W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

The bicycle-rental shop was doing a lively business as well, especially with their pedal surreys, which were always popular with kids. I went in. In addition to bike rentals, the shop sold surfboards, bathing suits, T-shirts, shorts, ball caps, sunglasses, sunscreen, and accessories. I looked for someone in charge and settled on a fellow in his sixties who stood at the cash register, ringing up a sale. His Hawaiian shirt was one of those with washed-out colors, shades of pale blue with a design of palm fronds picked out in white. He was balding and wore a pair of reading glasses on top of his head. He sported a wedding ring and a wristwatch that looked sturdy enough to flush down a toilet without losing time.

I moved to the counter and waited my turn. When he’d finished with the customer, he looked at me expectantly.

I held out my hand. “Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Are you the owner?”

My introducing myself put me in a category with traveling salesmen and promoters hoping to post a flyer, advertising a little theater production no one wanted to attend.

After a slight hesitation, he shook my hand. “I own the place, yes. Last name’s Puckett. What can I do for you?”

“I’m a friend of the young man who got beat up out front.”

His smile dimmed. “You’re talking about Felix. How’s he doing?”

“Not that well. He died a little while ago.”

He held up a hand. “Hold it. Before you get into your spiel, I know what you want and I can’t help. Those goons kicked the shit out of him and I’m sorry he died, but I’m not going to go down to the station to look at mug shots. I know who they are. I see ’em down here all the time. What’s it to you?”

“I didn’t know Felix well, but I feel bad.”

“Me, too. Who wouldn’t? He was a good kid, but that doesn’t change the facts. I’m sick to death of the homeless population. If they’re not hitting up the tourists for change, they’re passed out between buildings or parked on public benches, talking to themselves. I don’t begrudge a guy a place to sleep. What gets my goat is every night I got someone peeing on my front step. It smells like a urinal out there. I got some gal takes a dump out by my fence every single night. What kind of person does that?”

“Maybe she’s mentally ill.”

“Then maybe she should be put away somewhere. Worst thing ever happened was Reagan closing down all the loony bins back in the seventies—”

I cut him off. “Let’s not get into the politics, okay? I understand your complaints, but I’m not here to debate. I’d like to talk about Felix, not the rest of this stuff.”

“Point taken. The kid was never disrespectful, so I don’t mean to tar him with the same brush. Homeless in general, I got no beef with as long as they lay off what’s mine. Town’s filled with weepy-minded liberals—”

“Hey!”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to go off again,” he said. “Comes down to identifying the assholes who throttled him, I got nothing to say. That big goon gets picked up, what’s the system gonna do with him? Run him through the courts and spit him out the other end.”

“But why should those guys get away with murder?” I asked. “Homeless or not, those are bad men.”

“I agree,” he said. “Let me tell you something. I knew Felix a lot longer than you did. First time he showed up was six or eight years back. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. He asked for a couple of bucks and I turned him down. I said I needed work done and was he willing or not? He said yes, so I let him sweep up. He’d break down boxes, take out trash, and stuff like that. In exchange, I’d buy him dinner. Nothing fancy, but it wasn’t fast food. Sometimes I’d slip him a ten to see him through until his disability check came in. After a while, I guess he lost interest or found some other way to make ends meet. I’m sorry about what happened to him.”

“But you still won’t look at mug shots.”

“No, I will not. You know what I’d get in return? That two-bit gangster and his cronies would come in here looking for me. Punch my lights out, smash my plate-glass windows, pull merchandise off the racks, and stuff it down their pants. Where does that leave me?”

“Would you at least think about it?”

“No, because nothing’s going to change. Not you, not me, not that kid’s death. I get your point. You’d like to do what you can. Me, too, for that matter, but I won’t put myself in harm’s way. I got a wife and kids and they come first. You might think I’m a coward, but I’m not.”