L is for Lawless

2

I followed Bucky out the back door and down the porch steps. "Any chance your grandfather might have had a safe-deposit box?"

"Nah, it's not his style. Pappy didn't like banks and he didn't trust bankers. He had a checking account for his bills, but he didn't have stock certificates or jewelry or anything like that. He kept his savings – maybe a hundred bucks all told – in this old coffee can at the back of the refrigerator."

"Just a thought."

We crossed the patched cement parking pad to the detached garage and climbed the steep, unpainted wooden stairs to a small second-story landing just large enough to accommodate the door to Johnny Lee's apartment and a narrow sash window that looked out onto the stairs. While Bucky picked through his keys, I cupped a hand to the glass and peered into the furnished space. Didn't look like much: two rooms with a ceiling slanting down from a ridge beam. Between the two rooms there was a door frame with the door removed. There was a closet on one wall with a curtain strung across the opening.

Bucky unlocked the door and left it standing open behind him while he went in. A wall of heat seemed to block the doorway like an unseen barrier. Even in November, the sun beating down on the poorly insulated roof had heated the interior to a stuffy eighty-five degrees. I paused on the threshold, taking in the scent like an animal. The air felt close, smelling of dry wood and old wallpaper paste. Even after five months I could detect cigarette smoke and fried food. Given another minute, I probably could have determined what the old man cooked for his last meal. Bucky crossed to one of the windows and threw the sash up. The air didn't seem to move. The floor was creaking and uneven, covered with an ancient layer of cracked linoleum. The walls were papered with a pattern of tiny blue cornflowers on a cream background, the paper itself so old it looked scorched along the edges. The windows, two on the front wall and two on the rear, had yellowing shades half pulled against the flat November sunlight.

The main room had a single bed with an iron bedstead painted white. A wooden bureau was pushed against the back wall while a suite of old wicker porch furniture served as a seating area. A small wooden desk and a matching chair were tucked into one corner. There were ten to twelve cardboard boxes in a variety of sizes strewn across the floor. Some of the boxes had been packed and set aside, the flaps folded together to secure the contents. Two bookshelves had been emptied, and half the remaining books had toppled sideways.

I picked my way through the maze of boxes to the other room, which held an apartment-size stove and refrigerator, with a small microwave oven on the counter between them. A kitchen sink top had been set into a dark-stained wooden cabinet with cheap-looking hinges and pulls. The cabinet doors looked as though they'd stick when you tried to open them. Beyond the kitchen there was a small bathroom with a sink, a toilet, and a small claw-foot tub. All of the porcelain fixtures were streaked with stains. I caught sight of myself in the mirror above the sink and I could see my mouth was pulled down with distaste. Bucky had said the apartment was nice, but I'd rather shoot myself than end up in such a place.

I glanced out one of the windows. Bucky's wife, Babe, was standing at the back door across the way. She had a round face with big brown eyes and an upturned nose. Her hair was dark and straight, anchored unbecomingly behind her ears. She was wearing flip-flops, tight black pedal pushers, and a black sleeveless cotton top, stretched over drooping breasts. Her upper arms were plump and her thighs looked like they would chafe against one another when she walked. Everything about her looked unpleasantly damp. "I think your wife's calling you."

Babe's voice drifted up to us belatedly. "Bucky?"

He went to the landing. "Be right there," he yelled to her, and then in modulated tones to me: "You going to be okay if I just leave you here?"

I watched him twist the apartment key from his key ring.

"I'm fine. It really sounds like you've done everything you could."

"I thought so, too. My dad's the one who's really got a bug up his butt. By the way, his name is Chester if he gets back before we do." He handed me the key. "Lock up when you're done and drop the key through the mail slot in the front door. If you find anything that looks important, you can let us know. We'll be back around one. You have a business card?"

"Sure." I took a card from my bag and handed it to him.

He tucked the card in his pocket. "Good enough."

I listened to him clatter down the outside stairs. I stood there, wondering how long I could decently wait before I locked up and fled. I could feel my stomach squeeze in the same curious twist of anxiety and excitement I experience when I've entered someone's premises illegally. My presence here was legitimate, but I felt I was engaging in an illicit act somehow. Below, I heard Babe and Bucky chatting as they locked the house and opened the garage door beneath me. I moved to the window and peered down, watching as the car emerged, seemingly from beneath my feet. The car looked like a Buick, 1955 or so, green with a big chrome grille across the front. Bucky was peering back over his shoulder as he reversed down the driveway, Babe talking at him nonstop, her hand on his knee.

I should have left as soon as the car turned out of the drive, but I thought about Henry and felt honor-bound to make at least a pretense of searching for something relevant. I don't mean to sound cold-hearted, but Johnny Lee meant absolutely nothing to me, and the notion of mucking through his possessions was giving me the creeps. The place was depressing, airless and hot. Even the silence had a sticky feel to it.

I spent a few minutes wandering from one room to the next. The bathroom and the kitchen contained nothing of significance. I returned to the main room and scouted the periphery. I pushed aside the curtain covering the closet opening. Johnny's few clothes were hanging in a dispirited row. His shirts were soft from frequent washings, threadbare along the collar, with an occasional button missing. I checked all the pockets, peered into the shoe boxes lined up on the shelf. Not surprisingly, the shoe boxes contained old shoes.

The chest of drawers was full of underwear and socks, T-shirts, fraying handkerchiefs; nothing of interest hidden between the stacks. I sat down at his small desk and began to open drawers systematically. The contents were innocuous. Bucky had apparently removed the bulk of the old man's files: bills, receipts, canceled checks, bank statements, old income tax returns. I got up and checked some of the packed cardboard boxes, pulling back the flaps so I could poke through the contents. I found most of the relevant financial detritus in the second box I opened. A quick examination showed nothing startling. There were no personal files at all and no convenient manila envelopes filled with documents that pertained to past military service. Then again, why would he keep war-related memorabilia for forty-some-odd years? If he changed his mind about applying for VA benefits, all he had to do was supply them with the information he probably carried in his head.

The third box I looked into contained countless books about World War II, which suggested a lingering interest in the subject. Whatever his own contribution to the war, he seemed to enjoy reading other people's accounts. The titles were monotonous, except for the few punctuated with exclamation points. Fighter! Bombs Away! Aces High! Kamakazi! Everything was "Strategic." Strategic Command. Strategic Air Power over Europe. Strategic Air Bombardment. Strategic Fighter Tactics. I dragged the desk chair closer to the box and sat down, pulling out book after book, holding each by the spine while I riffled through the pages. I'm always doing silly shit like this. What did I imagine, his discharge certificate was going to drop in my lap? The truth is, most investigators have been trained to investigate. That's what we do best, even when we don't feel enthusiastic about the task at hand. Give us a room and ten minutes alone and we can't help but snoop, poking automatically into other people's business. Minding one's own business isn't half the fun. My notion of heaven is being accidentally locked in the Hall of Records overnight.

I scanned several pages of some fighter pilot's memoirs, reading about dogfights, bailouts, flames spurting from tailguns, Mustangs, P-40s, Nakajima fighters, and V formations. This war stuff was full of drama, and I could see why men got hooked on the process. I'm a bit of an adrenaline junkie myself, having picked up my "habit" during two years on the police force.

I lifted my head, hearing the chink of footsteps on the outside stairs. I checked my watch: it was only 10:35. Surely it wasn't Bucky. I rose and crossed to the doorway, peering out. A man, in his sixties, had just reached the landing.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Is Bucky up here?" He was balding, the white hair around his pate clipped close. Mild hazel eyes, a big nose, dimple in his chin, his face lined with soft creases.

"No, he's out at the moment. Are you Chester?"

He murmured, "No, ma'am." His manner suggested that if he'd worn a cap, he would have doffed it at that point. He smiled shyly, exposing a slight gap between his two front teeth. "My name's Ray Rawson. I'm an old friend of Johnny's… uh, before he passed away." He wore chinos, a clean white T-shirt, and tennis shoes with white socks.

"Kinsey Millhone," I said, introducing myself. We shook hands. "I'm a neighbor from down that way." My gesture was vague but conveyed the general direction.

Ray's gaze moved past me into the apartment. "Any idea when Bucky's due back?"

"Around one, he said."

"Are you looking to rent?"

"Oh heavens, no. Are you?"

"Well, I hope to," he said. "If I can talk Bucky into it. I put down a deposit, but he's dragging his feet on the rental agreement. I don't know what the problem is, but I'm worried he'll rent it out from under me. For a minute, when I saw all those boxes, I thought you were moving in." The guy had a southern accent I couldn't quite place. Maybe Texas or Arkansas.

"I think Bucky's trying to get the place cleared. Were you the one who offered to haul all the stuff out for a break in the rent?"

"Well, yeah, and I thought he was going to take me up on it, but now that his dad's in town, the two keep coming up with new schemes. First, Bucky and his wife decided they'd take this place and rent out the house instead. Then his dad said he wanted it for the times he comes out to visit. I don't mean to be pushy, but I was hoping to move in sometime this week. I've been staying in a hotel… nothing fancy, but it adds up."

"I wish I could help, but you'll have to take it up with him."

"Oh, I know it's not your problem. I was just trying to explain. Maybe I'll stop by again when he gets back. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Not at all. Come on in, if you like. I'm just going through some boxes," I said. I moved back to my seat. I picked up a book and riffled through the pages.

Ray Rawson entered the room with all the caution of a cat. I pegged him at five ten, probably 180 pounds, with a hefty chest and biceps for a guy his age. On one arm he sported a tattoo that said "Maria"; on the other, a dragon on its hind legs with its tongue sticking out. He looked around with interest, taking in the arrangement of the furniture. "Good to see it again. Not as big as I remember. The mind plays tricks, doesn't it? I pictured… I don't know what… more wall space or something." He leaned against the bedstead and watched me work. "You looking for something?"

"More or less. Bucky's hoping to turn up some information about Johnny's military service. I'm the search-and-seizure team. Were you in the Air Force with him, by any chance?"

"Nope. We met on the job. We both worked in the shipyards in the old days – Jeffersonville Boat Works outside of Louisville, Kentucky. This was way back, just after the war started. We were building LST landing craft. I was twenty. He was ten years older and like a dad in some ways. Those were boom times. During the Depression – back in 1932 – most guys weren't even pulling in a grand a year. Steelworkers made half that, less than waitresses. By the time I started working things were really looking up. Of course, everything's relative, so what did we know? Johnny did all kinds of things. He was a smart guy and taught me a lot. Can I lend you a hand?"

I shook my head. "I'm almost done," I said. "I hope you don't mind if I keep at it. I'd like to finish before I head out." I picked up the next book, leafing through the pages before I stacked it with the others. If Johnny was opposed to banks, he might have taken to hiding money between the pages.

"Any luck?"

"Nope," I said. "I'm about to tell Bucky to forget it. All he needs to know is his granddad's fighter unit. I'm a private investigator. This is my pro bono work, and it doesn't feel that productive, to tell you the truth. How well did you know Johnny?"

"Well enough, I guess. We kept in touch… maybe once or twice a year. I knew he had family out here, but I never met them until now."

I had a rhythm going. Pick a book up by the spine, flip the pages, set it down. Pick a book up by the spine, flip, set. I pulled the last book from the box. "I've been trying to place your accent. You mentioned Kentucky. Is that where you're from?" I stood up, tucking my fists in the small of my back to get the kinks out. I bent down and started returning books to the box.

Ray hunkered nearby and began to help. "That's right. I'm from Louisville originally, though I haven't been back for years. I've been living in Ashland, but Johnny always said if I came out to California I should look him up. What the heck. I had some time, so I hit the road. I knew the address and he told me he was living in the garage apartment out back, so I came up here first. When I didn't get an answer, I went over and knocked on Bucky's door. I had no idea Johnny'd passed on."

"Must have been a shock."

"It was. I felt awful. I didn't even call first. He'd written me a note a couple months before, so I was all set to surprise him. Joke's on me, I guess. If I'd known, I could have saved myself a trip. Even driving, it's not cheap."

"How long have you been here?"

"Little over a week. I didn't plan to stay, but I drove over two thousand miles to get here and didn't have the heart to turn around and drive back. I didn't think I'd like California, but it's nice." Ray finished packing one box and tucked the top flaps together, setting that box aside while I started work on the next.

"Lot of people feel it takes some getting used to."

"Not for me. I hope Bucky doesn't think I'm ghoulish because I want to move in. I hate to take advantage of someone else's misfortune, but what the heck," he said. "Might as well have some good come out of it. Seems like a nice area, and I like being near the beach. I don't think Johnny'd mind. Here, let me get these out of your way." Ray lifted one box and stacked it on top of another, pushing both to one side.

"Where are you now?"

"Couple blocks over. At the Lexington. Right near the beach and room doesn't even have a view. Up here, I notice you can see a little slice of ocean if you look through those trees."

I looked around the room with care but didn't see anything else worth examining. Johnny hadn't had that much, and what he owned was unrevealing. "Well, I think I'll give up." I dusted my jeans off, feeling grubby and hot. I went into the kitchen and washed my hands at the sink. The plumbing shrieked and the water was full of rust. "You want to check anything while you're here? Water pressure, plumbing? You could measure for cafe curtains before I lock up," I said.

He smiled. "I better wait until I sign some kind of rental agreement. I don't want to take the move for granted, the way Bucky's been acting. You want my opinion, the kid's not all that bright."

I agreed, but it seemed politic to keep my mouth shut for once. I returned to the main room, found my shoulder bag, and slung the strap across my shoulder, then dug the key from my jeans pocket. Ray moved out of the apartment just ahead of me, pausing on the stair below me while I locked up. Once the place was secured I followed him down the stairs and we walked down the driveway together toward the street. I made a quick detour, moving up onto the front porch, where I tucked the key into the mail slot in the middle of the front door. I rejoined him, and when we reached the street, he began to move in the opposite direction.

"Thanks for the help. I hope you and Bucky manage to work something out."

"Me too. See you." He gave a quick wave and moved off.

When I reached home, Henry's kitchen door was open and I could hear the babble of voices, which meant that Nell, Charlie, and Lewis were in. Before the day was over, they'd be into Scrabble and pinochle, Chinese checkers, and slapjack, squabbling like kids over the Parcheesi board.

By the time I unlocked my front door, it was almost eleven. The message light was blinking on my answering machine. I pressed the playback button. "Kinsey? This is your cousin Tasha, up in Lompoc. Could you give me a call?" She left a phone number, which I duly noted. The call had come through five minutes before.

This was not good, I thought.

At the age of eighteen, my mother had been estranged from her well-to-do family when she rebelled against my grandmother's wishes and ran off with a mailman. She and my father were married by a Santa Teresa judge with my aunt Gin in attendance, the only one of her sisters who dared to side with her. Both my mother and Aunt Gin had been banned from the family, an exile that continued until I was born some fifteen years later. My parents had given up any hope of offspring, but with my arrival tentative contact was made with the remaining sisters, who kept the renewed conversations a secret. When my grandparents left on a cruise to celebrate their anniversary, my parents drove up to Lompoc to visit. I was four at the time and remember nothing of the occasion. A year later, while we were driving north to another furtive reunion, a boulder rolled down the mountain and crashed through the car windshield, killing my father on impact. The car went off the road and my mother was critically injured. She died a short time later while the paramedics were still working to extract us from the wreckage.

After that, I was brought up by Aunt Gin, and to my knowledge, there was no further communication with the family. Aunt Gin had never married, and I was raised in accordance with her peculiar notions of what a girl-child should be. As a consequence, I turned out to be a somewhat odd human being, though not nearly as "bent" as some people might think. Since my aunt's death some ten years ago, I'd made my peace with my solitary state.

I'd learned about my "long-lost" relatives in the course of an investigation the year before, and so far, I'd managed to keep them at arm's length. Just because they wanted a relationship didn't obligate me. I'll admit I might have been a little crabby on the subject, but I couldn't help myself. I'm thirty-five years old and my orphanhood suits me. Besides, when you're "adopted" at my age, how do you know they won't become disillusioned and reject you again?

I picked up the phone and dialed Tasha's number before I had time to work myself into a snit. She answered and I identified myself.

"Thanks for calling so promptly. How are you?" she said.

"I'm fine," I said, desperately trying to figure out what she wanted from me. I'd never met her, but during our previous phone conversation, she'd told me she was an estate attorney, handling wills and probate. Did she need a private detective? Was she hoping to advise me about living trusts?

"Listen, dear. The reason I'm calling is we're hoping we can talk you into driving up to Lompoc to have Thanksgiving with us. The whole family's going to be here and we thought it'd be a nice time to get acquainted."

I felt my heart sink. I had zero interest in the family gathering, but I decided to be polite. I injected my voice with a phony touch of regret. "Oh, gee, thanks, Tasha, but I'm tied up. Some good friends are getting married that day and I'm a bridesmaid."

"On Thanksgiving? Well, that seems peculiar."

"It was the only time they could work out," I said, thinking ha ha tee hee.

"What about Friday or Saturday of that weekend?" she said.

"Ah." My mind went blank. "Mmm… I think I'm busy, but I could check," I said. I'm an excellent liar in professional matters. On the personal side I'm as lame as everybody else. I reached for my calendar, knowing it was blank. For a split second I toyed with the possibility of saying "yes," but a primitive howl of protest welled up from my gut. "Oh, gee. Nope, I'm tied up."

"Kinsey, I can sense your reluctance, and I have to tell you how sorry we all are. Whatever the quarrel between your mother and Grand had nothing to do with you. We're hoping to make up for it, if you'll let us."

I felt my eyes roll upward. Much as I'd hoped to avoid it, I was going to have to take this on. "Tasha, that's sweet and I appreciate your saying that, but this is not going to work. I don't know what else to tell you. I'm very uncomfortable with the idea of coming up there, especially on a holiday."

"Oh, really? Why is that?"

"I don't know why. I have no experience with family, so it's not anything I miss. That's just the way it is."

"Don't you want to meet the other cousins?"

"Uh, Tasha, I hope this doesn't sound rude, but we've done all right without each other so far."

"How do you know you wouldn't like us?"

"I probably would," I said. "That isn't the issue."

"Then what is?"

"For one thing, I'm not into groups and I'm not all that crazy about being pushed," I said.

There was a silence. "Does this have something to do with Aunt Gin?" she asked.

"Aunt Gin? Not at all. What makes you ask?"

"We've heard she was eccentric. I guess I'm assuming she turned you against us in some way."

"How could she do that? She never even mentioned you."

"Don't you think that was odd?"

"Of course it's odd. Look, Aunt Gin was big on theory, but she didn't seem to favor a lot of human contact. This is not a complaint. She taught me a lot, and many lessons I valued, but I'm not like other people. Frankly, at this point, I prefer my independence."

"That's bullshit. I don't believe you. We'd all like to think we're independent, but no one lives in isolation. This is family. You can't repudiate kinship. It's a fact of life. You're one of us whether you like it or not."

"Tasha, let's just put it out there as long as we're at it. There aren't going to be any warm, gooey family scenes. It's not in the cards. We're not going to gather around the piano for any old-fashioned sing-alongs."

"That's not what we're like. We don't do things that way."

"I'm not talking about you. I'm trying to tell you about me."

"Don't you want anything from us?"

"Like what?"

"I gather you're angry."

"Ambivalent," I corrected. "The anger's down a couple of layers. I haven't gotten to that yet."

She was silent for a moment. "All right. I accept that. I understand your reaction, but why take it out on us? If Aunt Gin was inadequate, you should have squared that with her."

I felt my defenses rise. "She wasn't 'inadequate.' That's not what I said. She had eccentric notions about child rearing, but she did what she could."

"I'm sure she loved you. I didn't mean to imply she was deficient."

"I'll tell you one thing. Whatever her failings, she did more than Grand ever did. In fact, she probably passed along the same kind of mothering she got herself."

"So it's Grand you're really mad at."

"Of course! I told you that from the beginning," I said. "Look, I don't feel like a victim. What's done is done. It came down the way it came down, and I can live with that. It's folly to think we can go back and make it come out any different."

"Of course we can't change the past, but we can change what happens next," Tasha said. She shifted gears. "Never mind. Forget that. I'm not trying to provoke you."

"I don't want to get into a tangle any more than you do," I said.

"I'm not trying to defend Grand. I know what she did was wrong. She should have made contact. She could have done that, but she didn't, okay? It's old business. Past tense. It didn't involve any of us, so why carry it down another generation? I love her. She's a dear. She's also a bad-tempered, penny-pinching old lady, but she's not a monster."

"I never said she was a monster."

"Then why can't you just let it go and move on? You were treated unfairly. It's created some problems, but it's over and done with."

"Except that I've been marked for life and I've got two dead marriages to prove it. I'm willing to accept that. What I'm not willing to do is smooth it all over just to make her feel good."

"Kinsey, I'm uncomfortable with this… grudge you've been carrying. It's not healthy."

"Oh, come off it. Why don't you let me worry about the grudge?" I said. "You know what I've finally learned? I don't have to be perfect. I can feel what I feel and be who I am, and if that makes you uncomfortable, then maybe you're the one with the problem, not me."

"You're determined to take offense, aren't you?"

"Hey, babe, I didn't call you. You called me" I said. "The point is, it's too late."

"You sound so bitter"

"I'm not bitter. I'm realistic."

I could sense her debate with herself about where to go next. The attorney in her nature was probably inclined to go after me like a hostile witness. "Well, I can see there's no point in pursuing this."

"Right."

"Under the circumstances, there doesn't seem to be any reason for having lunch, either."

"Probably not."

She blew out a big breath. "Well. If there's ever anything I can do for you, I hope you'll call," she said.

"I appreciate that. I can't think what it'd be, but I'll keep that in mind."

I hung up the phone, the small of my back feeling damp from tension. I let out a bark and shook myself from head to toe. Then I fled the premises, worried Tasha would turn around and call back. I hit the supermarket, where I picked up the essentials: milk, bread, and toilet paper. I stopped by the bank and deposited a check, withdrew fifty bucks in cash, filled my VW with gas, and then came home again. I was just in the process of putting groceries away when the phone rang. I lifted the receiver with trepidation. The voice that greeted me was Bucky's.

"Hey, Kinsey? This is Bucky. I think you better get over here. Somebody broke into Pap's apartment and you might want to take a look."