I tapped my temple. “I also know you’re Benny Quintero’s brother. Want to talk about him?”
I had by then passed the entrance to the nursery, heading across the freeway toward the mountains.
“Where you goin’?”
“To the liquor store,” I said. I pulled into a convenience mart in a former gas station. I took a twenty from my shoulder bag and said, “It’s my treat. Get anything you want.”
He looked at the bill and then took it, getting out of the car with barely suppressed agitation. I watched him through the window as he went into the place and began to cruise down the aisles. There was nothing I could do if he cruised right out the side door and took off on foot. He probably decided there wasn’t much point. All I had to do was drive over to the nursery and wait for him there.
The clerk at the counter kept a careful eye on Duffy, waiting for him to shoplift or maybe pull a gun and demand the contents of the cash drawer. Duffy removed two six-packs of bottled beer from the glassfronted cooler on the rear wall and then paused on one aisle long enough to pick up a large bag of chips and a couple of other items. Once at the counter, he paid with my twenty and tucked the change in his pants pocket.
When he got back in the car, his mood seemed improved. “You ever try licorice and beer? I got us some Good and Plentys and a whole bunch of other shit. ”
“I can hardly wait,” I said. “By the way, what’s the accent, Kentucky?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll bet it’s Louisville, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have an instinct for these things.”
“I guess so.”
Having established my wizardry, I drove back over the freeway, turned right onto the side street, and pulled into the lot for the nursery. I parked in front of the gardening center, which was closed at this hour and bathed in a cold fluorescent glow. I locked my car, hefted my bag to my shoulder, and followed Carlin Duffy as he made his way down the mulch-covered path. This was like walking into a deep and well organized woods, wide avenues cutting through crated and evenly spaced trees of every conceivable kind.
Most were unrecognizable in the dark, but some of the shapes were distinctive. I could identify palms and willows, junipers, live oaks, and pines. Most of the other trees I didn’t know by name, rows of shaggy silhouettes that rustled in the wind.
Duffy seemed indifferent to his surroundings. He trudged from one darkened lane to the next, shoulders hunched against the night air, me tagging along about ten steps behind. He paused when we reached the shed and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. The exterior was board-and-batten, painted dark green. The roofline was flat, with only one window in view. He snapped open the padlock and stepped inside. I waited until he’d turned on a light and then followed him in. The shed was approximately sixty feet by eighty, divided into four small rooms used to house the two forklifts, a mini-tractor, and a crane that must have been pulled into service for the planting of young trees. Anything more substantial would have required larger equipment, probably rented for the occasion.
The interior walls were uninsulated, the floor dirt and cinder crunching under our feet. One of the rooms had been hung with tarps and army surplus blankets, draped from the ceiling to form a tentlike substructure. Inside, I could see a canvas-and-wood cot with a rolledup sleeping bag stashed at one end. We moved into the shelter, where illumination was provided by a bare hanging 60-watt bulb. There was also a space heater, a two-burner hot plate, and a mini-refrigerator about the size of a twelve-pack of beer. Duffy’s clothes were hung on a series of nails pounded into the side wall: jeans, a bomber jacket, a wool shirt, black leather pants, a black leather vest, and two sweatshirts. Being fastidious by nature, I had to ponder the absence of visible clean underwear and a means of bathing and brushing his teeth. This might not be the sort of fellow one would want to have a lengthy chat with in a small unventilated space.
I said, “Cozy.”
“It’ll do. You can set on the cot and I’ll take this here. ”
“Thanks.”
He placed the brown paper bag on an orange crate and removed the six-packs. He liberated two bottles and put the balance in his mini-refrigerator, leaving several on top. He reached in his pocket, took out a bottle opener, and flipped the caps from two beers. He set his bottle aside long enough to open the bag of chips and a can of bean dip, which he held out to me. I grabbed a handful of chips and put them in my lap, holding on to the can so I could help myself to dip.
“You want a paper plate for that?”
“This is fine,” I said.
Having cleared the orange crate, he used it as a stool on which he perched. He opened his box of candycoated licorice and tossed two in his mouth, sipping beer through his teeth with a little moan of delight. Before long, his teeth and his tongue were going to be blacker than soot. He leaned over and turned on the small electric space heater. Almost immediately, the coils glowed red and the metal began to tick. The narrow band of superheated air made the rest of the room seem that much colder by contrast. I confess, there was something appealing about this room within a room. It reminded me of “houses” I made as a kid, using blankets draped over tabletops and chairs.
“How’d you find me?” he asked.
“That was easy. You got pulled over and cited for a defective taillight. When they ran your name through the system, there you were in all your glory. You’ve spent a lot of time in jail.”
“Well, now, see. That’s such bullshit. Okay, so maybe sometimes I do something bad, but it’s nothing terrible.”
“You never killed anyone.”
“That’s right. I never robbed nobody. Never used a gun, except the once. I never done drugs, I never messed with women didn’t want to mess with me, and I never laid a hand on any kids. Plus I never done a single day of federal time. It’s all city and county, mostly ninety-day horseshit. Criminal recklessness. What the fuck does that mean?”
“I don’t know, Duffy. You tell me.”
“Accidental discharge of a firearm,” he said contemptuously. The crime was apparently so bogus, I was surprised he’d mention it. “It’s New Year’s Eve, this is a couple years now. I’m in this motel in E-town, having me a fine old time. I’m horsin’ around, just like everyone else. I pop off a round, and the next thing you know, bullet goes through the ceiling and hits this lady in the ass. Why’s that my fault?”
“How could it be?” I echoed, with equal indignance.”Besides, jail’s not so bad. Clean, warm. You got your volleyball, indoor tawlits, and your color television set. Food stinks, but medical care don’t cost you a cent. I don’t know what to do with myself half the time anyway. This pressure builds up and I blow. jail’s kind of like a time-out till I get my head on straight.”
I said, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven. Why?”
“You’re getting kind of old to be sent to your room.”
“Probably so, I guess. I intend to straighten up my act, now I’m out here. Meantime, it’s fun breakin’ rules. Makes you feel free.”
“I can relate to that,” I said. “You ever hold a real job?”
He seemed mildly insulted that I’d question his employment history. “I’m a heavy equipment operator. Went to school down in Tennessee and got certified. Scaffolds, cranes, forklifts, dozers, you name it. Graders, backhoes, hydraulic shovels, boom lifts, anything Caterpillar or John Deere ever made. Ought to see me. I set up there in the cab and go to town.” He spent a moment shifting gears with his mouth, using his beer bottle as a lever while he operated an imaginary loader.
He set the empty bottle at his feet, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his face animated. “Benny was the best. He looked after me better than my dad and momma. We done everything together, except when he went off to war. I was only six years old then. I remember when he come home. He’d been in the hospital and then rehab, on account of his head. After that, Momma said, he changed. She said he’s moody and temperamental, kind of slow off the mark. Didn’t matter to me; 1971, he bought the Triumph: three-cylinder engine, twin-style clutch. Wasn’t new at the time, but it was hot. Nobody hardly fooled with Harley-Davidsons back then. None of them Jap bikes, neither. It was all BSA and Triumph.” He motioned for me to hand him the chips and the can of bean dip.