"That's right. I'm a friend of John Daggett's."
He cocked his head, squinting, his right hand cupped behind his ear. "Who?"
I smiled lazily. We were apparently playing charades. I raised my voice, enunciating. "Daggett. John."
"Oh, yeah, him. How's he doing these days?" He started snapping his fingers lightly to the music, which had switched from Willie Nelson to a George Benson tune.
"He's dead."
I have to credit him. He did a nice imitation of casual surprise, not overdoing it. "You're shittin' me. Daggett's dead? Too bad. What happened to the dude, heart attack?"
"Drowned. It just happened last night, down at the marina." I wagged a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the beach so he'd know which marina I meant.
"Here in town? Hey, that's tough. I didn't know that. He was in L.A. last I heard."
"I'm surprised you didn't see it on the news."
"Yeah, well I never pay attention to that shit, you know? Bums me out. I got better things to do with my time."
His eyes were all over the place and his body was half turned away. I had to guess that he was busy trying to figure out who I was and what I was up to. He flicked a look at me. "I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."
"Kinsey Millhone."
He studied me fleetingly. "I thought my mom said the name was Charlene."
I shook my head. "I don't know where she got that."
"And you do what?"
"Basic research. I free-lance. What's that got to do with it?"
"You don't look like a friend of Daggett's. He was kind of a lowlife. You got too much class for a scumbag like him."
"I didn't say we were close. I met him recently through a friend of a friend."
"Why tell me about it? I don't give a damn."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Daggett said if anything happened to him, I should talk to you."
"Me? Naww," he said with disbelief. "That's fuckin' weird. You must have got me mixed up with somebody else. I mean, I knew Daggett, but I didn't know him, you dig?"
"That's funny. He told me you were the best of friends."
He smiled and shook his head. "Old Daggett gave you a bum steer, baby doll. I don't know nothin' about it. I don't even remember when I saw him last. Long time."
"What was the occasion?"
He glanced at the Mexican kid who was eavesdropping shamelessly. "Catch you later, man," he said to him. Then under his breath, with contempt, he said, "Paco." Apparently, this was a generic insult that applied to all Hispanics.
He touched my elbow, steering me into the other room. "These beaners are all the same," he confided. "Think they know how to play pool, but they can't do shit. I don't like talking personal in front of spics. Can I buy you a beer?"
"Sure."
He indicated an empty table and held a chair out for me. I hung my slicker over the back and sat down. He caught the bartender's eye and held up two fingers. The bartender pulled out two bottles of beer which he opened and set on the bar.
Billy said, "You want anything else? Potato chips? They make real nice french fries. Kinda greasy, but good."
I shook my head, watching him with interest. At close range, he had a curious charisma… a crude sexuality that he probably wasn't even aware of. I meet men like that occasionally and I'm always startled by the phenomenon.
He ambled over and picked up the beers, dropping a couple of crumpled bills on the bar. He said something to the bartender and then waited while the guy placed a glass upside down on each bottle, shooting a smirk in my direction.
He came back to the table and sat down. "Jesus, ask for a glass in this place and they act like you're puttin' on airs. Bunch of bohunks. I only hang out here because I got a sister works here three nights a week."
Ah, I thought, the woman in the trailer.
He poured one of the beers and pushed it over to me, taking his time then as he poured his own. His eyes were deepset, and he had dimples that formed a crease on either side of his mouth. "Look," he said, "I can see you got your mind made up I know something I don't. The truth is, I didn't like Daggett much and I don't think he liked me. Where you got this yarn about me bein' some pal of his, I don't know, but it wasn't from him."
"You called him Monday morning, didn't you?"
"Nuh-uh. Not me. Why would I call him?"