D is for Deadbeat Read Online Free PDF Page A

4:35. I bypassed the office altogether and went home. My disposition improved the minute I walked in. My apartment was once a single-car garage and consists now of one room, fifteen feet on a side, with a narrow extension on the right that serves as a kitchenette, separated from the living area by a counter. The space is arranged with cunning: a stackable washer-dryer tucked in beside the kitchenette, bookshelves, drawers, and storage compartments built into the wall. It’s tidy and self-containedand all of it suits me absolutely. I have a six-foot convertible sofa that I usually sleep on as is, a desk, a chair, an endtable, and plump pillows that serve as additional seating if anyone comes over to sit. My bathroom is one of those preformed fiberglass units with everything molded into it, including a towel bar, a soap holder, and a cutout for a window that looks out at the street. Sometimes I stand in the bathtub, elbows resting on the sill, and stare at passing cars, just thinking how lucky I am. I love being single. It’s almost like being rich.
    I dropped my handbag on the desk and hung my jacket on a peg. I sat on the couch and pulled off my boots, then padded over to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of white zinfandel and a corkscrew. At intervals, I try to behave like a person with class, which is to say I drink wine from a bottle instead of a cardboard box. I pulled the cork and poured myself a glass. I crossed to the desk, taking the telephone book from the top drawer, trailing telephone cord, directory, and wine glass over to the sofa. I set the wine glass on the endtable and thumbed through the book to see if Billy Polo was listed. Of course, he wasn’t. I looked up the name Gahan. No dice. I drank some wine and tried to think what to do next.
    On an impulse, I checked for the name Daggett. Lovella had mentioned that he once lived up here. Maybe he still had relatives in town.
    There were four Daggetts listed. I started dialingthem in order, saying the same thing each time. “Oh, hi. I’m trying to reach a John Daggett, who used to live in this area. Can you tell me if this is the correct number?”
    On the first two calls, I drew a blank, but with the third, the man who answered responded to my query with one of those odd silences that indicate that information is being processed.
    â€œWhat did you want with him?” he asked. He sounded like he was in his sixties, his phrasing tentative, alert to my response, but undecided how much he was willing to reveal.
    He was certainly skipping right down to the tricky part. From everything I’d heard about Daggett, he was a bum, so I didn’t dare claim to be a friend of his. If I admitted he owed me money, I was going to have the phone slammed down in my ear. Ordinarily, in a situation like this, I’d insinuate that I had money for
him
, but somehow I didn’t think that would fly. People are getting wise to that shit.
    I laid out the first lie that occurred to me. “Well, to tell you the truth,” I said, “I’ve only met John once, but I’m trying to get in touch with a mutual acquaintance and I think John has his address and telephone number.”
    â€œWho were you looking to get in touch with?”
    That caught me off-guard, as I hadn’t made that part up yet. “Who? Um . . . Alvin Limardo. Has John ever mentioned Alvin?”
    â€œNo, I don’t believe so. But, now, you may have the wrong party. The John Daggett that used to live here is currently in prison and he’s been there, oh I’d say nearly two years.” His manner suggested a man whose retirement has invested even a wrong number with some interesting possibilities. Still, it was clear I’d hit pay dirt.
    â€œThat’s the one I’m talking about,” I said. “He was up in San Luis Obispo.”
    â€œHe still is.”
    â€œOh, no. He’s out. He was released six weeks