“I was kinda thinking of his clothes for the Goodwill,” she added.
Meaning she thought she could sell them, perhaps to her other lodgers. “If you think they want his clothes, be my guest. Let me just make sure this—son—didn’t overlook something valuable.”
Of course, anything valuable would be long gone, but Mitch Kruger hadn’t had stocks or bearer bonds to worry about. There was no reason to be gratuitously offensive to the lady by suggesting as much. Mrs. Polter gave gracious consent to my searching Mitch’s room once again.
After the glare of the street I couldn’t see in the unlit stairwell. I felt my way cautiously up the stairs, not wanting to stumble on any loose pieces of linoleum. None of the other inhabitants was roaming the halls, but a fresh smell of bacon overlay the stale grease and cabbage in the air. Someone was having a late lunch, or a very late breakfast. My stomach rumbled sympathetically. I wondered if I could get a cheese sandwich at Tessie’s when I finished here.
By the time I reached the top my eyes had adjusted enough to the dim light to find Mitch’s room. Between Mrs. Polter and the son not much remained. Certainly not Kruger’s union card or his pension papers—not even the newspaper clippings. I hadn’t paid much attention to his clothes, so I couldn’t tell if the landlady had already skimmed off anything, but the portable black-and-white set was gone. If I poked around until I found Mrs. Polter’s room I’d probably discover it there. The temptation was strong, but I didn’t have any real desire to confront her over it.
As I made my way back down I thought gloomily about my own old age, if I lived that long, and probable end. Would it be like this, in a derelict boardinghouse, with nothing but an old TV and some threadbare jeans for an ungrieving landlady to pick through? I wouldn’t even have Mr. Contreras to mourn me. Just as my fantasies were reaching a peak of dreary loneliness, I caught my foot in a loose piece of linoleum and reached the bottom on my hands and knees. I swore and dusted myself off—nothing injured but my pride. If I went around daydreaming instead of keeping my wits about me, Mr. Contreras would at least survive to mourn me.
“That you falling in there?” Mrs. Polter asked when I regained the porch. “Thought I heard kind of a thud.”
“But not worth your while to come investigate. You should get that linoleum tacked down. It’d be kind of hard for you to haul away your boarders’ bodies if they tripped and croaked… When did Mitch Kruger die?”
She shrugged majestic shoulders. “Couldn’t tell you that, honey. But his son was by here first thing this morning. Matter of fact, I wasn’t even up. He caught me still in my curlers.”
That must have been an awe-inspiring sight. “What did he look like, this son?”
She moved her shoulders again. “I didn’t take his picture. He was a youngish fella, maybe your age, maybe a little older.”
“Did he leave a phone number in case you needed to reach him?”
“I don’t have any call to reach him, honey. I told him the same I’m telling you: take what you want while the room’s still paid for, ‘cause at the end of the week I’m turning the rest over to the Goodwill.”
It made me uneasy to give up the room, give up Mitch’s last connection to life. I thought about shelling out another fifty to hang on to the room through next week. And yet, what could I possibly find in there?
Still uneasy, I crossed the street to Tessie’s. She remembered me at once, even what I’d been drinking.
“You look kind of hot today, honey. Want another draw?”
I slid onto the stool. The thin brew soothed my raw throat. Her bar wasn’t air-conditioned, but it was out of the glare of the sun. A fan blowing down the counter dried my sweat, giving me the illusion of coolness.
“I didn’t have time for lunch. Do you sell sandwiches or anything?”
She shook her head regretfully. “The best I can do for you is a bag of chips or pretzels, honey.”
I ate the pretzels with my second beer. We had the bar to ourselves. She was watching Donahue on a small black-and-white set tucked under the whisky bottles. The TV was too clean to have been Mitch’s.
At a commercial break Tessie spoke without looking at me. “I hear they found that old man you were hunting last week, drowned in the San. They picked up his body yesterday, what I hear. Your uncle, did you say?”
I grunted noncommittally.
“Lily Polter said you were a detective. So was he an uncle or a skipper?”
“Neither. He grew up with an old friend of mine. My friend got upset when the guy went missing.”
She flicked a fly with her bar towel. “I don’t like being lied to. Most especially not in my own bar.”
My cheeks reddened under my sunburn. “I figured if I came in here and announced I was a detective, someone might break a bottle of Old Overholt on my head.”