“Dark curly hair?”
“That’s her. The wild one in the bunch. She hasn’t married to date, but she adopted two Vietnamese children. ”
“What’s she do for a living?”
“Attorney in New York. She does corporate law.”
“Do any of the others live close?”
“Scott’s down in Sherman Oaks. They’re spread out all over, but they visit when they can. Every six, eight months, I fire up the Harley and do a big round trip. Good kids, all of them. Bun did a hell of a job. I’m a sorry substitute, but I do what I can.”
“What are you up to these days? I heard you left the department.”
“A year ago this May. I don’t do much of anything, to tell you the truth.”
“You still lifting weights?”
“Can’t. I got hurt. Had an accident on duty. Some drunk ran a red light and broadsided my patrol car. Killed him outright and knocked me all to hell and gone. I got a fractured fifth vertebra so I ended up taking an industrial retirement. A worker’s comp claim.”
Too bad.”
‘No point complaining about things you can’t change. The money pays the bills and gives me time to myself. What about you? I hear you’re a P.I.
“I’ve been doing that for years.”
He led me through the kitchen to the glassed-in porch that ran along the rear of the house. He seemed to live the way I did, confined to one area like a pet left alone while its owners are off at work. The kitchen was completely tidy. I could see a single plate, a cereal bowl, a spoon, and a coffee mug in the dish rack. He probably used the same few utensils, carefully washing up between meals. Why put anything away when you’re only going to take it out and use it again? There was something homely about the presence of the dishes in the rack. From the look of it, he lived almost exclusively in the kitchen and enclosed porch. A futon, doubling as a couch, was set up at one end, blankets neatly folded with the pillows stacked on top. There was a TV on the floor. The rest of the porch was taken up with woodworking equipment: a lathe, a drill press, a router, a couple of C clamps, a vise, a wood chisel, a table saw, and an assortment of planes. He was in the process of refinishing two pieces. A chest of drawers had been stripped, pending further attention. A wooden kitchen chair had been laid on its back, its legs sticking out as stiffly as a dead possum’s. Shack must sleep every night with the heady scent of turpentine, glue, tung oil, and wood shavings. He caught my look and said, “Virtue of being single. You can do anything you want.”
I said, “Amen to that.”
Once upon a time, Bundy had sewn the cafe curtains, hanging them on rods across the middle of the row of windows. The green and white checked cotton, probably permanent press, still looked fresh: crisp, carefully laundered, with little clip-on curtain rings. I found my eyes filling inexplicably with tears and had to feign attention to the backyard, which I could see through the glass. Many of the trees remained, as bent as old spines, curving toward the ground from a onceproud height. A saddle of purple morning glories was cinched to the fence, the chicken wire now swaybacked from the weight of the vines. The barbecue grill top had turned red-brown with rust, replaced by a portable kettle grill parked closer to the back steps.
Shack leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. “So what’s the reason for the call?”
“I’m looking for Mickey. The only number I have is a disconnect. ” “You have business with him?”
“I may. I’m not sure. Do I need your approval before I telephone the man?”
Shack seemed amused. Bundy had always given him a hard time. Maybe he missed the rough and tumble of conversation. Live alone long enough and you forget what it’s like. His smile faded slightly. “No offense, kiddo, but why not leave him alone?”
“I want to know he’s okay. I don’t intend to bother him. When’s the last time you spoke?
“I don’t remember.”
“I see. Do you have any idea what’s going on with him?”
“I’m sure he’s fine. Mickey’s a big boy. He doesn’t need anyone hovering.”
“Fair enough,” I said, “but I’d like the reassurance. That’s all this is. Do you have his current phone or address?”
Shack shook his head and his mouth pulled down. “Nope. He initiates contact when it suits. In between calls, I make a point of leaving him alone. That’s the deal we made.”
“What about Lit?”
“Roy Littenberg died. The Big C took him out in less than six weeks. This was three years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I liked him.”
“Me too. I see his boy now and then: Tim. You’ll never guess what he does.”
“I give up.”
“He bought the Honky-Tonk. Him and Bundy’s boy, Scottie, pal around together whenever Scottie’s in town.”
I said, “Really. I don’t remember meeting either one. I think both were off in Vietnam when Mickey and I were hanging out here.” In Santa Teresa, all paths were destined to cross and recross eventually. Now the next generation was being folded into the mix. “Can you think of anyone else who might know what Mickey’s up to?”
Shack studied me. “What’s my motive in this”
“You could be helping him.”
“And what’s yours?”
“I want the answer to some questions I should have asked back then.”
“About Benny?”
“That’s right.”
His smile was shrewd. He cupped a hand to his ear. “Do I hear guilt?”
“If you like.”
“A little late, don’t you think?”
“Probably. I’m not sure. The point is, I don’t need your permission. Now, will you help me or not?”
He thought about it briefly. “What about the lawyer who represented him?”
“Bethel? I can try. I should have thought of him. That’s a good idea.”
“I’m full of good ideas.”
“You think Mickey was innocent?”
“Of course. I was there and I saw. The guy was fine when he left.”
“Shack, he had a plate in his head.”
“Mickey didn’t hit him. He never landed a blow.”
“How do you know he didn’t go after him again? The two might have gotten into it somewhere else. Mickey wasn’t exactly famous for his self-control. That was one of my complaints.”
Shack wagged his head. The gesture turned into a neck roll, complete with cracking sound. “Sorry about that. I’m going to see the chiropractor later on account of this effing neck of mine. Yeah, it’s possible. Why not? Maybe there was more to it than Mickey let on. I’m telling you what I saw, and it was no big deal.”
“Fair enough.”
“Incidentally, not that it’s any of my business, but you should’ve stood by him. That’s the least you could do. This isn’t just me. A lot of the guys resented what you did.”
“Well, I resented Mickey’s asking me to lie for him. He wanted me to tell the DA he was in at nine o’clock that night instead of midnight or one A.M., whatever the hell time it was when he finally rolled in.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he said snidely. “You never tell lies yourself.”
“Not about murder. Absolutely not,” I snapped.
“Bullshit. You really think Magruder beat a guy to death?”
“How do I know? That’s what I’m trying to find out. Mickey was off course. He was intent on the Might and the Right of the law, and he didn’t give a damn what he had to do to get the job done.”
“Yeah, and you ask my opinion there should have been more like him. Besides, what I hear, you’re not exactly one to be casting stones.”
“I’ll grant you that one. That’s why I’m not in uniform today. But my butt wasn’t on the line back then, his was. If Mickey had an alibi, he should have said so up front instead of asking me to lie.”
Shack’s expression shifted and he broke off eye contact.
I said, “Come on, Shack. You know perfectly well where he was. Why don’t you fill me in and we can put an end to this?”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“In the main,” I said.
“I can tell you this much: He wasn’t on Highway 154 hassling a vet. He wasn’t anywhere within miles.”
“That’s good. I believe you. Now could we try this? Mickey had a girlfriend. You remember Dixie Hightower? According to her, they were together that night ‘getting it on,’ to use the time-honored phrase.”
“So he was sticking it to Dixie. Whoopee-do. So what? Everybody screwed around in those days.”
“I didn’t.”
“Maybe not when you were married, but you were the same as everyone else, only maybe not as open or as honest.”