D Is for Deadbeat

sure."
    "Do you have any idea where he went?"
    "Santa Teresa, I heard."
    "Well, I know he was up there last Saturday. That's where I ran into him," I said. "Has he been back since then?"
    The man's mouth drooped with skepticism. "I seen him on Monday and then he gone off again. Only other peoples must want him too. He ack like a man who's runnin' and don't want to be caught. What you want wid him?"
    "He wrote me a bum check."
    He shot me a look of astonishment. "You take a check from a man like that? Lord God, girl! What's the matter wid you?"
    I had to laugh. "I know. It's my own damn fault. I thought maybe I could catch him before he skipped out permanently."
    He shook his head, unable to sympathize. "Don't take nothin' from the likes of him. That's your first mistake. Comin' 'round this place may be the next."
    "Is there anybody here who might know how to get in touch with him?"
    He pointed the blade of his knife toward an apartment two doors down. "Axe Lovella. She might know. Then again, she might not."
    "She's a friend of his?"
    "Not hardly. She's his wife."
    I felt somewhat more hopeful as I knocked at apartment 26. I was afraid he'd moved out altogether. The door was a hollowcore with a hole kicked into the bottom about shin high. The sliding glass window was open six inches, a fold of drapery sticking out. A crack ran diagonally across the pane, held together by a wide band of electrician's tape. I could smell something cooking inside, kale or collard greens, with a whisper of vinegar and bacon grease.
    The door opened and a woman peered out at me. Her upper lip was puffy, like the kind of scrape children get falling off bicycles when they first learn to ride. Her left eye had been blackened not long ago and it was streaked now with midnight blue, the surrounding tissue a rainbow of green and yellow and gray. Her hair was the color of hay, parted in the middle and snagged up over each ear with a bobby pin. I couldn't even guess how old she might be. Younger than I expected, given John Daggett's age, which had to be fifty plus.
    "Lovella Daggett?"
    "That's right." She seemed reluctant to admit that much.
    "I'm Kinsey Millhone. I'm looking for John."
    She licked uneasily at her upper lip as if she was still unfamiliar with its new shape and size. Some of the scraped area had formed a scab, which resembled nothing so much as half a moustache. "He's not here. I don't know where he's at. What'd you want him for?"
    "He hired me to do some work, but he paid me with a bum check. I was hoping we could get it straightened out."
    She studied me while she processed the information. "Hired you to do what?"
    "Deliver something."
    She didn't believe a bit of that. "You a cop?"
    "No."
    "What are you, then?"
    I showed her the photostat of my license by way of reply. She turned and walked away from the door, leaving it open behind her. I gathered this was her method of inviting me in.
    I stepped into the living room and closed the door behind me. The carpeting was that green cotton shag so admired by apartment owners everywhere. The only furniture in the room was a card table and two plain wooden chairs. A six-foot rectangle of lighter carpeting along one wall suggested that there'd once been a couch on the spot, and a pattern of indentations in the rug indicated the former presence of two heavy chairs and a coffee table, arranged in what decorators refer to as "a conversational grouping." Instead of conversation these days, Daggett apparently got right down to busting her chops, breaking anything else that came to hand. The one lamp I saw had been snapped off at the socket and the wires were hanging out like torn ligaments.
    "Where'd the furniture go?"
    "He hocked it all last week. Turns out he used the payments for his bar bill. The car went before that. It was a piece of junk, anyway, but I'd paid for it. You ought to see what I've got for a bed these days. Some peed-on old mattress he found out on the street."
    There were two bar stools at the counter and I perched on one, watching as Lovella ambled into the small space that served as a kitchen. An aluminum saucepan sat on a gas flame on the stove, the water in it boiling furiously. On one of the other back burners, there was a battered aluminum kettle filled with simmering greens.
    Lovella wore blue jeans and a plain white tee shirt wrong-side out, the Fruit of the Loom label visible at the back of her neck. The bottom of the shirt had been pulled tight and knotted to