"I can see you're a busy guy," I said.
"I write music," he said.
"Of course you do," I said. "What can you tell me about Daryl's mother?"
"Emmy?"
"Emily Gordon," I said.
"Well, shit, man, she died thirty years ago."
"Twenty-eight," I said.
Without looking, Barry extracted a cigarette paper from the packet and picked up his Baggie. "That's a long time ago, man."
He shook out some of the contents of his Baggie and rolled himself a joint. He was expert. He could roll with one hand. He put the joint in his mouth and fumbled with the flat of his hand on the orange crate.
"You got a match?" he said.
"No."
He stood and flip-flopped past the front stairs to the kitchen and came back with a pack of matches. He lit the joint, took a big inhale, and let it out slowly.
"Calmer?" I said.
"Huh? Oh, the joint. I know I smoke too much. I got to cut back one of these days. So what did you want to ask me?"
"Anything you could tell me," I said.
"About Emmy? Well, you know, I haven't seen her in about twenty-eight years."
He took a big drag on the joint and held the smoke in for a time and let it out slowly. He let his head rest against the woven cane back of the rocker. Then he giggled.
"Shit, man, nobody seen her in twenty-eight years, have they?"
"Probably not," I said. "Why did she go to Boston?"
"Always wanted to, I guess. You know how it is, man, you get some vision of a place, you finally got to go look at it, see how it compares."
He took another drag.
"She have a boyfriend?"
Barry shrugged.
"Is that a yes?" I said.
"We had a sort of informal marriage, man. You know?"
"So she had a boyfriend?"
"She had a lot of them."
"But this one she followed to Boston."
"I guess," Barry said. "You know his name?"
"His name?"
"Barry, are these questions too hard for you?"
"It's been thirty years, man."
"Twenty-eight, and in that time you forgot the name of the guy that your wife ran off with?"
"She didn't run off with him, she followed him, there's a difference."
"Sure there is, what was his name?"
"Coyote," he said. "He was an African-American dude."
"You have any idea where Coyote is now?"
"Naw, man, how would I know that?" He took a last drag on what was now a very small roach and snipped it and put it on the orange crate.
"What did Coyote do for a living?"
"He was a hippie, man. We all were. Mostly, we ripped off the system. Sold a little dope."
"Welfare?"
"Sure."
"What else do you know about Coyote?"
"What's to know, man? He was part of the movement, you know. We didn't ask a lot of questions. I think he mighta done time."
"Where?"
"Hell, I don't know."
"Maybe California?"
"I guess."
"What was he doing in Boston?"
"Hey, man, you think he calls me up, tells me what he's doing?"
"There were a couple of other women there when Emily was shot," I said. "Any idea who they were?"
"No, man."
"You know any of her friends?"
"Sure. I knew a lot of them."
"What were their names."
"Names? All of them?"
"Yeah."
"Been a long time," he said.
"Give me any you can remember."
"I. " he spread his hands. "My head's a little scrambled. Bunny."
"Bunny who?"
"Ah Bunny. Bunny Lawrence, Lombard. Lombard, Bunny Lombard."
"Excellent, Barry. Gimme another one."
We did this for maybe half an hour, during which time I coaxed three other names from him. I wrote them down. He didn't know where any of them were anymore.
"They were just around, you know, in the movement," he said.
"Okay," I said. "And when Emily was killed, you had sole custody of Daryl."
"Yeah. That's when I got us this house."
"You bought this place after your wife died."
"Yeah. Emmy's parents bought her a little insurance policy when she was born. Typical."
"Typical of what?" I said.
"Middle-class mentality," Barry said. "Have a baby, buy it insurance."
"And you were the beneficiary?"
"No. Emmy changed it to Daryl. But I was her father, so I used the money to buy her this house."
"Which she still owns?"
"Hey, I been paying the mortgage for twenty-eight years."
"World's best dad," I said. "How long was Daryl with you."
"She took off when she was eighteen."
"You mean she ran away."
"Whatever. We wasn't mad at each other or anything. She just wanted to be on her own."
"You stay in touch?"
"She wrote me sometimes."
I decided not to ask if he wrote her back. Barry started to roll another joint. On his big, cedar-shaving dog cushion, the Lab made some lip-smacking noises in his sleep. He was probably half snookered on secondhand smoke.
"Is there anything else you can think of," I said, "that might help me find who killed your wife." Barry got his cigarette burning. "Not a thing, man."
"Ever hear of a guy named Abner Fancy?"
"Abner Fancy, hell no, man. I wouldn't forget a name like Abner Fancy. Goddamn."
"Ever hear of a group called the Dread Scott Brigade?"
"Wow," he said, "a blast from the past. The Dread Scott Brigade. Yeah, I think so. I think Emmy had some friends was in Dread Scott. Emmy hung out with a lot of blacks."
"Coyote a member?" I said.
Barry shrugged. He was getting tired.
"Coulda been. I don't know. Mostly I did my music, smoked a little dope." He smiled modestly. "Scored a few ladies myself, you know?"
"Way to go," I said.
I gave him my card. He looked at it.
"Anything occurs to you," I said, "get in touch."
"Hey, man," Barry said. "You're from Boston."
"I am."
"What are you doing out here?"
"I came to talk with you."
"Me? Hey, that's really cool."
"Way cool," I said. "Anything you can think of."
"Sure," Barry said. "Sure thing."
He took in a long pull of marijuana smoke and held it. I walked to the door. Barry was still holding the smoke. As I opened the door, he let it out slowly and smiled pleasantly at me through the smoke.
Reefer madness.
28
Hawk and I were staying up in La Jolla, at La Valencia. I called Susan. After that, Hawk and I took a run along the cove and had dinner in the hotel restaurant, which was near the top of the hotel and had spectacular views of the Pacific. We each started with a martini.
"It always amazes me," I said to Hawk, "how some kids can grow out of the trash heap they started in."
"Daryl?" Hawk said.
I nodded.
"Her mother," I said, "apparently slept with everybody that would hold still long enough and then got murdered. Her father did dope until he turned into a mushroom. And she grows out of that, apparently on her own, to become a functioning adult and a good actress."
The sun was almost touching the far rim of the ocean. Five pelicans swung over the cove, flying in an orderly arrangement. The last two divers came out of the water. I drank a little of my martini. Hawk's martini was the traditional straight up with olives. Always the rebel, I had mine on the rocks with a twist. I sipped again. The martini tasted like John Coltrane sounds.
"A little like Paul," Hawk said.
"Yeah," I said. "But Paul had me. Who has she had?"
Hawk looked out at the wide, slow ocean, with the evening beginning to settle onto it.
"Maybe she have a lot of stuff in her," Hawk said.
"Maybe."
"And maybe she have Paul," Hawk said.
I thought about it, and so as not to waste time while I was thinking, I drank some more martini.
"I don't know if he's known her long enough," I said.
"Paul a smart kid," Hawk said.
"I know."
"And he pretty strong," Hawk said.
"He is."
"Got from his uncle," Hawk said.
"Uncle Hawk?"
"Sho' nuff."
"Jesus Christ," I said.