W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“I can see where the belt’s come off. Won’t take a minute to fix, if you want me to. Only . . .”

“Only you want me to talk to Pearl in exchange.”

“That’d be nice. Maybe you can argue her out of it.”

“I’ll get my jacket.”

I crossed to the coat closet, watching him over my shoulder as he dropped to one knee. He had the belt back on in a jiffy, making me wonder if I’d sold out too cheap.

•   •   •

Thus it was that late afternoon on Tuesday, I found myself driving along Cabana Boulevard with a dreadlocked white boy in baggy shorts seated to my right. I was hungry and slightly cranky, which is the only way I can explain the lack of foresight. In my own mind, I wasn’t committed to the idea of helping Pearl. I was giving the appearance of cooperation, reserving the right to back out if she gave me any guff.

I swung by Harbor House and sent Felix in to find Pearl. “And put some clothes on,” I said as he closed the car door. He responded with a foolish grin and I watched until he disappeared from view. Even out at the street, I caught a whiff of their supper. Chili or lasagna or spaghetti and meatballs—something that smelled wonderful. Sitting down to a home-cooked meal three times a day must be like having a mother, someone who genuinely cared about seeing that your plate was cleaned and your tummy was full. The shelter provided the equivalent of a family home and an ever-shifting supply of siblings.

I wondered what it would take to feed 150 homeless people three meals a day. Dandy, Felix, and Pearl didn’t seem to question the fact that bed and board were theirs for the asking. In exchange for what? While I was growing fond of the three, I saw them as perpetual adolescents who’d never leave home. I’d seen the residents performing various chores around the place, but what incentive did they have to go out on their own? Their basic needs were provided for as long as they behaved. To me, the bargain seemed off-kilter. I was taught the virtues of hard work, and the trio’s complacency chafed at me. I could understand the needs of the infirm and the mentally ill. The able-bodied? Not so much. I’d heard the issue argued both for and against, but I’d never heard an equable solution.

It was still full-on daylight, but the air was taking on that odd cast that signals the gradual fading into twilight. The outside temperature was almost imperceptibly cooler. I turned on the heater and pressed my hands between my knees for warmth. I was hoping to see Dandy, thinking that if he’d gotten wind of the raid, he might be able to talk some sense into them.

Ten minutes passed and Felix emerged in black jeans and a black sweatshirt, as though prepared to knock an old lady on the head and snatch her pocketbook. He had a black rag tied around his dreads like a ninja or a sushi chef. Pearl followed in his wake, packed into blue jeans the size of those featured in the before photos in articles about weight loss of gargantuan proportions. She also wore jogging shoes, her black leather jacket, and her black knit watch cap.

She came around to the driver’s side of my car, and I got out and stood there, not wanting her to have the advantage of towering over me. Felix had opened the passenger-side door and he was about to slide into the back when he realized Pearl and I were going to have a powwow. Not wanting to miss the fun, he scampered around the front of the car and took his place at her side. I thought at first this was to show unity, but when she took out a cigarette, I realized he was only interested in bumming a smoke. She held out the pack and he took one, then pulled a Zippo from his pocket and lit both cigarettes. The two inhaled with such satisfaction, you’d have thought they’d just made love.

“He tell you about the backpack?” she asked. She still sounded belligerent, but maybe that was her normal tone.

“The gist of it. Why don’t you fill me in?”

“Man, I was PO’d. I go up to that minimart for a pack of smokes? There stands one of those Boggarts with Terrence’s backpack.”

“Boggarts?”

She fixed me with a look of disbelief. “Bad fairies. Like Knockers, only worse. My Scottish granny used to tell me stories about Boggarts when she tucked me in at night. This lot has taken over a camp in the woods where they live like hooligans. They’ll steal anything that’s not nailed down.”

“How do you know the backpack was Terrence’s?”

“Because he’d wrote his name on the front with a waterproof marker pen. I saw it with my own eyes less than two hours ago. I followed the guy and watched him hang it on a tree branch like the bears might be after it. I intend to go up there and get it back. So what do you say?”