Cordia Hatfield was keeping a careful eye on the situation, standing in the open doorway with a white sweater thrown over her shoulders. Her oversized blueand-white checked housedress was worn ankle-length, and she sported the same pair of slippers with her bunion peeking out. She turned as I approached. “I see you found the coffee. How’d you sleep last night?”
“Dorothy was stingy with the pillow, but aside from that I did great.”
“She was never one to share. Even when she came back, she insisted on having her old room. We were going to keep it closed up for guests, but she refused to use the litter box until she got her way.”
Mickey’s immediate neighbor, who appeared to be 1somewhere in his forties, emerged from his apartment, pulling on a tweed sport coat over a royal-blue Superman T-shirt. His shiny brown hair extended to his waist. He wore large metal-framed glasses with yellow lenses. A mustache and a closely trimmed beard bracketed a full complement of white teeth. His jeans were ripped and faded, and his cowboy boots had three-inch platform soles. Behind him, I could see the broken bedroom window, patched together now with cardboard and a jagged bolt of silver duct tape. He said, “Hey, Ms. Hatfield. How are you today?”
She said, “Morning. just dandy. What happened to your window? That’ll have to be repaired.”
“Sorry about that. I’ll take care of it. I called a glass company on Olympic, and they said they’d be out to take a look. Has Mickey been evicted?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said.
The deputy clearly wasn’t needed, so he returned to his car and went about his business. The locksmith beckoned to Cordia. She excused herself, and the two of them moved inside to have a consultation. The nextdoor neighbor had paused to watch the proceedings and he now greeted a couple who came out of the third apartment on that side. Both were dressed for work. The woman murmured something to her husband and the two continued toward the stairs. Mickey’s neighbor nodded politely in my direction, acknowledging my presence.
I murmured, “Hi, how’re you?”
“Good, thanks. What kind of crap is this? This dude’s in a coma and they’re changing the locks on him? ”
“I guess the owners are pretty hard-nosed.”
“They’d have to be,” he said. “So how’s Mickey doing? You a friend of his?”
“You could say that, I guess. We used to be married.”
“No shit. When was this?”
‘Early seventies. It didn’t last long. I’m Kinsey, by the way. And you’re. . . ”
“Ware Beason,” he said. “Everybody calls me Wary.” He was still working to absorb the information about my marital connection to Mickey. “An exwife? How cool. Mickey never said a word.”
“We haven’t kept in touch. What about you? Have you known him long?”
“He’s lived in that apartment close to fifteen years. I’ve been here six. Now and then I run into him at Lionel’s Pub and we have a few beers. He feeds my fish if we have a gig someplace.”
“You’re a professional musician?”
Wary shrugged self-consciously. “I play keyboard in a combo. Mostly weekends here locally, though I sometimes play out of town as well. I also wait tables at a health food cafe down on National. I take it you heard about what happened?”
“I did, but it was purely by accident. I didn’t even know he was in trouble until earlier this week. I’m from Santa Teresa. I tried calling from up there, but his phone was disconnected. I didn’t think too much of it until a couple of detectives showed up and said he’d been shot. I was horrified.”
“Yeah, me too. I guess it took ‘ern awhile to figure out who he was. They showed up at my door about seven A.M. Monday. Big dark-haired guy?”
“Right. He’s the one I talked to. I thought I better head on down in case there was something I could do.”
“So how’s he feeling? Have you seen him?”
“He’s still in a coma so it’s hard to say. I went over there yesterday and he didn’t look too good.”
“Damn. That’s a shame. I should probably go myself, but I’ve been putting it off.”
“Don’t even bother unless you notify the cops. You can only visit with their permission, and then they keep someone with you in case you try to pull the plug.”
“Jeez. Poor guy. I can’t believe it.”
“Me neither,” I said. “By the way, what was that bunch of hollering last night? Did you hear it? It sounded like somebody went berserk and started banging on the walls.”
“Hey, no shit. That was me he was yelling at. And look what he did, bashed his fist through the glass. I thought he’d dive in after me, but he took off.”
“What was he so mad about?”
“Who knows? He’s some pal of Mickey’s; at least, he acts that way. Mickey never seemed that glad to see him.”
“How often did he show up?”
“Every couple of weeks. They must’ve had some kind of deal going, but I can’t think what.”
“How long has that gone on?”
“Maybe two-three months. I should probably put it this way: I never saw him before then.”
“You know his name?”
Wary shook his head. “Nope. Mickey never introduced us. He seemed embarrassed to be seen with him, and who wouldn’t be?”
“No shit.”
“Guy’s a scuzball, a real sleaze. Every time I see that show about America’s Most Wanted, I start lookin’ for his face.”
“Literally? You think he’s wanted by the cops?”
“If he’s not, he will be. What a creep.”
That’s odd. Mickey always hated lowlifes. He used to be a vice detective. We worked for the same department up in Santa Teresa.”
“You’re a cop too?”
“I was. Now I work as a P.I.”
“A private investigator?”
‘That’s right.”
‘Oh, I get it. You’re looking into this.”
“Not officially, no, but I am curious.”
‘Hey, I’m with you. Anything I can do to help, you just say.”
“Thanks. What about the scuzball? Couldn’t he be the one who shot Mickey? He sounds like a nut to me.
“Nah, I doubt it. If he did, he wouldn’t come around pounding on the door, thinking Mickey’d be there. Guy who shot Mickey must have figured he was dead.”
Wary glanced at his watch. “I better get a move on.
How long you going to be here?”
“I’m not sure. Another hour, I’d guess.”
“Can I buy you breakfast? That’s where I’m heading. There’s a place around the corner. Wouldn’t take more’n thirty minutes if you have to get back.”
I did a quick debate. I hated to leave the premises, but there really wasn’t anything more to do. Wary might prove to be useful. More important, I was starving. I said “sure” and then took a brief time-out to let Cordia know where I was going.
Wary and I headed down the front stairs, chatting as we went. Idly, he said, “If you want, after breakfast, I’ll show you where he was shot. It’s just a couple blocks away.”
THIRTEEN.
I’ll skip the breakfast conversation. There’s nothing so boring as listening to other people get acquainted. We chatted. We traded brief, heavily edited autobiographical sketches, stories about Mickey, theories about the motive for the shooting. In the meantime, I discovered that I liked Wary Beason, though I promptly erased all his personal data. As crass as it sounds, I didn’t seriously think I’d ever see him again. Like the passenger sitting next to you on a cross-country plane ride, it’s possible to connect with someone, even when the encounter has no meaning and no ultimate consequence.
I did appreciate his showing me the spot where Mickey was gunned down, a nondescript section of sidewalk in front of a coin and jewelry shop. The sign in the window advertised rare coins, rare stamps, pocket watches, antiques, and coin supplies. “We also make low-rate loans,” the sign said. At A.M. I didn’t think Mickey’d been there to negotiate a loan.
Wary remained silent while I stood for a minute, looking out at the surrounding businesses. There was a pool hall across the street. I assumed the detectives had checked it out. Also the bar called McNalley’s, half a block down.
“You mentioned you used to drink with Mickey at Lionel’s. Is the pub close by?”
“Back in that direction,” Wary said, gesturing.
“Any chance Mickey could have been there earlier that night?”
“No way. Mickey’d been eighty-sixed from Lionel’s until he paid his tab.” Wary took off his glasses and cleaned the yellow lenses on the hem of his T-shirt. He held his frames to the light so he could check for streaks, and then he put his glasses on again and waited to see what I would ask next.
“Where was he, then? You have a guess?”
“Well, he wasn’t at McNalley’s, because that’s where I was. I know the cops checked the bars all up and down the street. They didn’t learn a thing, or so they said.”