He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his upper lip where a subtle sheen of moisture had appeared. He returned the handkerchief to his back pocket. “Anyway, she tells me you have questions about Violet Sullivan.”

“If you don’t mind,” I said, expecting the standard assurance that the subject was really no big deal.

“Doesn’t matter if I do or not, I’m under orders,” he said, again with that quick, easy laugh to show what a wag he was.

Mentally I squinted, listening to the second set of comments embedded in the first. I’m not a fan of doublespeak. His asides were the sort offered by married couples who banter in public, airing their grievances with an eye to soliciting outside support. If Kathy had been with us, she’d have countered with a few ha-has of her own, thus guaranteeing a laugh at his expense. He would have joined in the merriment, which is what seemed pitiful to me. The man was in pain.

“What orders?”

“What?”

“What orders did she give?”

“Skip it. Long story.”

“I love long stories.”

“You don’t have other people you have to talk to?”

“I’m supposed to meet Daisy, but if you let me borrow your phone, I can change that. You want to go somewhere and grab a cigarette?”

I called Daisy at work and had a quick conversation with her, telling her something had come up and I wasn’t going to make it for lunch. I suggested that if Tannie was driving up I could hang out in Santa Maria and the three of us could have dinner at the Blue Moon instead. She seemed to like that idea, so I said I’d call her again later in the afternoon and we could finalize our plans.

I’d expected Winston to step out into the vestibule to grab a smoke, but he took out his car keys and walked me to the side lot where he’d parked his car. He handed me into the passenger side of a metallic blue 1987 Chevrolet Caravan station wagon. When he got in on his side, he said, “This is only mine until the ‘88s come in. Then they swap it out.”

“Slick.”

“You think so until you look at the underlying attitude. No matter how fond you are of what you have, there’s always something hotter coming down the pike. It’s a recipe for discontent.”

“If you buy into it,” I said.

“That’s my job-promoting the concept. Coaxing the gullible into taking the bait.”

“So why don’t you quit and do something else? No one has a gun to your head.”

“I’m fifty-four years old, a little long in the tooth for any big career change. Can I buy you lunch?”

“In matters of food, you can always count me in.”