Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“Then you call.”

“I will. I was going to do that.”

“Now.”

“Con, cut it out! It’s past five. She’s probably left for the day.”

“Then call the service, leave CC’s number, and have her paged. We can wait. You don’t call her, I will. I’m sick of hearing you bellyache.”

“You don’t even know her name.”

“I’ll find out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Quit arguing. Maybe she’ll give you some Valium to help you sleep at night.”

Stacey shook his head. “I hate making a fool of myself because of you.” Despite his grumbling and protests, he did go off to find a phone.

Dolan and I sat without looking at each other. I didn’t like the sound of it any more than he did. Finally, I said, “Are the two of you okay? You seem testy.”

“We’re fine. He’s just pissing me off. It’s not about his back. The man’s depressed. He thinks the cancer’s spread and that’s why he doesn’t want to get it checked.”

“I missed that, I guess. He seemed fine as far as I could tell. I mean, aside from his back.”

“That’s because he puts on an act for your benefit. You should’ve heard him before you showed. The shit’s wearing him down. If he’d had a gun on him, he’d have blown his brains out. He’s that close.” Dolan held up his thumb and index finger a quarter of an inch apart.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am. He wasn’t even going to do the chemo until I talked him into it. As far as he’s concerned, this is the end of the line so why play it out? Get the damn thing over with is his attitude.”

“But suppose the cancer’s moved into his bones?”

“Now, damn it, don’t you start. Don’t be so negative.”

“I’m just saying I can understand where he’s coming from.”

“Well, keep your opinion to yourself.”

“My opinion’s not relevant. He can do anything he wants. It’s his life.”

“Wrong. He could use a pep talk. He needs someone to make him realize how selfish it is.”

“To kill himself? How so?”

“People who commit suicide are the ultimate narcissists. What makes him think everything revolves around him? I’m in this, too. Thirty years down the drain and all because he’s a cowardly damn chickenshit and won’t see this through.”

“But what if he’s terminal? I don’t understand what you want.”

“I want him to think about someone else for a change.”

“If you don’t get to think about yourself when you’re dying, when do you?” I said.

Stacey reappeared moments later and we dropped the conversation. He declined to sit, remaining by the table with his fists pressed into the small of his back.

Dolan fired up another cigarette, pausing to cough into his fist. “What’d she say?”

Stacey waved the cigarette smoke away from his face. “She’ll see me first thing tomorrow morning; maybe take an X-ray or do a CT scan.”

“What’s the matter with her? Did you tell her how bad it is? She should see you right now and find out what the hell’s going on.”

“Goddammit. Quit nagging. This isn’t an emergency so lay off that stuff. Anyway, I’m tired and it’s time to go home. I can’t be sitting here drinking all night like some I could name.”

“Sit down. You haven’t had dinner yet. You have to eat. It’s my treat.”

“I got food at my place. You two stay. I can get a cab.”

“I’ll take you,” I said. “My car’s right outside.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can manage on my own.”

“Really, I don’t mind. I need to get home myself.”

I reached for my shoulder bag and took out the keys. Stacey was already moving toward the door as I slid out of the booth.

Dolan stubbed out his cigarette. “I’ll take care of it.”

In the end, we left at the same time; Stacey in Dolan’s car and me in mine. I watched Dolan turn off, heading toward the freeway. I took a right on Cabana Boulevard and followed the road as it wound along the beach. It was not quite dark, but a fog was rolling in off the ocean, enveloping the shore. I parked in Henry’s driveway. He’d be home tomorrow in the late afternoon. I let myself into his place where I did a quick tour, making sure all was in order. No broken water pipes, no power outages, and no sign of disturbances. For a moment, I stood in his kitchen, drinking in the lingering scent of yeast and cinnamon—Henry’s home-baked sweetrolls. Surely, I could survive one more day.