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"Mr. Bergen?"
"That's right."
I handed him my business card. "I'm Kinsey Millhone. Bobby Callahan hired me to look into the accident last-"
"What for?"
I made eye contact. His were small and blue, red-rimmed. His cheeks were prickly with a two-day growth of beard that made him look like a cactus. He was a man in his fifties, radiating the smell of beer and sweat. His hair was thi
"He thinks the accident was an attempt on his life," I said.
"Bullshit- I don't mean to be rude to you, lady, but let me fill you in. Bobby Callahan is a rich kid. He's spoiled, irresponsible, and self-indulgent. He fuckin' drank too much and he ran off the road, killing my son, who was incidentally his best friend. Anything else you've heard is horseshit."
"I'm not so sure of that," I said.
"Well, I am and I'm telling you straight. Check the police reports. Its all there. Have you seen 'em?"
"I got copies yesterday from Bobby's attorney," I said.
"No physical evidence, right? You got Bobby's claim someone ran him off the road, but you got nothing to substantiate a word he says, which in my mind makes his story pure crap."
"The police seem to believe him."
"You think they can't be bought off? You think the cops can't be persuaded by a few bucks?"
"Not in this town," I said. This man had really put me on the defensive and I didn't like the way I was handling myself.
"Says who?"
"Mr. Bergen, I know a lot of the local police. I've worked with them-" It sounded lame, but I was sincere.
He interrupted again, saying, Nuts! He made a dismissive gesture, turning his head with disgust. "I got no time for this. Maybe my wife'11 talk to you."
"I'd rather talk to you," I said. He seemed surprised by that, as though no one ever preferred to talk to him.
"Forget it. Ricky's dead. It's all over with."
"Suppose it's not? What if Bobby's really telling the truth and it wasn't his fault?"
"What's it to me in any event? I don't give a good god-dar
I nearly replied, but I shut my mouth instead, trusting some other instinct. I didn't want to get caught up in endless petty arguments that would only serve to keep this man inflamed. His agitation was profound, but I suspected that there was an ebb and flow to it. "May I have ten minutes of your time?"
He thought about it for a moment and then agreed with an air of a
He walked away from the door, leaving it up to me to close it after us and follow him through the house, which was drably carpeted and smelled as if it had been closed up. Window shades were drawn against the afternoon sun and the light in the house had an amber cast. I received a brief impression of overscaled furniture: two matching recliners covered in green plastic, and an eight-foot sectional sofa with an afghan on one end, occupied by a big black dog.
The kitchen was done in thirty-year-old linoleum with cabinets painted an intense shade of pink. The appliances made the room look like an illustration from an old issue of Ladies' Home Journal. There was a small built-in breakfast nook with newspapers piled up on one bench, and a narrow wooden table with a permanent centerpiece composed of sugar bowl, paper-napkin dispenser, salt and pepper shakers shaped like ducks, a mustard jar, ketchup bottle, and a bottle of A-l Sauce. I could see his sandwich preparations laid out too: an assortment of processed cheese slices and a lunchmeat laced with olives and ominous chunks of animal snout.
He sat down and motioned me into the bench across from him. I shoved aside some of the newspapers and took a seat.
He was already slathering Miracle Whip on that brand 01 soft white bread that can double as a foam sponge. I kept my eyes discreetly averted as if he were engaged in pornographic practices. He laid a thin slice of onion on the bread and then peeled the cellophane wrap from the cheese, finishing with layers of lettuce, dill pickles, mustard, and meat. He looked up at me belatedly. "You hungry?"
"Starved," I said. I'd eaten a mere thirty minutes before and it wasn't my fault if I was hungry again. The way I looked at it, the sandwich was filled with preservatives, which might be just what I needed to keep my body from going bad. He cut the first masterpiece diagonally, passing half to me, and then he made a second sandwich more lavish than the first and cut that one, too. I watched him patiently, like a well-trained dog, until he gave the signal to eat.
For three minutes, we sat in silence, wolfing down lunch. He popped open a beer for me and a second one for himself. I despise Miracle Whip but, in this instance, it seemed like a gourmet sauce. The bread was so soft our fingertips left dents near the crust.
Between bites, I dabbed the corners of my mouth with a paper napkin. "I don't know your first name," I said.
"Phil. What kind of name is Kinsey?"
"My mother's maiden name."
And that was the extent of the social niceties until we'd both pushed our plates back with a sigh of relief.
Chapter 11
After lunch, we sat out on the deck in painted metal porch chairs pockmarked with rust. The deck was actually a shelf of poured concrete, forming the roof of the garage, which had been carved into the hillside. Wooden planters filled with a
The view was like a mural painted on a blue backdrop. The islands in the cha
This house, he told me, had been finished in the summer of 1950. He and his wife, Reva, had just bought the place when the Korean War broke out. He'd been drafted and had gone off two days after they moved in, leaving Reva with stacks of cardboard boxes to unpack, returning fourteen months later with a service-related disability. He didn't specify what it was and I didn't ask, but he had apparently only worked sporadically since his medical discharge. They'd had five children and Rick had been the youngest. The others were scattered now through the Southwest.
"What was he like?" I asked. I wasn't sure he'd answer. The silence stretched on and I wondered if perhaps it might have been the wrong question. I hated to spoil whatever sense of camaraderie we'd established.