The Narrows

customers in his wallet. When he died and I got his wallet back, there were three checks in there for nine hundred dollars that he'd had in there for two weeks. He wasn't very good at business."
    She said it as though it was one of her husband's endearing and humorous qualities, though I was pretty sure that during his life she didn't smile at these oversights.
    "A couple more things," I said. "Do you know if it would be his routine to check in with a hospital in a city he was going to? In other words, if he was going to Las Vegas would he set things up at a local hospital in case he needed anything?"
    There was a pause before she answered.
    "No, that doesn't sound like anything he would do. Are you saying he did that?"
    "I don't know. I found a phone number in one of the files. And a name. The number was for Vegas Memorial and I'm trying to figure out why he would call there."
    "Vegas Memorial has a transplant program, I know that. But I don't know why he would call there."
    "What about the name William Bing, does that mean anything? Could it be a doctor he was recommended to?"
    "I don't know that… something about that name is familiar but I can't place it. It could be a doctor. Maybe that's where I heard it." I waited a moment to see if it came to her but it didn't. I pressed on.
    "Okay, one last thing, where is Terry's car?"
    "It should be over there at Cabrillo, at the marina. It's an old Jeep Cherokee. There's a key on the ring I gave you. Buddy also has a key because he uses it sometimes. He basically takes care of it for us. I mean, me now."
    "Okay, I'm going to check that out in the morning, so I'll need to keep the key. Do you know when the first ferry goes back across?"
    "Not till Hine-fifteen."
    "Then can we meet at seven-thirty or eight at your house? I want to get those records and also show you a few things. It won't take too long and then I'll grab the first ferry."
    "Um, can we make it eight? I should be back by then. I usually walk Raymond to school and take CiCi to day care."
    "No problem. I'll see you at eight."
    We ended the conversation and I immediately called Buddy Lockridge again, one more time rousing him from sleep.
    "Buddy, it's me again."
    He groaned.
    "Did Terry go to Las Vegas the month before he died? Like maybe around March first?"
    "I don't know, man," he said in a tired, annoyed voice. "How would I know that? I can't remember what / did March first."
    "Think, Buddy. He made a road trip around then. He didn't bring the boat across. Where did he go? Did he tell you anything about it?"
    "He didn't tell me jack. But I remember that trip now because the Jeep came back dirtier than shit. Had salt or some shit all over it. And I was the one who was left to wash it."
    "Did you ask him about it?"
    "Yeah, I said, 'Where have you been, out off-roading?' and he said, 'Yeah, something like that.'"
    "And that was it?"
    "That's all he said. I washed the car."
    "What about the inside? Did you clean that out?"
    "No, I'm just talking about the outside. I took it over to the drive-through in Pedro and power-sprayed the thing. That's all I did."
    I nodded as I concluded I had gotten everything I needed from Lockridge. For the time being.
    "You going to be around tomorrow?"
    "Yup, I'm always around these days. Got nowhere to go."
    "All right. I'll see you then."
    After ending the conversation I made one more call, punching in the number McCaleb had written at the top of the file flap after the name of Ritz, the detective quoted in the Times article.
    The call was picked up by a tape announcing that the Vegas Metro's Missing Persons unit was open from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. Monday through Friday. The message advised anyone with an emergency to hang up and dial 911.
    I closed the phone. It was late and I had an early start in the morning but I knew I wasn't going to sleep any time soon. I had the wire in the blood now and knew from long experience that sleep was not an option. Not yet. I was marooned on a boat with two flashlights to see by, but there was still work to be done. I opened my notebook and started constructing a chronological record of the dates and times of events in the weeks and months before Terry McCaleb's death. I put everything on the page, the important and not important, the real connections and imagined connections. Just as experience had taught me about sleep and the ability to go long stretches without it, I knew the details were important. The answer is always in the details. What is