W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“She’s a tough one,” I said, hoping to defuse his irritation and sidestep an argument.

“She says she’s down on her luck but luck’s got nothing to do with it. She makes choices the same as I do. I don’t know if she’s lazy or stupid or mentally ill, and I don’t care. Point is, I got fifteen employees dependent on me, but how the hell can I run a business when Pearl and her ilk come in here and puke all over the place?”

I shook my head, saying, “I hear you” in what I hoped was a sympathetic tone. In truth, I was more interested in their current whereabouts than a history of their bad behavior.

“Fact is, my taxes pay for her room and board and her medical care. You ever think about that? And you know what? My wife got sick and ended up in St. Terry’s for ten days. You want to know how much that cost me? Ninety thousand bucks. I kid you not. I’ll be paying that off until I’m ninety myself. Pearl gets sick? It’s not gonna cost her a dime. They got programs. Shelter and clothing and three meals a day. I should be so unfortunate. Point is, I’m done with her and I’m done with her friend. Tell you something else and this makes no sense: Dandy’s a smart guy. His father taught math at the high school. You ever hear about that?”

“Actually, I did.”

“Dandy could have made something of himself, you know? He decides to take the low road, why does that obligate me?”

I made a few more mouth noises and then excused myself. Raise the subject of the homeless and everybody has a strong opinion. Fifty percent of the local citizens are sympathetic and the other fifty are pissed as hell. Does the problem get solved? No, it does not.

I retrieved my car and headed back down Milagro toward the beach, hanging a right when I reached the small side street where Harbor House was located. Again, I parked the car, hoofed the half block, and went in. The common room was largely empty, but there they were, Pearl and Dandy sprawled on adjacent couches, both of them dead to the world. She had her jacket pulled over her head but her body type was distinct. I couldn’t miss the bulk of her, swaddled in fake leather. Dandy reclined in an upholstered chair, hands clasped across his lap, his legs extended in front of him. He was slack-mouthed and snoring. The air around them smelled of fruitcake.

I found a chair and watched for a while, wondering at the life they led. I couldn’t handle it myself. I don’t have the discipline. I might manage to be idle for half a day and then I’d be back in my routine: getting up at six, jogging my three miles, going into the office, walking up to Rosie’s for a bite to eat. Doing nothing makes me itch. I don’t have the temperament or the strength of character.

After a few moments, Pearl roused herself and sat up. Her face was high-blood-pressure pink, her hair as stiff and dry as straw. She’d bleached it blond once upon a time and what was left had worked its way down to the tips. In the wake of her drinking binge, I could tell that many of her elementary body parts were in full mutiny. I didn’t feel sorry for her, but I could identify to some extent. She must have felt she’d been stricken with a tropical disease, some hideous malady she’d done nothing to deserve. I could see her looking inward, perhaps measuring her nausea level on a scale of one to ten. I would have pegged her at a six and rising.

“How’re you feeling?” I asked.

She said, “Man, oh man.”

She ran a hand across her face and peered at me as though the light hurt her eyes. “Where’d you come from?”

“Back from Bakersfield.”

“How’d it go?”

“Not that well. What about you?”

“I think I picked up that stomach bug that’s going around.”

“It’s a bad one from what I hear.”

She held a hand up. “Hang on a sec.” She pushed herself to her feet. She pressed two fingers against her lips and walked with great purpose toward the ladies’ room, speeding up as she got closer. Even with the door closed, I could hear the misery. Such are the charms of drink. Dandy would be lucky if he managed to sleep for a while, letting his body metabolize the excess alcohol in his poor beleaguered system.

Pearl was moving slowly when she returned. I could tell she’d splashed some water on her face and I was hoping she’d had a chance to rinse her mouth. She eased herself back down on the couch by degrees as though her back had gone out on her.

“Word has it, you and Dandy got eighty-sixed from the Dugout,” I said, mildly.

“Won’t last. You know why?”

“I’d love to hear your analysis.”