Page 8 of A Winter of Discontent for Henry Milch

“People don’t just fall down while washing their hands,” I said. Though to be completely honest, I may have done it myself once or twice. A taste for opioids isn’t all fun and games.

“She’s an old lady,” Opal said. “She could have had a ministroke. She could have fainted for a dozen reasons. Breaking her arm may be covering up whatever really happened.”

I didn’t know what really happened, obviously. All I knew was that Roberta’s statement wasn’t entirely correct. Or Melanie’s wasn’t. One of them wasn’t telling the truth.

We went back to the bar. I was pretty sure I’d asked all my questions. Without asking me, Opal ordered a glass of wine for herself—the Late Harvest Reisling. I was about to tell her she was paying for it, when she asked, “You remember Carl Burke, don’t you?”

“Yeah, the guy you’re hopelessly in love with.”

“I’m not— You’re an ass.” For some reason she didn’t let that stop her. “Carl has this thing with Denny Hazzard.”

“Who’s that?”

“The barber.”

“Oh him, yeah.” I’d kissed him once. Not a fond memory. “What about him?”

“Have you seen him at any meetings? He told Carl he’s off meth, but it’s hard to believe.”

Anger ripped through me like a flash flood. How did she know— “What meetings? I don’t go to any meetings.”

“You were seen. Everyone knows about it.”

“Everybody’s wrong. It must have been someone else.”

“Someone else who dresses like you and calls himself Mooch?”

“It’s possible.”

“Look, have you seen Denny there or not?”

Occasionally, though it’s rare, the truth will get you out of a sticky situation. I said, “I’ve been three times, and I haven’t seen him. Why can’t your ‘sources’ tell you if he’s going?”

Ignoring that, she asked, “Did you go to the LGBT meeting?”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“Thursday nights at seven. They all go to Drip afterward. Maybe you could go and see if Denny is there.”

“Why don’t you go?”

“I’m not a drug addict.”

“They don’t test you at the door.”

“I don’t want to violate people’s privacy.”

“Seriously? You’re literally gossiping about who’s going. That’s violating people’s privacy.”

“I was gossiping out of concern for Denny.”

“Doing bad things for good reasons… You get a gold star.”

She downed the rest of her wine, and got off the stool and put her fuzzy coat back on. Then she pulled her hat on and said, “I’ll wait outside.”

I put my coat on and paid before I followed her out to the parking lot. It had only been a couple of minutes, but her cheeks were already pink. Or maybe that was the wine.

Once we were in the car and I was about to start the engine, she said, “Oh, and by the way, there’s baby puke all over the right shoulder of that sweater.”