W Is for Wasted

6

PETE WOLINSKY

May 1988, Five Months Earlier

Pete ignored the phone when it rang, letting his answering machine pick up while he sorted through the mail that had piled up over the past week. Idly, he tuned in to his outgoing message, thinking as he always did that his recorded voice sounded manly, mature, and trustworthy.

“Able and Wolinsky. We’re currently out of the office, but if you’ll leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you as soon as we return. We value your business and look forward to serving you with efficiency and discretion.”

There was actually no Able. Pete had adopted a mythical partner so his agency name would appear first in the listings for private investigators.

The caller didn’t need to identify himself since he rang up six to eight times a day. “Listen, you son of a bitch. I know you’re there, so let’s cut the bullshit and get straight to the point. If you don’t pay what you owe, I’ll come over there with a meat cleaver and chop off your shriveled dick . . .”

Pete listened with amusement. Synchronicity being what it was, it was Barnaby on the line again, calling on behalf of Ajax Financial Recovery Associates, whose officious written demands were spelled out in the letter he held in his hand while the goober from the self-same company spewed venom. In truth, the dunning notices were almost as bad as the daily calls and both were getting on his nerves—abusive tirades generated by clowns who weren’t qualified for real jobs. What kind of fool spent his days in a cubicle badgering gainfully employed citizens about debts that might or might not be owed? Most debt collectors were rude, obnoxious, devious, and unprincipled. He filtered their calls, deleting a message the minute the caller announced his purpose. If he was careless and picked up the line, allowing one of his creditors to get through, he’d blast him with a handheld siren that would render a fellow deaf for the better part of an hour. He made an exception for Barnaby, whose threats were more vicious and imaginative than most. As soon as he’d recorded another week’s worth of diatribes, he’d file a complaint with the FTC.

He tossed the Ajax letter into the trash along with the other overdue notices, a summons, two default judgments, and the threat of a lawsuit. The only envelope left contained a preapproved credit card offer, which made him laugh aloud. Those assholes never gave up. He adjusted his glasses, leaning close to the application as he took a few minutes to fill in the particulars. He used his own name with an X as his middle initial. The rest of the personal information—employment, bank accounts—he invented on the spot, wondering if the company would actually be foolish enough to issue him a card.

It didn’t bother him so much that he was broke. It was the unpleasantness he objected to, having to suffer the screaming and insults, being interrogated about his intentions, which forced him to make up excuses or, worse yet, tell outright lies. He didn’t enjoy the dishonesty, but what choice did he have? Business was slow and had been for the past year and a half. The rent on his small office was three months in arrears. He avoided the premises when possible because his landlady was likely to pop up without warning, angling for payment. She insisted on cash, refusing to accept Pete’s checks after the third one was returned for insufficient funds.

He glanced at his watch, startled to see the time had gotten away from him. It was 9:43. He had an appointment at 10:00, a job prospect that had come as a happy surprise. Fellow named Willard Bryce—young man by the sound of him, clearly unaccustomed to requiring the services of a private eye. During their phone conversation, Pete had pressed, trying to get a line on the problem, but the fellow was reluctant to specify. Pete was imagining a matrimonial issue, always depressing to contemplate.

He removed his sport coat from the rack, hung his scarf around his neck, locked the office door behind him, and went out to the car, brooding about his lot in life. In his heyday, he’d hated having to stoop to domestic cases, which were emotional and messy and seldom netted much in the way of returns. Confirm a woman’s intuition that her husband was cheating and suddenly she’d reverse herself, denying the truth even when the photographs were laid out in front of her. If Pete managed to convince her, she’d be too bitter or too upset to pay his fee. On the other hand, if he assured her of her hubby’s innocence, the wife would claim he hadn’t done his job. Why pay a PI who couldn’t come up with the goods? Why was that worth thirty bucks an hour, she’d ask, peevishly.

Working the husband’s side of the equation was no better. Pete would tease out the ex-wife’s property holdings, providing proof she’d bought a condominium in Hawaii while at the same time claiming her meager spousal support was inadequate to her needs. By the time a court date was set to review the facts, the husband would have piled up legal expenses so steep that he wouldn’t have the bucks to pay the PI who’d provided the ammunition.

He drove north on the 101, waving in response to the sour looks from passing drivers. His 1968 Ford Fairlane wouldn’t exceed fifty-five miles an hour. The muffler was noisy and the once fire-engine red paint had faded to a harsh flamingo pink. It was a sweet drive for a twenty-year-old vehicle with 278,000 miles on the odometer. On cold mornings, it took a fair amount of coaxing before the engine turned over, sending up dark puffs, like smoke signals, visible in his rearview mirror. He’d bought the car at what he could see now was the height of his career. It ate up gasoline at a rate of fifteen miles to the gallon, but it was otherwise low maintenance.

He didn’t want to dwell on the fact that the prospective client lived in Colgate, but it didn’t bode well. Colgate was a lackluster sprawl of tract homes, built on land that had once supported citrus and avocado orchards. Colgate residents were workaday folk—plumbers and electricians, auto mechanics, store clerks, and trash collectors—not poor by any stretch, but getting by on wages that barely kept up with inflation. Actually, they all made more than he did, but that was neither here nor there.

He’d been a damn fine detective once upon a time and he was still good at what he did. If he cut corners on occasion, he figured it was strictly his business. He’d learned early on that in his line of work, it didn’t pay to be too fastidious. As long as he delivered the goods, his clients looked the other way. Most made a point of not inquiring too closely about his methods. For years he’d sidestepped the Business and Professions Codes that governed the practices of private investigators. By his reckoning, he’d violated most of them anyway, so why get all prissy at this point? His clients didn’t seem to care what he did as long as nothing blew back on them. So far he hadn’t been caught, which was, after all, the point. As long as he wasn’t apprehended in the course of an illegal act, he wasn’t subject to censure. He was immune from threats of having his license yanked since he hadn’t operated with a valid PI license for some years. Those who hired him understood that whatever their needs, fees would be paid in cash before he embarked on a job and little would be committed to paper. A contract was sealed by gentlemen’s agreement, confirmed by a handshake, and accompanied by a nod and a wink.

Once in Colgate proper, he turned off the main street onto Cherry Lane, leaning forward to catch house numbers. The address he was searching for turned out to be a twelve-unit apartment complex, built during the fifties by the look of it, not shabby but with the glum air of postwar construction. He found a parking spot, locked the car, and walked back to the entrance. An iron gate opened into a spacious courtyard partly shaded by young trees. Now he pictured a schoolteacher or the general manager of a fast-food restaurant, though why either would be home at this hour was anybody’s guess. Maybe the problem was a business dispute or a slip-and-fall claim, something involving an insurance company, which would allow him to pump up his bill into the four-figure range. Pad his hours, pad expenses, exaggerate the difficulty of the job, and then string it out.

Apartment 4 was on the ground floor near the rear of the building. He rang the bell and then turned to do a quick survey of the premises. No kids’ toys in evidence and no swimming pool. In the central grassy area, a set of metal lawn chairs and a glider had been arranged in a conversational grouping that suggested an occasional gathering of the residents. These were probably the kind of folks who looked after one another. Always admirable, he thought. The shrubs needed pruning and the flower beds were riddled with weeds, but the basic landscaping design was good.

The door opened and when he turned to face his prospective client, he made quick work of covering his surprise. The fellow had had the crap knocked out of him at some point, though Pete guessed the injury wasn’t recent. Willard Bryce had propped himself upright using a pair of lightweight aluminum forearm crutches with rubber handgrips and vinyl-coated contoured arm cuffs. His left leg was intact, but the right was half gone, his pant leg empty from the knee down. There was also something about his pelvic area that suggested irreparably crushed bones. There were no visible scars in evidence, so there was no way to guess what had happened to him.

His red hair was clipped close to his skull and his light blue eyes seemed faded under pale ginger brows. His eyelids had a pinkish cast as though itchy from an allergy. His upper lip and chin were shaded with a two-day growth of facial hair. He was thin. His dress shirt was open at the collar, exposing a bony, hairless chest. He’d rolled his sleeves up above his elbows, and his pale arms were hairless as well.

The young man held out his right hand, saying, “I’m Willard Bryce, Mr. Wolinsky. I appreciate your coming out.”

“Happy to oblige,” Pete said. He shook Bryce’s hand, watching Bryce’s reaction to his own appearance, which usually netted him second looks. Pete was very tall and stooped, with disproportionately long arms, legs, fingers, and feet. He suffered a curvature of the spine and his breastbone dipped inward. He was extremely nearsighted and his mouth was crowded with a mess of teeth.

“Come in,” Willard Bryce said. He turned and crossed the living room on his crutches, moving with ease as he swung himself forward, leaving Pete to close the door behind him.

This was one of those apartments where the living room took a short left-hand turn into a dining L, which was separated from the open kitchen area by a pass-through. Two tall stools sat at the counter, providing an eating area. Living room furniture was the standard matching tweed sofa and armchair, plus a La-Z-Boy upholstered in dusty brown suede cloth. The seating was arranged around a coffee table with a television set on the opposite wall. The color scheme was beige on beige. The small dining table and four wooden chairs were relegated to the periphery to make room for a big drafting table, located by the window where the light was good. A corner desk held a computer with two floppy disk drives. The black-and-white monitor was turned on but presented no more than a blur from where he stood. Willard sank into the La-Z-Boy and placed his crutches to one side. On a table next to him, he had an oversize sketchbook and an assortment of drawing pencils.

Pete settled onto the couch. He unwound the scarf from his neck and held it loosely in his hands, leaning forward slightly with his elbows on his knees. Ruthie had knit him the scarf and he liked the feel because it reminded him of her. “Looks like you’ve suffered a world of hurt,” he said. “Mind if I ask what happened?”

He wouldn’t ordinarily have made mention of the young man’s condition, but he didn’t want to spend the entire meeting avoiding reference to something so obvious. Maybe this was a product-liability suit, in which case he could add an automatic five thousand dollars to his bill. He’d get paid whether the jury found for the plaintive or not. If the plaintive prevailed and was awarded punitive damages, it might net him a handsome bonus.

“Automobile accident when I was seventeen. Car went off the road and hit a tree. My best friend was driving and he died instantly.” No mention of rain-slick roads or high speeds or alcohol.

“One of those unfortunate twists of fate,” Pete suggested, hoping the comment didn’t sound too trite.

Willard said, “I know this sounds odd, but if it hadn’t been for the accident, I wouldn’t have felt so compelled to succeed.”

“Not odd at all. I noticed your drafting table. You’re an architect?”

Willard shook his head. “Graphic design and illustration with a specialty in comic art.”

Pete was at a loss. “You’re talking comic books?”

“Basically, though it’s a much broader field.”

“You’ll have to pardon my ignorance. I didn’t realize a fellow could make a living off comic books. You have formal training for a job like that?”

“Of course. I got my degree from the California College of the Arts in Oakland. I work freelance—currently with a couple of guys I went to school with. My buddy Jocko does the writing. I’m what they call a penciler. There are two other fellows who do the inking and the coloring.”

“I read a lot of comic books when I was a kid. Tales from the Crypt and the like.”

Willard smiled. “I know that one well. The company was originally Educational Comics. William Gaines inherited the business from his dad. In 1947, he and an editor named Al Feldstein came up with the concept, which was a smash success and generated hundreds of imitators. Weird Chills, Weird Thrillers, Web of Mystery. I have hundreds of those old classics.”

“Is that right? And now you’re writing them yourself.”

“As part of the team. I also do freelance editorial cartoons as well. I’m lucky circumstances allowed me to pursue my dream. My parents are still convinced I’ll starve.”

“Well, I admire your gumption. I’ll have to take a look at your work sometime,” he said, hoping the fellow wouldn’t jump right up and fetch his portfolio.

“I think of this as my bread-and-butter money until I can launch the project closest to my heart.”

“And what would that be?”

“A graphic novel. Are you familiar with the form?”

“I’m not, but I’d imagine it’s much like it sounds. Comic book starring a superhero of some type?”

“The graphic novel’s actually a separate genre. A version called manga’s been popular in Japan for years and encompasses all kinds of stories. Action-adventure, horror, detective. I’m not saying mine’s manga. That’s strictly of Japanese origin.”

“Is that right? And yours is about what, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’ve created a character called Joe Jupiter, who’s been crippled in an accident.”

“Writing what you know, so to speak.”

“Except I take the setup in a different direction. He enrolls in an experimental protocol and ends up acquiring supernatural abilities after being injected with a powerful new drug that’s supposed to regenerate nerves and cells. Through some fluke—I’m still working on that aspect—instead of being cured, Jupiter develops unusual powers of telepathy and mind control.”

“No telling what kind of adventures that might lead to,” Pete remarked.

“My wife thinks it’s too much like science fiction, which isn’t my intent. Of course, there’s an element of fantasy, but the premise is reality based.”

“Not my area of expertise, but I can definitely see the possibilities. Is yours a lucrative trade?”

“If you hit it big, absolutely,” Willard replied. The pink in his eyelids had intensified, like a curious form of blushing. Pete wondered which he was exaggerating—the earnings potential or his chances of making it.

Pete kept hoping he’d state his problem and get on with it. So far, he had no idea what the job was and no clue if the fellow had the money to pay. “You’re a married man.”

“I am.”

“How many years is that now?”

“Four and a half. We moved here a year ago from Pittsburgh, which is where we met. My wife’s an associate professor at UCST. She does pharmaceutical research, which is what triggered the Joe Jupiter idea.”

“Promising field.” Pete fixed his gaze expectantly on the young man.

Willard said, “Which actually brings me to the reason for my call.”

Pete said nothing, worried that Willard would get off point and start talking about himself again.

“As it, uh, happens my wife applied for this position without realizing the man in charge of the project was someone she’d worked with before.”

“When was this?”

“When she took this job or when she worked with him before?”

“You already said you moved here a year ago. I’m assuming that was for the job.”

“Right. They were both undergraduates at Florida State. This was several years back. I guess they were involved in a romantic relationship. Nothing serious from what she says. She was the one who broke it off.”

“Because . . .”

“I’m not really sure.”

“Passing fling perhaps?”

“Something like that.”

“What’s his position now?”

“Head of the research lab. There are guys above him, but essentially he runs the show.”

“I’m surprised he wasn’t part of the hiring process—the interview or some such.”

Willard apparently hadn’t thought of that, so Pete left the subject and moved on, saying, “Any rate, now they’re thrown into regular contact, you’re worried sparks might fly.”

“I wouldn’t say worried. I’m concerned. It’s not that I don’t trust her.” The sentence came to an abrupt halt.

“However . . .”

“There’s a professional conference in Reno during this upcoming Memorial Day weekend. I knew she was planning to attend. What I didn’t realize until a couple of days ago was that he’d be there as well. He’s presenting a paper.”

“I don’t believe you’ve mentioned your wife’s name.”

“Mary Lee.”

“The two plan on traveling together?”

“Not as far as I know. She hasn’t said anything to that effect.”

“One way or the other, you’d appreciate assurance everything’s on the up-and-up.”

“Exactly.”

“This fellow have a name?”

“Dr. Reed. Linton Reed.”

“Bit of a wunderkind,” Pete said.

“Pardon?”

“Fellow must be on a fast track, given they started out the same. Sounds like you’re talking star power if he’s already heading up a lab.”

“I guess.”

Pete took out a weather-beaten spiral-bound notebook and jotted down the name before he went on. “Are you talking medical doctor or a Ph.D.?”

“Both. He went through a program at Duke that combined the two. His Ph.D. is in biochemistry.”

“Admirable. And he lives where?”

“Montebello. As I understand it, his wife comes from money. Quite a lot of money, as a matter of fact. Her family’s well known in town—very prominent—so he definitely married up.”

“You’re telling me he’d risk all of that in order to pursue a relationship with your wife?”

“I really have no idea.”

“Have you met him?”

“I have, yes.”

“Good-looking fellow?”

“Women seem to think so. I’m not impressed.”

Pete pinched his lower lip, then shook his head. “Might not be anything to it, but it always pays to be informed. Unfortunately, what you’re talking here is an expensive proposition.”

“Money’s not the issue. I wasn’t sure if this was the type of case you handled as a rule.”

“You’re asking about my personal qualifications? May I call you Willard?”

“Please do.”

“Appreciate it, Willard. Point of fact, domestic happens to be a specialty of mine. My forte’s exactly the sort of situation you describe. Not to toot my own horn, but you ask around and you’ll find out I’m a man who not only gets results, but I’m known for my discretion. That’s a rare combination. I’m not saying there aren’t younger practitioners coming up behind, but there’s no one as well trained. I’ll admit I’m old-school, but you couldn’t be in better hands.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

Pete waited.

Willard cleared his throat. “When you say ‘expensive,’ I’m not sure what kind of money you’re talking about. I hope I’m not putting you on the spot.”

“No need to apologize, but here’s what you should be aware of. You’re talking short notice here. This is the seventeenth, which means I have ten days to get my ducks in a row. I’m talking about equipment, airline tickets, a rental car once I’m on site. Once I find out where the conference is taking place, I still need time to study the layout, establish personal contacts, determine who’s staying where . . .”

“I can give you most of that.”

“Good thing. Because I’m a man who likes to be prepared.”

“You’ll provide receipts?”

“No question. I’ll submit an invoice same time I hand over my written report. Of course, I’ll be needing an advance.”

“You mean right now?”

“As good a time as any.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Twenty-five hundred should be sufficient.”

“Oh. Well, fine. If you’ll take a credit card, I can use my business account.”

“Won’t work. I’m not set up for it. I’ll take a check, but let’s be honest about this, I won’t get in gear until it clears the bank.”

The tips of Willard’s ears turned a brighter shade of pink. “The problem is my wife pays the bills and reconciles the checking account. I don’t want her asking who you are or what this is about.”

“Cash, then.”

“That’s just it. I don’t keep cash like that on hand. I have five hundred. The rest I can reimburse you. I swear I’m good for it.”

“Mr. Bryce . . . Willard. Forgive my impertinence, but I run a business here. I don’t mind a few out-of-pocket expenses, but we’re talking round-trip airfare right off the bat. I may have to make two trips depending on what comes up. Hotel and meals. On top of that, I may have to grease a few palms, if you get what I mean. Trust me, you don’t want me leaving a paper trail. Something comes to light and that sweet wife of yours will be all over you, thinking you have no confidence in her.”

“I have money in a separate account. I could have it for you this afternoon, I suppose.”

“Give me a call and I’ll be happy to swing back by.” Pete got up, thinking they were done.

Uncomfortably, Willard said, “Can I ask you something?”

“What’s that?”

“You carry a gun?”

Pete blinked. “Do you have need of one?”

“No, no. Not at all. I’m working on three panels where a gangster pulls a gun on Joe Jupiter and I’ve never handled one. If I show a close-up, I want to get the details right.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Pete said. He removed the semiautomatic from his shoulder holster, released the magazine, and checked to make sure there wasn’t a round in the chamber before he offered it to Willard butt first.

Willard took the gun and hefted it in his hand. “Wow. What is this?”

“Pocket pistol. Smith and Wesson Escort. I have a Glock 17 that I carry on occasion, but that little gun’s my baby.”

Pete spent a few minutes explaining the features while Willard checked it from all angles, turning it this way and that. He placed it on the arm of the chair and picked up his drawing pad. He folded the cover back and made a few quick pencil sketches, his eyes moving from the gun to the page and back. Pete was impressed with the rapidity with which he captured the weapon in a few simple strokes.

Willard set the sketch pad to one side. “You have a permit?”

Pete returned the gun to his shoulder holster. “I do. Issued in Tehama County, up north. Tehama you have densely wooded areas, lot of rainfall, and not many folks. Marijuana’s the big cash crop. I had a side business scoping out these little farmlets buried in the woods. I’d find ’em, map out the coordinates, and pass the information along to law enforcement. Job didn’t offer benefits, so I got my concealed carry permit as part of my compensation.”

“Is it legal here?”

“Permit’s valid statewide. Both my guns are registered,” he said.

“Well, that’s good.”

Pete shrugged, saying, “Anything else you need?”

Willard shook his head. “I’ll call when I have the cash.”

It wasn’t until Pete was in his car again that he started to laugh, delighted with the way the meeting had gone. He turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from Willard’s Cherry Lane address. He drove a block and took a right onto Colgate’s main thoroughfare. He had his choice of two travel agencies and he selected the smaller one. There were oversize travel posters taped to the plate-glass window, their once vibrant hues faded to a palette of misty pinks and blues. The one that caught his eye depicted a cruise ship moving along a wide still body of water. He leaned closer. BOUTIQUE RIVER TOURS. ENCHANTING DANUBE was what it said in small print.

At the desk inside he picked up a glossy brochure from a display near the door and slid it into the inner pocket of his sport coat. Something about the scene made his heart swell with hope. There were two agents at work, both women, and he chose the older one, who invited him to have a seat. Her name tag indicated she was Sabrina. Pete introduced himself, and in a matter of minutes he made round-trip reservations to fly from Santa Teresa to Reno on Friday, the twentieth, returning on Monday, the twenty-third. Because of the short notice, the fare for United Airline tickets was a hefty thirteen hundred bucks. He put the charges on the only one of his credit cards with any margin to spare. Sabrina printed the tickets and handed them over, along with a copy of the itinerary and his receipt, all neatly tucked into a ticket envelope with the logo of the agency emblazoned on the front.

He walked half a block to a UPS outlet and used their Xerox machine to run off multiple copies of the travel documents, which he slid into a blank manila envelope. Later that day, having picked up his retainer from Willard, he drove into Colgate for the second time and parked across the street from the travel agency. He waited until he saw Sabrina emerge, ostensibly to run an errand. As soon as she was out of sight, he went in and conferred with the other travel agent, expressing embarrassment that his plans had changed. She wasn’t the least bit curious. At his request, she rescheduled the flights for the Memorial Day weekend, departing on Thursday, the twenty-sixth, returning late on Monday, the thirtieth. She applied the money he’d paid for the first tickets to the second, and he applied the difference in fares to the credit card he’d used earlier. Expense was no issue. He wouldn’t be paying the card off in any event. He voiced his appreciation, but her gaze had already moved to the customer coming in the door.

He returned to the office, waited for his copy machine to warm up, and photocopied the new itinerary and the second set of tickets, which he intended to cancel in a day or two. On the set he had, he changed the relevant dates, neatly typing the new number over the old, and photocopied the copies, satisfied that the result would pass superficial examination. Anyone with a knowledge of forgery techniques would spot the clumsy effort, but he was confident Willard had no such expertise.

He slid the file folder into the box he was packing. No point in leaving sensitive papers in view since his landlady used a master key to get in on occasion, to poke around. Soon Pete would be forced to run his business from his home. For now, he was pleased. He’d effectively run up close to three thousand dollars’ worth of travel expenses without ever leaving the state. Truly, he was a man who loved his work.