Ten of us entered the elevator: two lone women and three mothers with assorted small kids. I pressed DOWN, wondering if I looked like the sort of person who’d have a boyfriend in jail. The elevator descended by inches while we all secretly worried about getting stuck. Once the doors opened on the floor below, we spilled into a room that was probably twenty feet by twenty. Molded beige and gray plastic armchairs, chunky and square, were arranged in a double row down the middle of the room, with additional seats around the perimeter. The floor was a glossy beige vinyl tile. The walls were cinder block, painted a matte two-tone beige. A posted sign read KEEP FEET OFF WALL, though there was nothing to suggest how one might accomplish violating such a . . . well, feat. In the visitors room, eight stationary stools, with a handset at each place, were lined up on either side of a large glass-enclosed aisle. I sat down and placed my shoulder bag at my feet. I rested my elbows on the counter, feeling as if I were seated at the lunch counter of an old five-and-dime.

I knew from the police report that Pudgie was born Cedric Costello Clifton in 1950, the same year I was. He had a birthday coming up, June 7, so I’d aced him by a month and two days. The door opened on the jail side and a few inmates straggled in on the other side of the glass, hands linked behind their backs, a requirement any time they were moved from place to place. Pudgie appeared and took a seat on a stool that was a match for mine. His face was moon-shaped, and he wore glasses with big round frames perched on a surprisingly dainty nose. His facial hair was disorganized—rough mustache and a beard that ran from patchy to thick as it drifted across his cheeks. There were miscellaneous whiskers scattered almost to his eyes. His dark hair looked jangled, a texture that on a woman would be attributed to a bad home permanent. He wore the usual jail garb: a white T-shirt, blue cotton elastic-waisted pants, and rubber shoes. I’ve seen similar outfits on surgical residents in the corridors of St. Terry’s. He was bulky through the shoulders, his chest and biceps bulging from years of pumping iron. The hair on his left forearm only partially masked an entire gallery of elaborate tattoos: a spiderweb, a skull wearing a sombrero, and a graphically portrayed sex act. There was also a big-breasted woman with flowing black tresses whose torso was laid out between his elbow and wrist. His right arm seemed to be bare of art. He studied me for a long time. Through sheer effort, I held his gaze without breaking eye contact. Finally, he lifted the handset on his side of the glass and said, “Hey, how you doin’?”

I held the handset loosely against my ear. “I’m good, Mr. Clifton. How about yourself?”

“I’m doing okay. I know you?”

“My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator. I appreciate your seeing me.”

“Why don’t you skip the ‘mister’ shit and tell me what you want.” Behind the round lenses of his glasses, his eyes were a mild hazel under ill-kempt brows.

“I was wondering if you’d answer a few questions.”

A slight smile appeared. “About what?”

“Something that happened in 1969.”

“Why ask me?”

“This isn’t about you. It’s about someone else.”

“Goody. And who’s that?”

“You remember being arrested in Lompoc in August of ’69?”

“Yeah.” He replied with all the caution of someone who’s not quite sure what he’s agreeing to.

“You gave the officer a home address in Creosote, California. Can you tell me where that is? I never heard of it.” I’d looked it up on the map, but in the manner of a polygraph, I thought I’d start with baseline questions, whose truth value was easily verified.

“Little town out near Blythe. Two miles this side of the Arizona line.”

“How’d you end up in Lompoc?”

“I was traveling to San Francisco. I had a buddy who’d just come back from six months living on the streets up there. He told me you could buy dope right out on Haight. ’Ludes, grass and hash, peyote, acid. Free sex and free clinics to treat crabs and the clap if you picked up a dose. Sounded like a good deal to me. Still does, come to think of it. Anymore, you lay a hand on a chick, she blows the whistle on you.”

I glanced at the sheet of paper I’d taken from my bag, though I knew what it said. “According to this, you were picked up for vagrancy and possession of an illegal substance.”

He loosened up at that, face creasing into a smile. Apparently, he’d made an entire career out of substance abuse and denial. “What a crock of shit that was. I’m standing on the side of the road, thumbing a ride, when this cop car comes by. Couple rednecks in uniform. Fuckin’ pigs. These two pull over and pat me down. Turns out I had some pot on me. One fuckin’ joint. And for this I’m locked up. I should’ve sued for harassment and false arrest.”