W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

Apartment 4 was on the ground floor near the rear of the building. He rang the bell and then turned to do a quick survey of the premises. No kids’ toys in evidence and no swimming pool. In the central grassy area, a set of metal lawn chairs and a glider had been arranged in a conversational grouping that suggested an occasional gathering of the residents. These were probably the kind of folks who looked after one another. Always admirable, he thought. The shrubs needed pruning and the flower beds were riddled with weeds, but the basic landscaping design was good.

The door opened and when he turned to face his prospective client, he made quick work of covering his surprise. The fellow had had the crap knocked out of him at some point, though Pete guessed the injury wasn’t recent. Willard Bryce had propped himself upright using a pair of lightweight aluminum forearm crutches with rubber handgrips and vinyl-coated contoured arm cuffs. His left leg was intact, but the right was half gone, his pant leg empty from the knee down. There was also something about his pelvic area that suggested irreparably crushed bones. There were no visible scars in evidence, so there was no way to guess what had happened to him.

His red hair was clipped close to his skull and his light blue eyes seemed faded under pale ginger brows. His eyelids had a pinkish cast as though itchy from an allergy. His upper lip and chin were shaded with a two-day growth of facial hair. He was thin. His dress shirt was open at the collar, exposing a bony, hairless chest. He’d rolled his sleeves up above his elbows, and his pale arms were hairless as well.

The young man held out his right hand, saying, “I’m Willard Bryce, Mr. Wolinsky. I appreciate your coming out.”

“Happy to oblige,” Pete said. He shook Bryce’s hand, watching Bryce’s reaction to his own appearance, which usually netted him second looks. Pete was very tall and stooped, with disproportionately long arms, legs, fingers, and feet. He suffered a curvature of the spine and his breastbone dipped inward. He was extremely nearsighted and his mouth was crowded with a mess of teeth.

“Come in,” Willard Bryce said. He turned and crossed the living room on his crutches, moving with ease as he swung himself forward, leaving Pete to close the door behind him.

This was one of those apartments where the living room took a short left-hand turn into a dining L, which was separated from the open kitchen area by a pass-through. Two tall stools sat at the counter, providing an eating area. Living room furniture was the standard matching tweed sofa and armchair, plus a La-Z-Boy upholstered in dusty brown suede cloth. The seating was arranged around a coffee table with a television set on the opposite wall. The color scheme was beige on beige. The small dining table and four wooden chairs were relegated to the periphery to make room for a big drafting table, located by the window where the light was good. A corner desk held a computer with two floppy disk drives. The black-and-white monitor was turned on but presented no more than a blur from where he stood. Willard sank into the La-Z-Boy and placed his crutches to one side. On a table next to him, he had an oversize sketchbook and an assortment of drawing pencils.

Pete settled onto the couch. He unwound the scarf from his neck and held it loosely in his hands, leaning forward slightly with his elbows on his knees. Ruthie had knit him the scarf and he liked the feel because it reminded him of her. “Looks like you’ve suffered a world of hurt,” he said. “Mind if I ask what happened?”

He wouldn’t ordinarily have made mention of the young man’s condition, but he didn’t want to spend the entire meeting avoiding reference to something so obvious. Maybe this was a product-liability suit, in which case he could add an automatic five thousand dollars to his bill. He’d get paid whether the jury found for the plaintive or not. If the plaintive prevailed and was awarded punitive damages, it might net him a handsome bonus.

“Automobile accident when I was seventeen. Car went off the road and hit a tree. My best friend was driving and he died instantly.” No mention of rain-slick roads or high speeds or alcohol.

“One of those unfortunate twists of fate,” Pete suggested, hoping the comment didn’t sound too trite.

Willard said, “I know this sounds odd, but if it hadn’t been for the accident, I wouldn’t have felt so compelled to succeed.”

“Not odd at all. I noticed your drafting table. You’re an architect?”

Willard shook his head. “Graphic design and illustration with a specialty in comic art.”

Pete was at a loss. “You’re talking comic books?”

“Basically, though it’s a much broader field.”