W is for Wasted

Henry was tied up that night, catering a small dinner party for Moza Lowenstein down the street. Rosie’s Tavern was closed for the week because Rosie and William had flown to Flint, Michigan, the day before to help care for Henry and William’s sister, Nell, who had undergone a second surgery on the hip she’d broken in the spring. She was just getting out of rehab, and Rosie and William had agreed to be on hand until the following Friday, offering assistance when she was discharged. William is Henry’s brother, older by one year. Their sister, Nell, at ninety-nine, is the oldest of the five Pitts “kids,” with Charlie and Lewis, ages ninety-one and ninety-six respectively, filling in the gap.

An addendum to the plan was that Rosie was having her building fumigated while they were out of town. In anticipation of the process, the restaurant kitchen and storage areas had been emptied, and Henry’s second and third bedrooms were now jammed with all manner of foodstuffs. I didn’t inquire too closely what had motivated the purge. Rosie’s devil-may-care Hungarian dishes often feature animal organs, finely minced and sauced with a slurry of alarming black specks and chewy bits. I didn’t want to think about mice, weevils, and cigarette beetles.

I knew Henry would report on the family drama at the first opportunity, which I anticipated in the next few days. In the meantime, I was on my own, a happy circumstance for someone of my sometimes prickly disposition. I changed into my sweats and put together a deluxe hot hard-boiled-egg sandwich and poured myself a glass of Chardonnay. After supper, I curled up on the sofa with a mystery novel until I put myself to bed.

•   •   •

The next day, Saturday, I cruised the beach area hoping to see my homeless pals. I didn’t intend to make this my life’s work. I thought the coroner’s office had a better chance than I did of picking up a proper ID on Terrence Last-Name-Unknown. However, since I’d scored the dead man’s first name the day before, my modest success was now spurring me on. Pearl’s antagonism was a motivating factor as well. If she’d known me better—or at all—she’d have realized that her surliness was more of a challenge than an insult.

I was still debating the purchase of the cigarettes Dandy had implied might open the floodgates where Terrence was concerned. I questioned the ethics of supplying the trio with tobacco products as a means to an end. Given current scientific research, I think it’s fair to point out that smoking’s not a healthy practice, and I was reluctant to foster the habit among those who could ill afford it. On the other hand, as Pearl had so tartly observed in our first conversation, what business was it of mine?

Having sacrificed my principles, I was left with the burning question (as it were) of which brand to buy. I had no way to evaluate the virtues of filtered cigarettes versus nonfiltered, or mentholated versus nonmentholated, so I was forced to throw myself on the mercy of the minimart clerk, who appeared to be fourteen years old—too young to buy cigarettes let alone to sell them to me.

I said, “I could use some help here. What’s the cheapest brand of cigarettes you have?”

He turned and picked up a pack of Carlton’s, which he placed in front of me.

“Is this what the homeless smoke?”

Without a change of expression he reached under the counter and pulled out a generic brand I’d never heard of.

“I need two more.” I’d already decided I’d better provide a pack for each so no feelings would be hurt.

He put two additional packs on top of the first.

“How much?”

“A buck nine.”

“That’s not bad,” I said. I don’t smoke myself, so I didn’t know what to expect.

“Each.”

“Each? Are you kidding me?”

He was not. I paid for the three packs and tossed them into my shoulder bag. Three dollars plus change seemed like a lot to pay, but maybe I could claim the deduction on my Schedule A when tax season rolled around.

There was no sign of the threesome as I drove along Cabana Boulevard on my way home.

•   •   •

Sunday, I made another trip to the beach, my Grabber Blue Mustang attracting the usual curious stares. If my homeless friends wanted to duck me, it wouldn’t be hard to do. I drove at a speed so slow it made other drivers honk. I passed the recreation center and followed the wide curve that skirted the lagoon that served as a bird refuge. I knew Pete Wolinsky had been shot to death somewhere along here, but it seemed ghoulish to park and search out the spot.

I rolled through the small parking lot along the water’s edge and drove back the way I’d come, scanning both sides of the road. This was clearly unproductive, so I shifted to Plan B. At Milagro, I turned right and drove to the homeless shelter. Harbor House was situated in the middle of the block. The lot is narrow, the building itself set back from the street. There were eight parking spaces in front, all of them in use. A metal accordion gate had been pulled across the front door and secured with a padlock. A hand-lettered sign pasted on a side window said NA SUPPORT GROUP MEETS MONDAY AT 2:00.