Q Is for Quarry

pictures?"
    "Might."
    I shifted the handset from my right ear to my left, tucking it between my cheek and shoulder so I could free my hands. I removed assorted mug shots from the file folder and placed them by twos against the glass in front of him. There were twelve in all; names, aliases, and personal data, wants and warrants carefully blocked out. Pudgie subjected the black-and-white photos to the same careful scrutiny he'd lavished on me. He pointed to Frankie. "That one? That's Frankie. I remember him. Coked up and jumpy. He talked up a storm until the high wore off."
    "What about the others?"
    "Maybe him. I'm not sure." He pointed to Lorenzo Rickman, his memory better than he realized.
    "Anyone else?"
    "Don't think so."
    "Did Frankie talk about his arrest?"
    "What, you mean the chick he whacked? I guess he cut her up bad and then he fucked it up big time."
    "Like what?"
    "Stole her car, for one thing. What's he think? The cops aren't going to put out a fuckin' APB? Then he takes her credit card and uses that to pay for his entire escape. He left a paper trail a mile wide. Guy's dumb as he is mean. You kill a girl, you ought to have more sense." He stopped and stared. "I bet you know all this stuff, right? What's the story, is he out?"
    "You're full of questions."
    "How can I help if you won't say what you're after?"
    "Did he indicate how long he'd been in Lompoc before his arrest?" Pudgie smiled. "I don't get your fascination with a little puke like him."
    "I'm not fascinated with anything, except the truth."
    "Hey, come on. Tell me the game and I can play for keeps."
    I broke off eye contact. "Well, thanks for your time. Actually, I think that's it." I pinned the handset against my ear again while I gathered the mug shots and tucked them in the folder.
    "Wait! Don't go. We're not done yet. Are we done?"
    I paused. "Oh, sorry. I was under the impression you'd told me everything you knew. I didn't want to waste your time."
    "It's like this: I might remember more if we could sit and chat awhile. You know, small talk and like that. Ask another question. Maybe it'll stimulate my brain."
    I smiled at him blandly, getting to my feet. "Why don't you get in touch if you think of anything useful?"
    "About what exactly? At least put me in the ballpark here."
    "I'm not going to feed you lines. If you don't know anything, that's fine. We'll let it go at that."
    "Naw, now don't get mad. How's this? I'll think real hard. Meanwhile, you come back later and bring a carton of smokes."
    "I'm not buying you cigarettes. Why would I do that?"
    "It's the least you can do, compensation for my time." I glanced at my watch. "Four minutes' worth."
    "Smoking helps me think."
    I adjusted my shoulder bag, the handset still at my ear. "Bye now."
    He said, "Okay. Skip the carton. Three packs. Any kind except menthol. I really hate those things."
    "Buy your own," I snapped.
    "I'm out tomorrow. I can pay you back."
    "Quit while you can. That's my advice."
    "What's your name again ?"
    "Millhone. I'm in the book. If you can read." I returned the handset to the cradle.
    "I love you," he mouthed.
    "Yeah, right. I love you too."
    He winked and wiggled his tongue, a gesture I pretended not to see.
    On my way home from the jail, I stopped at the supermarket to pick up items for Henry's return. Traffic permitting, he was due back in town sometime between five and six. He'd left his car in long-term parking at the Los Angeles airport. I'd offered to take them down, but Henry, ever independent, had preferred driving himself. He and Rosie and William had flown to Miami, where they were joined by their older sister, Nell, age ninety-seven, and brothers Lewis and Charles, ages ninety-five and ninety, respectively. This morning, after two weeks in the Caribbean, they'd dock in Miami and three of them would catch a plane to L.A. while the three older siblings returned to Michigan.
    I loaded my shopping cart with milk, bread, bacon, eggs, orange juice, bananas, onions, carrots, a four-pound roasting chicken, new potatoes, and fresh asparagus, along with salad mix and a fifth of Jack Daniel's, Henry's beverage of choice. Briefly I considered fixing dinner for him myself, but my repertoire is limited and I didn't think pouring skim milk over cold cereal was that festive. Shopping done, I stopped at a corner kiosk a block from the market and bought a bouquet of zinnias and dahlias, a mass of orange and yellow with a ribbon tied around the stems. I could feel my