”

I didn’t think this was the time to correct her notion that a father has to “babysit” his children when half the responsibility is his by definition.

“Where’s the Brandywine?”

“On Ming, you moron! Check the phone book.”

We exchanged a few more pertinent details, and by the time I closed the salon door behind me, she had taken out a pack of sanitized instruments for the client who’d taken my place. At the desk, I was told the manicure was fifteen bucks and I kicked myself for not paying first and calculating the tip from that.

•   •   •

I was uneasy about meeting at the bar where Ethan’s band played on weekends, but Anna assured me the scene wouldn’t heat up until well after 10:00. In the meantime, she said the bartenders there knew her and we could talk without being hustled by a bunch of cheesy numbnuts (her words, not mine).

I left the salon and found a gas station, thinking to take advantage of the lull to top off my tank. While the attendant cleaned my windshield and checked the air in my tires, I loaded up on quarters and closed myself into a phone booth located near the ladies’ room.

I figured by now, Henry had fetched Rosie from the airport, dropped her off at the tavern, and returned to St. Terry’s. I had no idea how to find him. He’d be in range of the ICU, but I doubted they accepted long-distance calls, and the nursing staff certainly wouldn’t interrupt their work long enough to send out a runner. I dropped a couple of coins in the slot and dialed his home number. Sure enough, his machine picked up and I left a message indicating that my plans had changed. I told him not to look for me at all that night. Even if my meeting with Ellen ended at 9:00, by some miracle, I didn’t want to embark on a two-and-a-half-hour drive. I paid for my gas and then I cruised the downtown area looking for a motel. I passed a McDonald’s and circled back. While 5:30 wasn’t exactly supper time, I paused long enough to scarf down a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, accessorized with fries and a Coke. I was nearly cross-eyed with carbs and fat grams when I wadded up the wrapping from my QP and tucked it in the french fry box. Once back on Truxtun, already my favorite street in Bakersfield, I spotted a Holiday Inn. It looked like a palace compared to the Thrifty Lodge. Since at that point I’d denounced thrift, the rates seemed entirely reasonable.