W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

He examined the card. “What kind of name’s Kinsey?”

“My mother’s maiden name.”

He looked up. “You happen to have any spare smokes on you?”

“I don’t,” I said, patting my jacket as though to verify the fact. I was about to add that I didn’t have any spare change either, but it seemed insulting as he hadn’t inquired about my financial state. Pearl had lost interest. She grabbed her shopping cart and began hauling it toward the bike path, wheels digging into the soft grass.

When it was clear the three were moving on, I said, “I appreciate your help. If you think of anything useful, you can let me know.”

Dandy paused. “You know that minimart a block down?”

“Sure.”

“You pick up a couple packs of cigarettes and it might put Miss Pearly White in a mood to chat.”

“She can bite my big fat ass,” Pearl said.

“Thanks a bunch. Really fun,” I sang as they ambled away.

2

I retraced my route, this time hanging a right onto Bay and then a left onto Albanil. I found a parking place two doors down from my studio and let myself in through the squeaking gate. I continued around to the backyard and skirted the flagstone patio. I unlocked my door and tossed my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool.

My studio was created when my eighty-eight-year-old landlord, Henry Pitts, built a spacious new two-car garage and converted his former one-car garage into a rental unit. At the time I was looking for a place near the beach. I’d been scouting the area on foot in hopes of spotting a For Rent sign when I came across the notice he’d posted in the neighborhood laundromat. We met, chatted briefly, and agreed to a three-month trial period during which we could decide if the arrangement suited us.

From the first, I thought he was adorable—tall and lean, with bright blue eyes, a healthy head of white hair, and a wicked smile. As it turned out, Henry and I were perfect for one another, not in any romantic sense, but as good friends living close to each other. Not infrequently I’m on the road for work purposes, and during the periods when I’m home I tend to keep to myself. Henry is similarly self-sufficient and as committed to independence as I am. I’m tidy and quiet. He’s tidy and gregarious, with a strong sense of decorum, which means he minds his own business unless I’m in need of a dressing-down, as is sometimes the case. He’s a retired commercial baker and he was happy to have someone on whom to lavish his freshly made cinnamon rolls and chocolate-chunk brownies. Soon we were making the trek to the neighborhood tavern for dinner a couple of nights a week. He would also issue an impromptu dinner invitation when he’d made a beef stew or a big pot of vegetable soup.

When I first moved in, I was thirty-two years old and he was eighty-two, an age gap I considered negligible. What’s fifty years’ difference between friends? I’ve been his tenant now for going on seven years and can’t imagine living anywhere else. The only blip on the radar screen was an unfortunate incident when a bomb exploded and blew the roof off my place. Henry assumed the role of general contractor during the reconstruction, redesigning and furnishing the whole of it as though he’d been doing it all his life. He fashioned the remodel after a ship’s interior, complete with a porthole in the front door.

Given the plunging late-afternoon temperatures, I was happy to be back in my cozy little place. The space is compact. Numerous built-in cabinets and cubbyholes provide more storage space than you’d think possible. Though a mere fifteen feet on a side, the downstairs comprises a living room, a makeshift corner office, a full bath, and a five-foot bump-out to accommodate a galley-style kitchen. A small spiral staircase leads up to a sleeping loft with a Plexiglas skylight above the bed and a bathroom with a window at tub level that looks out into the trees.

By way of modern conveniences, I have a stacking washer and dryer, a microwave oven, and a lightweight vacuum cleaner for my few square yards of cotton shag wall-to-wall carpet. I don’t often cook, unless you want to count heating a can of tomato soup as a culinary accomplishment. Those of us who don’t cook seldom have to worry about a sink full of dirty dishes, so a dishwasher would have been beside the point. After breakfast, I wash my cereal bowl and spoon, juice glass, and coffee mug, and leave them in the dish rack to air-dry until I need them again. Lunches I eat out, except for days when I take a sandwich, an apple, and cookies to munch while I’m sitting at my desk. On the rare nights when I have dinner at home, I put together one of my favorite sandwiches and serve it on a folded paper towel that I can then toss in the trash. This, by the way, is yet another argument for being single. Whatever I choose to do, there’s no one to complain.