W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery) Read Online Free PDF

know what to expect.
    “Each.”
    “ Each? Are you kidding me?”
    He was not. I paid for the three packs and tossed them into my shoulder bag. Three dollars plus change seemed like a lot to pay, but maybe I could claim the deduction on my Schedule A when tax season rolled around.
    There was no sign of the threesome as I drove along Cabana Boulevard on my way home.
    •   •   •
    Sunday, I made another trip to the beach, my Grabber Blue Mustang attracting the usual curious stares. If my homeless friends wanted to duck me, it wouldn’t be hard to do. I drove at a speed so slow it made other drivers honk. I passed the recreation center and followed the wide curve that skirted the lagoon that served as a bird refuge. I knew Pete Wolinsky had been shot to death somewhere along here, but it seemed ghoulish to park and search out the spot.
    I rolled through the small parking lot along the water’s edge and drove back the way I’d come, scanning both sides of the road. This was clearly unproductive, so I shifted to Plan B. At Milagro, I turned right and drove to the homeless shelter. Harbor House was situated in the middle of the block. The lot is narrow, the building itself set back from the street. There were eight parking spaces in front, all of them in use. A metal accordion gate had been pulled across the front door and secured with a padlock. A hand-lettered sign pasted on a side window said NA SUPPORT GROUP MEETS MONDAY AT 2:00 .
    While Narcotics Anonymous might not meet on weekends, surely the shelter itself was open. I backed up six steps and peered in both directions. To the right of the building, a heavy-duty fence prevented passage. To the left, a double-wide drive ran between Harbor House and the service station next door. I followed the asphalt path. Tucked between the building and the drive, a stucco arch opened onto a courtyard where a small group of men and women had gathered to smoke. Landscaping was an afterthought: two palms, a few shrubs, and random patches of grass. Sand-filled coffee cans did double duty as receptacles for cigarette butts and freshly hawked-up goobers. Though I felt out of place, what worked to my advantage was that in turtleneck, jeans, and scuffed boots I looked like everyone else.
    A metal folding chair was planted in the archway, but no one manned the entrance and no one took notice as I crossed the patio to a door that stood open to the air. I went in, wondering if I’d be asked about my reasons for being on the premises. Being rule governed, I operate in a world filled with imaginary restraints. I’m happiest when signs are posted— NO SPITTING, NO PUBLIC URINATION, NO WALKING ON THE GRASS . I might not obey but at least I knew where I stood.
    For the record, I should say this: I don’t romanticize the plight of the homeless or project sentiment where none is required. My take on the indigent is that some are there because of temporary setbacks, some by default, and some for lack of an alternative. Some are needy, some are off their meds, some have opted out, some have been ousted from facilities where they might be better served. Many are there for life and not always by personal choice. Alcoholic, addicted, aimless, illiterate, unmotivated, unskilled, or otherwise unable to prosper, they sink to the bottom, and if they’re down for any length of time, they lose the capacity to climb back out of the hole into which they’ve fallen. If there’s a remedy, I don’t know what it is. From what I’ve seen of the problem, most solutions perpetuate the status quo.
    The room I entered was large, furnished with an assortment of couches and chairs, many occupied. The foot traffic in and out was constant. A handsome gentleman in his midsixties was perched on a rolling chair behind the counter to my right. There was a woman ahead of me in this two-person line and I waited my turn. She removed a laminated card from her jeans pocket. By shifting slightly, I saw that it bore her