W Is for Wasted

by Sue Grafton

  I found street parking around the corner from the Dugout and hoofed my way back. A judiciously placed waste container had done double duty as a trash can and as a barf receptacle for a patron who’d almost managed to reach it.

  The place was open, of course. Ten in the morning on a Sunday was the same as church to some folks. As this was the Pacific time zone, football games being broadcast from the Midwest and the East Coast would soon be underway. The bar itself looked like every other sports bar you’ve ever seen. Booths, free-standing tables and chairs, six big-screen television sets mounted at intervals, each tuned to a different sporting event. The bar itself extended the length of the room on the left-hand side, with stools lined up smartly, most of them occupied. A second room was furnished with foosball tables and pool tables. I caught a glimpse at the rear of a series of dartboards, but no one was throwing at that hour. Twelve men at the bar turned to look at me as I walked in and then went back to their drinks.

  The bartender ambled in my direction. He was a middle-aged man, short and stocky, wearing chinos and a vintage jersey of some vague hockey-like sort. He placed a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of me. I said, “I’m looking for Pearl.”

  “Too late. Her and Dandy came in yesterday, kicking up a fuss. Now they’re eighty-sixed.”

  Being eighty-sixed was the drunkard’s equivalent of being barred for life, though most bar owners would eventually relent.

  “You know where they went?”

  “Shape they were in, it wasn’t Harbor House. Curfew’s at seven. Last I saw ’em it was two A.M.”

  “They were here all that time?”

  “They went out for a while and then came back in. Spreading the joy, I guess.”

  “What kind of trouble did they make?”

  Mockingly, he put a hand to his chin. He twiddled his fingers and looked skyward, as though trying to remember and calculate. “Well, let’s see. Second time they showed up, they started knocking back shots. Dandy’s not a maudlin drunk like she is, but he gets in everyone’s face. He’s a guy who wants to engage in long, rambling chats. Folks don’t want to deal with that. The two of ’em tried throwing darts but neither one could see straight. Pearl fell over backward and busted up a chair and then he weighed in and broke a second one for good luck. She got sick and then he fell down. I should have called the cops at that point, but I got too big a heart.”

  “I heard they were on a bender.”

  “I can testify to that. Here’s the deal: I like Pearl. I wish her the best and I mean that. Who knows what put me where I am and put her on the street? Call it the Fickle Finger of Fate, but she’s wanking on about how everything’s so unfair. I got no patience for that. Like I said to her, I didn’t invent the game and I didn’t make the rules. Maybe it all stinks and I’m sorry as hell, but I got a bar to run.”

  “She’s a tough one,” I said, hoping to defuse his irritation and sidestep an argument.

  “She says she’s down on her luck but luck’s got nothing to do with it. She makes choices the same as I do. I don’t know if she’s lazy or stupid or mentally ill, and I don’t care. Point is, I got fifteen employees dependent on me, but how the hell can I run a business when Pearl and her ilk come in here and puke all over the place?”

  I shook my head, saying, “I hear you” in what I hoped was a sympathetic tone. In truth, I was more interested in their current whereabouts than a history of their bad behavior.

  “Fact is, my taxes pay for her room and board and her medical care. You ever think about that? And you know what? My wife got sick and ended up in St. Terry’s for ten days. You want to know how much that cost me? Ninety thousand bucks. I kid you not. I’ll be paying that off until I’m ninety myself. Pearl gets sick? It’s not gonna cost her a dime. They got programs. Shelter and clothing and three meals a day. I should be so unfortunate. Point is, I’m done with her and I’m done with her friend. Tell you something else and this makes no sense: Dandy’s a smart guy. His father taught math at the high school. You ever hear about that?”

  “Actually, I did.”

  “Dandy could have made something of himself, you know? He decides to take the low road, why does that obligate me?”

  I made a few more mouth noises and then excused myself. Raise the subject of the homeless and everybody has a strong opinion. Fifty percent of the local citizens are sympathetic and the other fifty are pissed as hell. Does the problem get solved? No, it does not.

  I retrieved my car and headed back down Milagro toward the beach, hanging a right when I reached the small side street where Harbor House was located. Again, I parked the car, hoofed the half block, and went in. The common room was largely empty, but there they were, Pearl and Dandy sprawled on adjacent couches, both of them dead to the world. She had her jacket pulled over her head but her body type was distinct. I couldn’t miss the bulk of her, swaddled in fake leather. Dandy reclined in an upholstered chair, hands clasped across his lap, his legs extended in front of him. He was slack-mouthed and snoring. The air around them smelled of fruitcake.

  I found a chair and watched for a while, wondering at the life they led. I couldn’t handle it myself. I don’t have the discipline. I might manage to be idle for half a day and then I’d be back in my routine: getting up at six, jogging my three miles, going into the office, walking up to Rosie’s for a bite to eat. Doing nothing makes me itch. I don’t have the temperament or the strength of character.

  After a few moments, Pearl roused herself and sat up. Her face was high-blood-pressure pink, her hair as stiff and dry as straw. She’d bleached it blond once upon a time and what was left had worked its way down to the tips. In the wake of her drinking binge, I could tell that many of her elementary body parts were in full mutiny. I didn’t feel sorry for her, but I could identify to some extent. She must have felt she’d been stricken with a tropical disease, some hideous malady she’d done nothing to deserve. I could see her looking inward, perhaps measuring her nausea level on a scale of one to ten. I would have pegged her at a six and rising.

  “How’re you feeling?” I asked.

  She said, “Man, oh man.”

  She ran a hand across her face and peered at me as though the light hurt her eyes. “Where’d you come from?”

  “Back from Bakersfield.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Not that well. What about you?”

  “I think I picked up that stomach bug that’s going around.”

  “It’s a bad one from what I hear.”

  She held a hand up. “Hang on a sec.” She pushed herself to her feet. She pressed two fingers against her lips and walked with great purpose toward the ladies’ room, speeding up as she got closer. Even with the door closed, I could hear the misery. Such are the charms of drink. Dandy would be lucky if he managed to sleep for a while, letting his body metabolize the excess alcohol in his poor beleaguered system.

  Pearl was moving slowly when she returned. I could tell she’d splashed some water on her face and I was hoping she’d had a chance to rinse her mouth. She eased herself back down on the couch by degrees as though her back had gone out on her.

  “Word has it, you and Dandy got eighty-sixed from the Dugout,” I said, mildly.

  “Won’t last. You know why?”

  “I’d love to hear your analysis.”

  “Guy’s got a big heart. Besides, he likes me.”

  “He’d have to.”

  “Anyway, what’d we do to him? Hey, so once in a while we mess up, but who don’t? . . . doesn’t,” she said. She slid a pained look in my direction and I imagined I was the only thing standing between her and another round of sleep. “You stop by for some reason in particular?” she asked.

  “Just wondering where you were. Last night I went over to St. Terry’s to see Felix.”

  “Bummer,” she said. “I been there for hours. Anyone tell you that?”

  “I heard you were faithful as a hound.”

  “You got that right. You don’t h
appen to have any Vicodin.”

  I shook my head in the negative.

  “Percocet?”

  “Fresh out,” I said.

  I heard the phone ringing at the desk behind me. Someone picked up and when I glanced over my shoulder, I saw a volunteer standing with her palm across the mouthpiece. “Pearl?”

  She held up the handset by way of summons.

  “What’d I tell you?” she said, struggling to her feet again.

  “Guy owes me an apology big time. I don’t know if I’m accepting it or not. I don’t like abuse, especially when I didn’t do nothing to him.”

  “Well, good luck,” I said. “Show the guy some mercy.”

  Pearl said, “Ha.”

  Meanwhile, Dandy had pulled himself upright. Maybe our conversation had reached him in the depths of his inebriated state. As much as he’d had to drink, he wouldn’t be sober for another two days. If Pearl’s condition was a harbinger, he’d be in a hurt locker the size of hers.

  From the direction of the desk, I heard Pearl’s voice rise. “DO NOT SAY THAT. Don’t you say that to me, you son of a bitch!”

  There was a silence and Pearl’s voice rose. “Shut your trap! That is not TRUE! You’re a lying sack of shit.”

  Another silence while someone on the other end had a few more things to say.

  Pearl’s response was to the point. “Hey! You say that again, I’ll come down there and punch you in the face!”

  She listened briefly, and then slammed down the handset. “That’s bullshit. What kind of bullshit is that?”

  She headed toward us at a lumbering pace, still in too much pain to move with any speed. She was sweating and her skin had turned blotchy in the wake of her rage. Dandy pushed himself to his feet. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you what’s up. You want to know what’s up? That asshole’s telling me Felix died.”

  “I saw him last night,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, he died an hour ago. How could he do that when I loved the guy? Hey. You know what? Hey . . .”

  Her voice broke. Whatever she meant to add, a howl went up instead. The sound was sufficient to freeze everyone in place and then send half the residents scurrying to her aid as though her hand had been caught in the blades of a fan.

  25

  Here’s how hard-hearted I am: I was irritated by Pearl’s wailing. It seemed pumped up, artificial, overdone. My response was to disconnect, as though I were pulling a plug out of a wall socket. I couldn’t react to the news of Felix’s death because her excess had shut me down. It was as though she’d preempted any honest feelings generated by his passing. At the same time, I wondered if Pearl was the normal one and I was too psychologically stunted to experience sorrow. This didn’t seem like the proper moment to sort out questions of such complexity, but the idea had occurred to me on previous occasions—this sense that I was somehow out of step with the rest of humankind. Maybe I’d seen too much. Maybe I’d been exposed to matters so coarse and wrenching, I was no longer capable of feeling pain. I could almost picture myself in a therapist’s office, gingerly picking my way across this minefield. Was I nuts?

  Nah, I was almost sure it was Pearl. If I were that screwed up, I wouldn’t be capable of reflecting on the point, would I?

  So, there I stood while she collapsed on the couch in what looked like a parody of grief. Granted, it’s not my job to judge how others process emotions, but I gave her a 2.5 out of 10 on the basis of her phoniness. Dandy made no move to comfort her. I wasn’t sure if he felt equally alienated or he was simply helpless in the face of female histrionics. I didn’t doubt Pearl loved Felix. I just thought she was cranking up the theatrics so she could command center stage. I crossed my arms and kept my gaze on the floor, knowing my body language testified to my state of mind, which was cranky and withdrawn. I could have sworn Pearl was aware of my disconnect because she took to thrashing about like a kid in the throes of a temper tantrum, determined to get a rise out of Mom.

  Someone brought her a glass of water. Someone wet a paper towel and gently dabbed her face. I wanted to slap the shit out of her but somehow managed to restrain myself. This went on for longer than was absolutely necessary to make her point clear. Two of the residents helped her to her feet and she was led from the room like an athlete injured on the playing field. The others stood by in respectful silence while I mentally crossed my eyes. Dandy and I exchanged a look, but I couldn’t read the content.

  I said, “What in the world happened while I was off in Bakersfield? I know those guys beat the shit out of Felix, but what precipitated the attack? Did he and Pearl find some way to add insult to injury?”

  “Not that I know. Pearl mostly stayed here, worried they’d come after her. Felix didn’t seem concerned. I don’t think the notion that actions have consequences meant anything to him. He did what he did and then forgot about it. That boy wasn’t blessed with much in the way of common sense.”

  “What have the police done about the Boggarts?”

  “Asked around, I’m sure. Filled out paperwork. I know they talked to the fellow who called 911, but he won’t help. Sorry it happened and so forth, but he’s not sticking his neck out for a bum who gets in a brawl with three other bums.”

  “Meanwhile, you and Pearl go off on a toot,” I said. “What was that about? You’d think the last thing you’d want to do is get shitfaced.”

  Sheepishly, he said, “Feels good sometimes, you know? When bad things go down, you want to cut loose. Get loaded and forget. Better than feeling sad or mad or depressed.”

  “Are you okay now? You don’t look good.”

  “Naw, I’m not feeling so hot. I need to find me a spot where I can curl up and sleep.”

  “You’ll keep an eye on Pearl?”

  “Oh sure. Gotta look after my pal.”

  “You go off on another bender and I’ll wring your neck,” I said with all the compassion I could muster, which was none.

  Then I repressed the urge to hug the man, primarily because he had what looked like a streak of spit-up down the front of his shabby sport coat. I patted him on the arm. The gesture was weak but it was the best I could do.

  On my way out, the volunteer at the desk beckoned to me. I checked behind me to make sure she meant the gesture for me. I paused at the desk. She said, “Are you related to Terrence Dace?”

  “Yes.”

  “The one he made executor of his estate?”

  “That’s me. I’m Kinsey.”

  “Belva,” she said. “The reason I ask is I came across some mail for him and thought you should have it.”

  “Well, thanks. That’s good of you.”

  She turned and picked up a couple of bank statements in windowed envelopes and a fourteen-by-twenty mailing pouch. The package was thick, and when she passed it across the counter to me, I was surprised by the weight. The label was self-addressed in the printing I’d come to recognize. The postmark was June 29, 1988.

  “I appreciate this,” I said. I pulled out a business card and placed it on the desk for her. “If anything else comes in, would you let me know?”

  “Of course. I’ll leave a note for the other volunteers in case there’s something more.”

  I thanked her and carried the bulky package to my car. The package was so plastered over with clear tape that I couldn’t make any headway. I’d have to wait and open it later to see what he’d shipped to himself months before he died. I sat for a while. No point in consigning Felix’s death to an index card. I wasn’t sure what time he’d died or what the attending physician had listed as the cause of death. I didn’t even know how old he was. All I knew for a certainty was he’d never get his braces off and that seemed too sad for words. I turned the key in the ignition and headed toward the bike shop at the foot of State Street. I turned into a side street just shy of the intersection and found a parking place. I locked my car and walked around the corner to the bicycle-rental shop.

  The weekend art show was in
progress: paintings, ceramics, and assorted crafts displayed in a line of booths laid out alongside the walk. Some vendors had erected lightweight tents to display homemade articles of clothing, wind chimes, lawn ornaments, jewelry, and whirligigs. Given that it was Sunday afternoon and the sun was out, the beach beyond was littered with people—screaming children, joggers with dogs, and prone lasses who’d loosened the tops of their bikinis to avoid the tan lines. The restaurants along the boulevard had flung their doors open, and those establishments with outside seating were filled to capacity.

  The bicycle-rental shop was doing a lively business as well, especially with their pedal surreys, which were always popular with kids. I went in. In addition to bike rentals, the shop sold surfboards, bathing suits, T-shirts, shorts, ball caps, sunglasses, sunscreen, and accessories. I looked for someone in charge and settled on a fellow in his sixties who stood at the cash register, ringing up a sale. His Hawaiian shirt was one of those with washed-out colors, shades of pale blue with a design of palm fronds picked out in white. He was balding and wore a pair of reading glasses on top of his head. He sported a wedding ring and a wristwatch that looked sturdy enough to flush down a toilet without losing time.

  I moved to the counter and waited my turn. When he’d finished with the customer, he looked at me expectantly.

  I held out my hand. “Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Are you the owner?”

  My introducing myself put me in a category with traveling salesmen and promoters hoping to post a flyer, advertising a little theater production no one wanted to attend.

  After a slight hesitation, he shook my hand. “I own the place, yes. Last name’s Puckett. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m a friend of the young man who got beat up out front.”