W is for Wasted

Driving to the office, I spotted a pedestrian in a familiar herringbone sport coat poised to cross the street half a block ahead. He gave a quick look in each direction and then fixed his gaze on the sidewalk as he stepped up on the curb, heading in the same direction I was. I slowed and peered closely. Apparently, Fate wasn’t done with me because sure enough, it was Dandy in baggy black trousers and a pair of bright white running shoes. I pulled over to the curb and rolled down the car window on the passenger side. “Dandy? It’s Kinsey. You want a ride?”

He smiled when he caught sight of me. “That’d be nice. I was on my way to your office.”

“Hop in and I’ll deliver you to my door.”

I flipped the locks. Dandy opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat, bringing with him the cloudy smell of old cigarettes, which seemed to cling to his clothes. His pale pink dress shirt was freshly ironed and had the stiffness and sheen of spray starch. I had to guess he’d spiffed himself up in anticipation of the visit. I could smell soap and shampoo and the saturated scent of alcohol wafting through his skin. It was an odd combination; his efforts at personal hygiene undercut by his habitual intake of whiskey and nicotine. I experienced a piercing sense of protectiveness because he seemed so unaware of his effect.

He held up my business card. “I never met a private eye, so I thought I better see for myself.”

“The office isn’t much, but you can be the judge. I take it Pearl wasn’t panting to see me again.”

“She doesn’t like to walk. Me, I hoof it all over town. I apologize for her being rude the other day.”

“Is she always that hostile?”

“I wouldn’t fret if I were you. It’s nothing personal. Terrence was a good friend and his death was a blow. She hasn’t been handling it well.”

“Why take it out on me? I didn’t even know the man.”

“She’s disputatious, though she’s not as tough as she’d have us believe. She may give you a hard time, but she’s a pussycat at heart.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I took a right turn off Santa Teresa Street onto Caballero Lane, which was one block long. My office was the center one in a line of three small stucco cottages. In addition to the cheap rent, the location was close to the heart of downtown, in walking distance of the public library, the courthouse, and the police station. I pulled up in front. There were ample parking spots available because the bungalows on either side of me were empty and had been since I moved in. Dandy got out and waited while I locked the car and joined him on the walk. He had a courtly air about him. Maybe it was the dress shirt or the hint of humor in his eyes. I thought he seemed surprisingly intelligent, and then I had to stop and correct myself. Being homeless and being smart aren’t mutually exclusive states. There might be any number of reasons he was on the street.

I led the way up the front steps. I unlocked the door and opened it for him. “I’m putting on a pot of coffee if you’re interested.”

“I’d like that,” he said as he followed me in.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you.”

I rinsed out the coffeepot and slotted it onto the machine, putting a fresh filter in the holder, which I popped into place. Over my shoulder, I could see Dandy in the outer office, where he browsed the various law books and texts in my collection, everything from California Criminal Law to a 1980 edition of the Shooter’s Bible. There were also the technical tomes about burglary and theft, Scott’s Fingerprint Mechanics, arson investigation, the criminal mind-set, and Adelson’s Pathology of Homicide.

When he drifted into the inner office, I left the coffee brewing in the kitchenette and joined him. It crossed my mind, just briefly, that he might try pilfering an item, but then I remembered I didn’t have anything of value. No cash, no dope, no prescription medication, and no bottle of booze in my bottom drawer. If he wanted a ballpoint pen, I’d be happy to gift him with one.

He’d taken a seat in one of the two guest chairs, clearly curious about my domain. I took my place on the other side of the desk and tried seeing the place through his eyes. As it happens, my office is devoid of personal touches. I have an artificial ficus tree that I think lends the room a hint of class, but the fake plant is about it. There are no family photographs, no travel posters, no bric-a-brac, and no paperweight advertising “Bail Bonds, Quick Response.” For the most part, my desktop was clear, all of the paperwork consigned to folders tucked away in the file cabinets lining one wall.