I said, “Hi, guys. I don’t mean to intrude, but did any of you know the dead man who was found out there this morning in his sleeping bag?”
As I gestured toward the beach, it occurred to me that the detail about the sleeping bag was superfluous. How many dead men in any guise had been discovered at the beach in the past twenty-four hours?
The fellow with his back to me rotated to get a good look at me and I realized my mistake. It was a woman, who said, “What business is it of yours?”
“Sorry. I should have introduced myself. Kinsey Millhone. What’s your name?”
She turned away, murmuring a four-letter word, which was audible, owing to my keen appreciation of bad language. I’m occasionally rebuked for my salty tongue, but who gives a shit?
The white kid spoke up in an effort to present a friendlier point of view. Without quite meeting my gaze, he said, “That’s Pearl. This here’s Dandy and I’m Felix.”
“Nice meeting you,” I said.
In a gesture that I hoped would convey both goodwill and trust, I held out my hand. There was an awkward moment and then Felix got the message. He shook hands with me, smiling sheepishly, his gaze fixed on the grass. I could see grungy metal braces on his teeth. Was the welfare system in the business of correcting malocclusions these days? That was hard to believe. Maybe he’d been fitted as a teen and had run away from home before his dentist finished his work. His teeth did look straight, but I questioned the wisdom of sporting orthodontia for life.
Dandy, the older gentleman, spoke up, his tone mild. “Don’t mind Pearl. It’s almost supper time and she’s hypoglycemic. Brings out a side of her we’d just as soon not see. What’s your interest in our friend?”
“He had my name and phone number in his pocket. The coroner’s office asked me to ID the guy, but I’d never seen him before. Were you aware that he’d passed away?”
Pearl snorted. “We look like fools? Of course he’s dead. Why else would the coroner send a van? He was laying out there still as stone an hour and a half after sunup. Down here, come daybreak, you better be on the move or the cops will bust you for loitering.” Her lower teeth were dark and widely spaced as though every other one had been yanked out.
“Can you tell me his name?”
She measured me, sizing up my capacity to pay. “How much is it worth to you?”
Dandy said, “Come on now, Pearl. Why don’t you answer the lady? She asked all polite and look how you’re doing her.”
“Would you butt out? I can handle this myself if it’s all the same to you.”
“Fellow passed on. She wants to know who he is. No reason to be rude.”
“I asked why it’s any of her concern? She ain’t answer me, so why should I answer her?”
I said, “There’s nothing complicated going on. The coroner’s office wants to contact his next of kin so his family can decide what to do with his remains. I’d hate to see him buried in a pauper’s grave.”
“What difference does it make as long as it don’t cost us anything?”
Her hostility was getting on my nerves, but I didn’t think this was the time to introduce the notion of sensitivity training when she was already “sharing” her feelings. She went on. “What’s it to you? You a social worker? Is that it? You work for St. Terry’s or that clinic at the university?”
I was doing an admirable job of keeping my temper in check. Nothing sets me off quicker than belligerence, warranted or otherwise. “I’m a private investigator. Your friend must have found my name in the yellow pages. I wondered if he’d had a problem he needed help with.”
“We all need help,” Pearl said. She held out a hand to Dandy. “Gimme up.”
He stood and pulled her to her feet. I watched while she dusted imaginary blades of grass from the back of her pants.
“Nice making your acquaintance,” Dandy said.
The white kid took his cue from his companions and stubbed out the last half inch of the cigarette. He stood and took one last sip from the soda can before he crushed it underfoot. He might have left it in the grass, but since I was standing right there watching him, he tucked it in his backpack like a good Boy Scout. He gathered his sleeping bag, bundled it carelessly, and secured it to his backpack with a length of rope.
Clearly, our chummy conversation was coming to an end. I said, “Anybody know where he was from?”
No response.
“Can’t you even give me a hint?”
The white kid said, “Terrence.”
Pearl hissed, trying to shut him up.
Meanwhile, I was drawing a blank. “Which is where?”
Felix was staring off to one side. “You ast his first name.”
“Got it. Terrence. I appreciate the information. What about his last name?”
“Hey! Enough. We don’t have to tell you nothing,” Pearl said.
I was about to choke the woman to death with my bare hands when Dandy spoke up.
“You have a business card? I’m not saying we’ll get back to you, but just in case.”
“Of course.”
I reached into my shoulder bag and took one out, which I handed to him. “I jog most weekday mornings, so you can always look for me on the bike path. I’m usually here by six fifteen.”
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.