W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“Won’t work. I’m not set up for it. I’ll take a check, but let’s be honest about this, I won’t get in gear until it clears the bank.”

The tips of Willard’s ears turned a brighter shade of pink. “The problem is my wife pays the bills and reconciles the checking account. I don’t want her asking who you are or what this is about.”

“Cash, then.”

“That’s just it. I don’t keep cash like that on hand. I have five hundred. The rest I can reimburse you. I swear I’m good for it.”

“Mr. Bryce . . . Willard. Forgive my impertinence, but I run a business here. I don’t mind a few out-of-pocket expenses, but we’re talking round-trip airfare right off the bat. I may have to make two trips depending on what comes up. Hotel and meals. On top of that, I may have to grease a few palms, if you get what I mean. Trust me, you don’t want me leaving a paper trail. Something comes to light and that sweet wife of yours will be all over you, thinking you have no confidence in her.”

“I have money in a separate account. I could have it for you this afternoon, I suppose.”

“Give me a call and I’ll be happy to swing back by.” Pete got up, thinking they were done.

Uncomfortably, Willard said, “Can I ask you something?”

“What’s that?”

“You carry a gun?”

Pete blinked. “Do you have need of one?”

“No, no. Not at all. I’m working on three panels where a gangster pulls a gun on Joe Jupiter and I’ve never handled one. If I show a close-up, I want to get the details right.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Pete said. He removed the semiautomatic from his shoulder holster, released the magazine, and checked to make sure there wasn’t a round in the chamber before he offered it to Willard butt first.

Willard took the gun and hefted it in his hand. “Wow. What is this?”

“Pocket pistol. Smith and Wesson Escort. I have a Glock 17 that I carry on occasion, but that little gun’s my baby.”

Pete spent a few minutes explaining the features while Willard checked it from all angles, turning it this way and that. He placed it on the arm of the chair and picked up his drawing pad. He folded the cover back and made a few quick pencil sketches, his eyes moving from the gun to the page and back. Pete was impressed with the rapidity with which he captured the weapon in a few simple strokes.

Willard set the sketch pad to one side. “You have a permit?”

Pete returned the gun to his shoulder holster. “I do. Issued in Tehama County, up north. Tehama you have densely wooded areas, lot of rainfall, and not many folks. Marijuana’s the big cash crop. I had a side business scoping out these little farmlets buried in the woods. I’d find ’em, map out the coordinates, and pass the information along to law enforcement. Job didn’t offer benefits, so I got my concealed carry permit as part of my compensation.”

“Is it legal here?”

“Permit’s valid statewide. Both my guns are registered,” he said.

“Well, that’s good.”

Pete shrugged, saying, “Anything else you need?”

Willard shook his head. “I’ll call when I have the cash.”

It wasn’t until Pete was in his car again that he started to laugh, delighted with the way the meeting had gone. He turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from Willard’s Cherry Lane address. He drove a block and took a right onto Colgate’s main thoroughfare. He had his choice of two travel agencies and he selected the smaller one. There were oversize travel posters taped to the plate-glass window, their once vibrant hues faded to a palette of misty pinks and blues. The one that caught his eye depicted a cruise ship moving along a wide still body of water. He leaned closer. BOUTIQUE RIVER TOURS. ENCHANTING DANUBE was what it said in small print.

At the desk inside he picked up a glossy brochure from a display near the door and slid it into the inner pocket of his sport coat. Something about the scene made his heart swell with hope. There were two agents at work, both women, and he chose the older one, who invited him to have a seat. Her name tag indicated she was Sabrina. Pete introduced himself, and in a matter of minutes he made round-trip reservations to fly from Santa Teresa to Reno on Friday, the twentieth, returning on Monday, the twenty-third. Because of the short notice, the fare for United Airline tickets was a hefty thirteen hundred bucks. He put the charges on the only one of his credit cards with any margin to spare. Sabrina printed the tickets and handed them over, along with a copy of the itinerary and his receipt, all neatly tucked into a ticket envelope with the logo of the agency emblazoned on the front.