Q Is for Quarry

you. It's about someone else."
    "Goody. And who's that?"
    "You remember being arrested in Lompoc in August of '69?"
    "Yeah." He replied with all the caution of someone who's not quite sure what he's agreeing to.
    "You gave the officer a home address in Creosote, California. Can you tell me where that is? I never heard of it." I'd looked it up on the map, but in the manner of a polygraph, I thought I'd start with base-line questions, whose truth value was easily verified.
    "Little town out near Blythe. Two miles this side of the Arizona line."
    "How'd you end up in Lompoc?"
    "I was traveling to San Francisco. I had a buddy who'd just come back from six months living on the streets up there. He told me you could buy dope right out on Haight. 'Ludes, grass and hash, peyote, acid. Free sex and free clinics to treat crabs and the clap if you picked up a dose. Sounded like a good deal to me. Still does, come to think of it. Anymore, you lay a hand on a chick, she blows the whistle on you." I glanced at the sheet of paper I'd taken from my bag, though I knew what it said. "According to this, you were picked up for vagrancy and possession of an illegal substance."
    He loosened up at that, face creasing into a smile. Apparently, he'd made an entire career out of substance abuse and denial. "What a crock of shit that was. I'm standing on the side of the road, thumbing a ride, when this cop car comes by. 'Couple rednecks in uniform. Fuckin' pigs. These two pullover and pat me down. Turns out I had some pot on me. One fuckin' joint. And for this I'm locked up. I should've sued for harassment and false arrest."
    "You'd hitchhiked?"
    "I'se nineteen years old. You don't have a car, that's what you do."
    "We're interested in anyone who might have seen a young girl hitchhiking in the area. Seventeen, eighteen years old. Dyed blond hair, blue-eyes. She was probably five foot three, a hundred twenty-five pounds."
    "That's half the girls I knew. All of 'em looked like that except the ones porked up on grass. Ever notice that? Girls'd smoke too much dope and munch themselves up to twice their normal weight. Either that or all the fat ones were on the street in those days, hoping to get laid. Who else would have 'em?"
    "That's a wholesome attitude."
    Pudgie laughed at that, genuinely amused while I was not. I said, "Can we get back to the subject?"
    "Which is what now? I forget."
    "The girl I described."
    "Sure. What'd she do?"
    "She didn't do anything. Her body was found dumped off the side of the road."
    His attitude shifted slightly. "Sorry to hear that. You never said she was dead or I wouldn't have smarted off."
    "The point is, she had no ill and her body was never claimed. We'd like to find out who she is."
    "Yeah, but 1969? Why worry about it now after all these years?"
    "It's someone's pet project. 'Couple of guys I work with. What about you? What happened when you got out of jail?"
    "I had to call my old man to come pick me up. He was royally pissed. Soon as we got home, the shit-head threw me out; flung my clothes in the yard and broke my dinner plate on the porch. Fucking drama queen. Had to make a big scene, make sure all the neighbors knew he'd busted my ass."
    "At least he was willing to drive all the way from Creosote."
    "Yeah, but not before I'd spent the worst three days of my life in a cell with a bunch of freaks," he said and shrugged. "Worst until then. I've seen a lot worse since."
    "You remember Lorenzo Rickman or Frankie Miracle?"
    He snorted. "Lorenzo? What kind of name is that? What's the guy, some kind of fruit?"
    "You shared a cell with those two and a guy named John Luchek. You remember him?"
    "Not especially. I guess. Any reason I should?"
    "What about Rickman?"
    "Is this about him? Mean, it'd be nice if I knew what you were going for."
    "We'll get to that. Did the two of you talk?"
    "Jail's a bore. You talk just to keep from going out of your gourd. Food stinks, too, until you get used to it. Here, it's not bad; you know, heavy on the starch. Macaroni and cheese tastes like library paste. You ever eat that stuff?"
    I wasn't sure whether he was referring to the jail cuisine or library paste. I'd dined on both, but I didn't think that was any of his business. I wasn't here to compare exotic foods. "What about Frankie? You have a conversation with him?"
    "Must have. Why not? I'm a friendly little fuck. 'Course, I probably wouldn't recognize those guys now if I saw 'em on the street."
    "Would it help if you saw