D Is for Deadbeat

sound when she dropped it in the ashtray. She rested her chin on her palm and smiled at me unpleasantly. I wanted her to get her teeth fixed so she'd be prettier. "I bet you've had it real easy, haven't you?" she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
    "Extremely."
    "Nice white-collar middle-class home. The whole mommy-hubby trip. Bet you had little brothers and sisters. Nice little fluffy white dog…"
    "This is amazing," I said.
    "Two cars. Maybe a cleaning woman once a week. I never went to college. I never had a daddy giving me all the advantages."
    "Well, that explains it then," I said. "I did meet your mom, you know. She looks like someone who's worked hard all her life. Too bad you don't appreciate the effort she made in your behalf."
    "What effort? She works in a supermarket checkout line," Coral said.
    "Oh, I see. You think she should do something classy like you."
    "I'm sure not going to do this for life, if that's what you think."
    "What happened to your father? Where was he in all this?"
    "Who knows? He bugged out a long time ago."
    "Leaving her with kids to raise by herself?"
    "Skip it. I don't even know why I brought it up. Maybe you should get to the point and let me get back to work."
    "Tell me about Doug."
    "None of your business." She slid out of the booth. "Time's up," she said, and walked away. God, and here I was being friendly.
    I picked up the shoes and skirt and dropped a couple of bucks on the table. I moved to the entranceway, pausing in the shelter of the doorway before I stepped out into the rain. It was 10:17 and there was no traffic on Milagro. The street was shiny black and the rain, as it struck the pavement, made a noise like bacon sizzling in a pan. A mist drifted up from the manhole covers that dotted the block, and the gutters gushed in a widening stream where water boiled back out of the storm drains.
    I was restless, not ready to pack it in for the night. I thought about stopping by Rosie's, but it would probably look just like the Hub-smoky, drab, depressing. At least the air outside, though chilly, had the sweet, flowery scent of wet concrete. I started the car and did a U-turn, heading toward the beach, my windshield stippled with rain.
    At Cabana, I turned right, driving along the boulevard. On my left, even without a moon visible, the surf churned with a dull gray glow, folding back on itself with a thundering monotony. Out in the ocean, I could see the lights on the oil derricks winking through the mist. I'd pulled up at a stoplight when I heard a car horn toot behind me. I checked my rearview mirror. A little red Honda was pulling over into the lane to my right. It was Jonah, apparently heading home just as I was. He made a cranking motion. I leaned over and rolled the window down on the passenger side.
    "Can I buy you a drink?"
    "Sure. Where?"
    He pointed at the Crow's Nest to his right, a restaurant with exterior lights still burning. The light changed and he took off. I followed, pulling into the lot behind him. We parked side by side. He got out first, hunching against the rain while he opened an umbrella and came around to my door. We huddled together and puddle hopped our way to the front entrance. He held the door and I ducked inside, holding it for him then while he lowered the umbrella and gave it a quick shake.
    The interior of the Crow's Nest was done in a halfhearted nautical theme which consisted primarily of fishing nets and rigging draped along the rafters and mariner's charts sealed into the table tops under a half-inch of polyurethane. The restaurant section was closed, but the bar seemed to be doing all right. I could see maybe ten tables occupied. The level of conversation was low and the lighting was discreet, augmented by fat round jars where candles glowed through orange glass. Jonah steered us past a small dance floor toward a table in the corner. The place had an aura of edgy excitement. We were protected by the weather, drawn together like the random souls stranded in an airport between flights.
    The waitress appeared and Jonah glanced at me.
    "You decide," I said.
    "Two margaritas. Cuervo Gold, Grand Marnier, shaken, no salt," he said. She nodded and moved off.
    "Very impressive," I said.
    "I thought you'd like that. What brings you out?"
    "Daggett, of course." I filled him in, realizing as I summed it up that I'd had just about as much of Billy Polo and his ilk as I could take for one night.
    "Let's don't talk about him," I said when I was done.