W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

athlete whose trophy days were done. I placed him at six feet with a build that had probably been pumped up by steroids once upon a time. His head was shaved and he wore a red baseball cap that he removed from time to time so he could smooth his bald pate before settling the cap back into place. He wore jeans and a red flannel shirt, the nap worn thin at the elbows but otherwise looking like a proper safeguard against the chill. His expression was blank, revealing no negative reaction to those who passed without making a contribution. Maybe next time around the stingy ones would feel guilty enough to hand over a dollar bill. Meanwhile, he was prepared to stand there without complaint until some righteous driver passed money to him through the window.
    Both Pearl in the front seat and Felix in the back had turned their heads to the right as though studying the view from the passenger-side windows. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Boggart’s focus drift in our direction and fix on Pearl, conspicuous by reason of her size and the telltale black knit watch cap. He squinted at the sight of her. He had no reason in the world to think we were up to no good. Then again, like the paranoids in every walk of life, he had no reason to think we weren’t. He tracked the rear of the Mustang as I turned right onto Cabana. It might have been my Grabber Blue 1970 Mustang he found so fascinating, but I doubted it.
    I continued around the big bend in the road and took a right at the next light, turning onto the street that fronted the zoo, which was closed for the day, its entrance barred by a gate with a wooden arm. The parking lot was empty, and even at a distance I could see the wrought iron gates were locked. The turnstiles behind them were in shadow.
    Felix leaned forward, arms on the front seat, talking into my right ear. “Keep on this road around to Milagro.”
    I did as instructed, wondering if this was how a bank robber felt when he’d been assigned to drive the getaway car. There was a produce market on the corner a couple of blocks farther on. It was open for business seven days a week with an expansive parking lot on the far side. I’d passed the market any number of times. I’d even shopped there on occasion, impressed by the lavish displays of fresh fruits and vegetables. I caught the scent of celery as I drove by—I swear I can smell celery half a block away—and wished I were eating a bowl of homemade vegetable soup instead of being cooped up with a homeless pair who reeked of cigarettes. I turned right onto Milagro and then right again into the parking lot.
    The Union Pacific rail lines run between the highway and the periphery of the lot, which was topped with a mix of gravel and asphalt. There were ten or twelve cars parked close to the market, but the remainder of the lot was empty. I drove to the far end, where I could see the pavement shrink to a narrow road that snaked upward and out of sight. I followed the road. The hill rose gradually with trees on either side forming a canopy overhead. The roadbed was not quite wide enough for two cars to pass, but I didn’t picture much in the way of traffic.
    I kept my speed to a minimum as I trundled along the lane. I was driving maybe two miles an hour, noting the backside of the zoo structures as they appeared to my right. It was odd to see the facility from this perspective. Where the public areas were defined by walkways that wound among the animal enclosures, the hinterland was all business: garages and storage sheds; lengths of fence that could be moved and bolted into place where needed; service trucks, fork lifts, and utility vehicles; artificial jungle plants and fake boulders that could be called into use to create the illusion of the wilds. As a child, I’d ridden on the narrow-gauge kiddie train that circled the property, so I’d seen glimpses of the same inner workings.
    I let Pearl direct me to a spot along the fence she said was closest to the camp.
    “You better turn the car around in case we have to get out in a hurry.”
    “What hurry? The guys are gone,” I said.
    “But supposing they come back is all I’m trying to say.”
    Oh great, I thought. I would have liked a place to pee, but it was too late for that and the urge was probably only a manifestation of a creeping attack of nerves. There was scant turning-around room available. I only succeeded by constantly backing up and inching forward, with Felix standing where I could see