W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

Someone brought her a glass of water. Someone wet a paper towel and gently dabbed her face. I wanted to slap the shit out of her but somehow managed to restrain myself. This went on for longer than was absolutely necessary to make her point clear. Two of the residents helped her to her feet and she was led from the room like an athlete injured on the playing field. The others stood by in respectful silence while I mentally crossed my eyes. Dandy and I exchanged a look, but I couldn’t read the content.

I said, “What in the world happened while I was off in Bakersfield? I know those guys beat the shit out of Felix, but what precipitated the attack? Did he and Pearl find some way to add insult to injury?”

“Not that I know. Pearl mostly stayed here, worried they’d come after her. Felix didn’t seem concerned. I don’t think the notion that actions have consequences meant anything to him. He did what he did and then forgot about it. That boy wasn’t blessed with much in the way of common sense.”

“What have the police done about the Boggarts?”

“Asked around, I’m sure. Filled out paperwork. I know they talked to the fellow who called 911, but he won’t help. Sorry it happened and so forth, but he’s not sticking his neck out for a bum who gets in a brawl with three other bums.”

“Meanwhile, you and Pearl go off on a toot,” I said. “What was that about? You’d think the last thing you’d want to do is get shitfaced.”

Sheepishly, he said, “Feels good sometimes, you know? When bad things go down, you want to cut loose. Get loaded and forget. Better than feeling sad or mad or depressed.”

“Are you okay now? You don’t look good.”

“Naw, I’m not feeling so hot. I need to find me a spot where I can curl up and sleep.”

“You’ll keep an eye on Pearl?”

“Oh sure. Gotta look after my pal.”

“You go off on another bender and I’ll wring your neck,” I said with all the compassion I could muster, which was none.

Then I repressed the urge to hug the man, primarily because he had what looked like a streak of spit-up down the front of his shabby sport coat. I patted him on the arm. The gesture was weak but it was the best I could do.

On my way out, the volunteer at the desk beckoned to me. I checked behind me to make sure she meant the gesture for me. I paused at the desk. She said, “Are you related to Terrence Dace?”

“Yes.”

“The one he made executor of his estate?”

“That’s me. I’m Kinsey.”

“Belva,” she said. “The reason I ask is I came across some mail for him and thought you should have it.”

“Well, thanks. That’s good of you.”

She turned and picked up a couple of bank statements in windowed envelopes and a fourteen-by-twenty mailing pouch. The package was thick, and when she passed it across the counter to me, I was surprised by the weight. The label was self-addressed in the printing I’d come to recognize. The postmark was June 29, 1988.

“I appreciate this,” I said. I pulled out a business card and placed it on the desk for her. “If anything else comes in, would you let me know?”

“Of course. I’ll leave a note for the other volunteers in case there’s something more.”

I thanked her and carried the bulky package to my car. The package was so plastered over with clear tape that I couldn’t make any headway. I’d have to wait and open it later to see what he’d shipped to himself months before he died. I sat for a while. No point in consigning Felix’s death to an index card. I wasn’t sure what time he’d died or what the attending physician had listed as the cause of death. I didn’t even know how old he was. All I knew for a certainty was he’d never get his braces off and that seemed too sad for words. I turned the key in the ignition and headed toward the bike shop at the foot of State Street. I turned into a side street just shy of the intersection and found a parking place. I locked my car and walked around the corner to the bicycle-rental shop.

The weekend art show was in progress: paintings, ceramics, and assorted crafts displayed in a line of booths laid out alongside the walk. Some vendors had erected lightweight tents to display homemade articles of clothing, wind chimes, lawn ornaments, jewelry, and whirligigs. Given that it was Sunday afternoon and the sun was out, the beach beyond was littered with people—screaming children, joggers with dogs, and prone lasses who’d loosened the tops of their bikinis to avoid the tan lines. The restaurants along the boulevard had flung their doors open, and those establishments with outside seating were filled to capacity.