W Is for Wasted

5

Fifteen minutes later, I dropped Dandy at the Harbor House. He hadn’t asked for a ride. I’d offered . . . nay, I’d insisted. I wanted to get rid of him so I’d have a chance to think about what he’d said. Having chided him for withholding information, I’d been less than forthcoming myself.

I’d actually heard the name R. T. Dace before. Twice as a matter of fact. I couldn’t remember the dates, but I knew of two distinct occasions in which people called to ask for him. What the heck was that about?

I left the shelter trying to recall the circumstances in which the phone calls had come in. It was distracting, trying to pin down the reference in a moving vehicle while hoping to obey traffic laws and avoid running over pedestrians. I turned into one of the public parking lots that looked out over the beach to the ocean beyond. I pulled into a slot and killed the engine. I laid my head back and closed my eyes, slowing my breath, working to silence the chatter in my head.

The inquiries had come months before, probably midsummer. I’d taken the first call at the office. I remembered that much. I tried to picture the cases I was working at the time, but my mental screen was blank. I set the point aside and focused on the fragment of conversation that had stuck in my mind. I was eating lunch at my desk when the phone rang. I put a quick hand against my mouth, chewing and swallowing in haste before I picked up. “Millhone Investigations.”

“May I speak to Mr. Millhone?”

The caller was male, on the young side, and his voice, while deep, suggested an underlying anxiety. I was already thinking it was a sales call, some boiler-room trainee learning the ropes. I’d pushed the caution button in my head while I tried to guess the nature of the upcoming pitch. Telemarketers inevitably say “How are you today?” in a tone that’s patently insincere, using the question as a means of engaging you in conversation. I said, “There isn’t a Mr. Millhone.”

The fellow cut in, but instead of the expected spiel, he said, “This is Dr. . . .”

I blanked on the name instantly because I had zeroed in on the voice, thinking it might be one I recognized. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m trying to reach Mr. Dace.”

“Who?”

“Artie Dace. I understand he doesn’t have a phone, but I hoped you’d put me in touch with him. Is he there by any chance?”

“You have the wrong number. There’s no Mr. Dace here.”

“Do you know how I can reach him? I tried the shelter, but they won’t confirm the name.”

“Same here. I never heard of him.”

There was a brief silence. “Sorry,” he said, and the line went dead.

I remembered dismissing the call the moment I hung up, though I half expected the phone to ring again. Wrong numbers seem to come in clusters, often because the calling party tries the same number a second time, thinking the error is connected to the dialing process. I stared at the handset and when the phone didn’t ring, I shrugged and went about my business.

The second call came within a matter of days. I know this because the name Dace had been planted recently enough that I hadn’t yet deleted it from memory. I’d closed the office early and I was having my calls forwarded. Henry and I were sitting in the backyard when the phone in my studio began to ring. I’d left my door open for just this reason, in case a client tried to reach me. When the phone rang a second time, I leaped to my feet and trotted into the apartment, where I caught the phone on the third ring. “Millhone Investigations.”

“May I speak to Mr. Millhone?”

This time the caller was a woman and I could hear noise in the background that suggested a public setting. “This is Kinsey Millhone. What can I do for you?”

The woman said, “This is the Cardiac Care Unit at Santa Teresa Hospital. We’ve admitted Mr. Artie Dace and we’re hoping you can give us information about what medications he’s on. He’s in and out of consciousness and unable to respond to questions.”

I squinted at the handset. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Eloise Cantrell. I’m the charge nurse in the CCU. The patient’s name is Artie Dace.”

This time, I’d picked up a pen and pulled over a scratch pad, making a note of the nurse’s name. I added CCU. “I don’t know anyone named Artie.”

“The last name is Dace, initials R. T.”

“I still can’t help you.”

“But you do know the gentleman. Is that correct?”

“No, and I don’t understand why you’re calling me. How did you get my name and number?”

“The patient was brought in through the emergency room and one of the nurse’s aides recognized him from a prior hospitalization. Medical Records located his chart and the doctor asked me to get in touch.”

“Look, I wish I could help, but I don’t know anyone by that name. Honest.”

There was a stretch of silence. “This isn’t in regard to his hospital bill. He’s covered by Medicaid,” she said, as though that might soften my stance.

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t know anyone named Dace and I certainly don’t know what medications he’s on.”

Her tone turned cool. “Well, I appreciate your time and I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

“No problem.”

And that was the extent of it.

I opened my eyes and looked out at the ocean. Maybe Dace had tried to reach me, but he’d been ill at the time. The doctor whose name I’d missed and the charge nurse, Eloise Cantrell, had probably discovered my name and number in his trouser pocket the same way the coroner’s office had. His handwritten note had said Millhone Investigations along with my office number. Both callers had erroneously assumed that Millhone was a man. Dandy had just told me Dace carried the information with him for months, hoping to sober up before he asked for help.

Though there were still gaps in the story, I was feeling better about the string of events. There’s something inherent in human nature that has us constructing narratives to explain a world that is otherwise chaotic and opaque. Life is little more than a series of overlapping stories about who we are, where we came from, and how we struggle to survive. What we call news isn’t new at all: wars, murders, famines, plagues—death in all its forms. It’s folly to assign meaning to every chance event, yet we do it all the time. In this case, it seemed curious that Pinky Ford, whose life had touched mine six months before, had made another appearance, this time connecting me to the man in the morgue. It did help me to understand how some of the lines connected. Dace’s choosing me wasn’t random. He was acting on the recommendation of a mutual acquaintance. The referral hadn’t netted me a job, but there was always the chance that a casual mention would result in future employment. In the meantime, the two phone calls regarding him and my name and number on that paper in his pocket were no longer mysterious in the overall scheme of things. I paused to correct myself. There had actually been three calls, the last one being from the coroner’s office.

Now that I thought about it, I’d had a number of hang-ups on my office answering machine. There must have been six in all, someone calling while I was out and electing not to leave a message. There was no reason to assume that the caller was the same in every instance and no reason to imagine it was R. T. Dace on the other end. But it was possible. Nothing to be done about it at this point, and I felt a momentary, formless regret.

As long as I was only three blocks from home, I decided to stop off and see what kind of luck Henry was having with the cat. I’d left that morning long before William’s appointment with the neurologist, and I was interested in an update on his condition as well. I found a parking spot across the street from Rosie’s place and noticed that the tenting was down. I could see a workman closing the downstairs windows, and I assumed that both the restaurant and the apartment upstairs had undergone a thorough airing out.

I locked my car, walked the half block, and made my way into the backyard. There was no sign of Henry, no sign of the cat, and no sign of William. Henry’s kitchen door was open, and when I tapped on the frame, there was a lengthy delay and then William hobbled into view from the direction of the living room. He held the door for me and I stepped into the kitchen.

“Henry’s not here, but he’s due back momentarily. Have a seat and don’t mind me if I stand. Hurts too much to get up and down. I’m better off on my feet.”

“I see the termite tenting’s down. Will you be staying here or going home?”

“I’ll go home if I can manage it. I’m sure Henry will be glad to see the last of me.”

“What about all the kitchen equipment and supplies? Won’t they have to be moved back in?”

“I suppose that can wait until Rosie gets home.”

“I’ll be happy to help. If you’ll direct our efforts, Henry and I can do the work.”

I pulled out a kitchen chair and settled my shoulder bag on the floor nearby. William leaned against the counter with his cane to provide balance. I could see past him into the backyard, so I knew I’d spot Henry as soon as he appeared. “How’d your doctor’s appointment go?” I asked.

“Dr. Metzger did a thorough examination and didn’t seem to think an MRI would be necessary for now. He made a point of saying ‘for now.’ ‘Always have ammunition in reserve’ was the way he put it. He prescribed an anti-inflammatory, pain medication, and a muscle relaxant. I’m also to do physical therapy three times a week. I have a heating pad that I’m to use before therapy and an ice pack for after.”

I sensed William’s discomfiture that his medical prognosis had been downgraded from near death, past acute, down to the mundane level of pills, ice packs, and PT. Added to that shame was his miscalculation with regard to the cat. I said, “Well, thank heaven you came home when you did. If you’d stayed in Flint four more days, no telling how bad your sciatica would have been. At least you’re under the care of a specialist.”

“The doctor said so as well, that I’d done exactly what he would have done in my shoes.”

“Absolutely. Good for you,” I said. “When do your physical therapy sessions start?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. I believe the facility is not far from here. Of course, I don’t want to be a burden, so I might take a cab. I hate to put Henry out.”

“Where’d you sleep last night? I thought both his guest rooms were stacked with items from the restaurant.”

“He offered me the couch, but I thought it best that I sleep on the floor. Once I managed to get down, which was no easy task, I kept my knees elevated so my back remained flat and properly supported. I slept as well as I could under the circumstances.”

“What’s the situation with the cat?”

“Henry caught the cat and he’s taken it to a veterinarian who has an office not too far from here. He tried everything to persuade the cat to come out of the bushes, but I’m afraid he didn’t have much success. He finally looked up the vet in the yellow pages. He was hoping she had a Havahart trap he could borrow, but hers was on loan to a group that rescues feral cats. She recommended a bit of cooked chicken and it worked like a charm. The cat even allowed itself to be tucked into the carrier for transport. I don’t know if I mentioned it, but the poor cat has no tail. Just a stump covered with a tuft of hair. I have no idea what happened to him. Henry says the cat’s pathetic—ugly, bad tempered, and uncooperative.”

“Not too uncooperative or Henry couldn’t have gotten him in the carrier.”

“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “I don’t mind Henry being mad at me, but I don’t want him to take it out on the cat.”

“Henry wouldn’t do that, do you think?”

“He has no use for it and he made that plain, but I don’t know what he meant. He’s hardly speaking to me, so I didn’t have a chance to press him on the point. He wants to be rid of the poor thing for sure.”

“You don’t think he’d have the cat put down, do you?”

“The mood he’s in, he’s capable of anything. He refuses to have it here. Especially after all the pain and suffering Nell’s been through.”

“Couldn’t the vet find a home for it?”

“That remains to be seen. Henry has no patience. He called Lewis, and Lewis said the same thing he’s been saying all along: take the cat to the pound and put an end to it. Henry says whatever happens, it’s my fault for not asking in advance. He knew a fellow bitten by a stray who was stricken with cat scratch fever. His arm swelled up to three times its normal size. He was in the hospital for a week. Henry says why take the risk? Fleas and god knows what diseases. He says the cat’s fate is on my head.”

“Henry said that?”

“Words to that effect. I thought I was doing a good deed, but there’s no predicting Henry. He can be hard-nosed.”

I caught movement and looked up in time to see Henry’s station wagon ease along the drive. He paused while the automatic door went up and then pulled into the garage. I heard the car door slam and he appeared a moment later, hauling the carrier, which was clearly lighter and most decidedly empty.

Stony-faced, he came into the kitchen and set the carrier to one side. “That takes care of that,” he said, and then looked over at me, his tone shifting from cranky to something more pleasant. “You’re home early.”

I murmured a response, realizing that I was sorely disappointed with the man. He was in no way obliged to keep the cat simply because William had taken it upon himself to transport it across country. Henry had never expressed any interest in animals and I’d never known him to mention a pet. Still, I counted on him to do the right thing, even if he wanted to be a grouch about it.

He turned to William. “You owe me fifty dollars.”

William wasn’t going to argue. He was already chastened by Henry’s anger and repentant at having caused such an uproar. He had to feel worse about the cat than I did. He took out his wallet and counted off the bills, which he handed to Henry. “May I ask what this is for?”

Henry said, “The vet has to put the cat to sleep and that’s what it costs.”

Both William and I said “Oh” in tones of regret and bewilderment.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, looking from my face to William’s.

I said, “If I’d known you were going to have it put down, I’d have taken it myself.”

“What are you talking about? She’s not killing the cat. She’s cleaning his teeth and he has to be sedated. I’m to pick him up at five.”

I said, “Really? Well, that’s great!”

He seemed to be feeling self-conscious as he went on. “The vet says he’s a Japanese bobtail, which is a rare breed. As a matter of fact, this is the first one she’s seen in her entire career. Bobtails are active and very intelligent, easily trained to a leash. And talkative, she said, which I’d noticed myself. Two people in the waiting room spotted him and volunteered to take him off my hands that very minute, but I didn’t like their looks. One had a yappy dog the cat took an instant dislike to, and the other was a young woman who looked irresponsible to me. She had pierced ears and peroxided hair that stood up in spikes all over her head. I told the vet I wouldn’t dream of putting the cat in the care of someone like that.”

“Well, that’s wonderful,” I said, patting myself on the chest with relief. “So he’s a male?”

“He was male. Apparently, he was neutered some time ago. The vet says neutering tempers aggression and will keep him from spraying and getting into fights with other cats. She also pointed out he has what they call heterochromia, meaning his eyes are different colors. One is blue and the other is a golden green. Odd-eyed kittens are more expensive than the ordinary ones.”

William stirred, wanting to ask a question without generating any more ire on Henry’s part. “Have you thought about a name?”

“Of course. The cat’s name is Ed.”

William blinked and said, “Good choice.”

I said, “Excellent.”