C Is for Corpse

Gus had a nice way about him. His manner was mildly flirtatious and he had a tendency to glance in my direction, showing off, I suspect. I waited, looking on while he calculated how much she owed him. He returned her street shoes and I.D. and she hopped over to a bench to put on her tennies. Gus waited until she was gone before he spoke.
    "I saw you at the funeral," he said shyly when he turned back to me. "You were sitting near Mrs. Callahan."
    "I don't remember seeing you," I said. "Did you come to the house afterwards?"
    He shook his head, coloring. "I wasn't feeling too good."
    "I don't think there's any way to feel good about that."
    "Not when your buddy dies," he said. His voice carried a barely perceptible quaver. He turned away, making a big display of shoving the shoe skates back into the proper slot on the shelf.
    "Have you been sick?" I asked.
    He seemed to debate for just an instant and then said, "I got Crohn's disease. You know what that is?"
    "No."
    "Inflammatory bowel disease. Everything goes right through me. I can't keep weight on. Run a fever half the time. Stomach hurts. 'Etiology unknown,' which means they don't know what causes it or where it comes from. I've had it almost two years and it's got me down. I can't keep a real job, so I do this."
    "Is that something you recover from?"
    "I guess so. In time. That's what they say, at any rate."
    "Well, I'm sorry you're suffering. It sounds grim."
    "You don't know the half of it. Anyway, Bobby cheered me up. He was in such bad shape himself, we'd get laughin' sometimes. I miss him. When I heard he died, I almost gave up, but then this little voice said, 'Aw Gus, get up off your dead ass and get on with it... this isn't the end of the world, so don't be a jerk.'" He shook his head. "It was Bobby, I swear. Sounded just like him. So I got up off my dead ass. Are you looking into his death?"
    I nodded, glancing over as a couple of kids approached to rent skates.
    Gus conducted some business and came back to me, apologizing for the interruption. It was summer and despite the uncharacteristic chill in the air, the tourists were swarming the beaches. I asked him if he had any idea what Bobby was involved in. He moved uneasily, glancing off across the street.
    "I got an idea, but I don't know what to say. I mean, if Bobby didn't tell you, why should I?"
    "He couldn't remember. That's what he hired me for. He thought he was in danger and he wanted me to find out what was going on."
    "So maybe it's best to just leave it be."
    "Leave what be?"
    "Look, I don't know anything for sure. Just what Bobby said."
    "What are you worried about?"
    He shifted his gaze. "I don't know. Let me think about it some. Honest, I don't know much, but I don't want to talk about it unless it feels right. You know what I mean?"
    I conceded the point. You can always push people around, but it's not a good idea. Better to let them volunteer information for reasons of their own. You get more that way.
    "I hope you'll give me a call," I said. "If I don't hear from you, I might have to come back and make a pest of myself." I took a card out and laid it on the counter.
    He smiled, apparently feeling guilty for holding out. "You can skate for nothing if you want. It's good exercise."
    "Some other time," I said. "Thanks."
    He watched me until I pulled out of the parking lot, turning left. In the rearview mirror, I could see him scratching at his mustache with the corner of my business card. I hoped I'd hear from him.
    In the meantime, I decided to see if I could lay my hands on the cardboard box the lab had packed up after Bobby's accident. I drove over to the house. Glen had apparently flown up to San Francisco for the day, but Derek was home and I told him what I needed.
    His look was skeptical. "I remember the box, but I'm not sure where it went. Probably out in the garage, if you want to have a look."
    He closed the front door behind him and the two of us crossed the courtyard to the three-car garage that stretched out at one end of the house. There were storage bins built into the back wall. None of them was locked, but most were stacked top to bottom with boxes that looked as if they'd been on the premises since the year oughty-ought.
    I spotted a carton that seemed to be a good bet. It was shoved against the back wall under a workbench, marked "disposable syringes" with the name of the medical supplier and a torn shipping label addressed to Santa Teresa Hospital Pathology Department. We