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"I know. I thought we'd figure out what happened, just the two of us. Your friends call you Carlin?"
"It's Duffy. I'm not a fruit," he said. He looked at me slyly. "You're a lady cop, ain't you?"
"I used to be. Now I'm a private eye, working for myself."What d'you want with me?"
"I'd like to hear about Mickey. How'd the two of you co
"Why should I tell you?"
"Why shouldn't you?"
"I don't know nothin'."
"Maybe you know more than you think."
He considered that, and I could almost see him shift gears. Duffy was the sort who didn't give anything away without getting something in return. "You married?
"Divorced.
"Tell you what. Let's pick us up a six-pack and go back to your place. We can talk all you want."
"If you're on parole, an alcohol violation's the last thing you need."
Duffy looked at me askance. "Who's on parole? I done my bit and I'm free as a bird."
"Then let's go to your place. I have a roommate and I'm not allowed to bring in guests at this hour."
"I don't have a place."
"Sure you do. You're living in the maintenance shed at Bernie Himes's nursery."
He kicked at the floorboard, ru
I tapped my temple. "I also know you're Be
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."