Blue Lonesome

by Bill Pronzini

“Better not. Police wouldn’t like it.”

  But she didn’t shut the door. She stood peering at him over the rims of her glasses—a waiting pose.

  Oh, Christ, he thought. He said, “The police don’t have to know. Suppose I pay you to let me look?”

  “How much?” she said immediately.

  “Twenty dollars.”

  “No. Not twenty.”

  “You name a price, then.”

  “Fifty dollars.”

  “Forty.” He took two twenties from his wallet, held them up for her to see. “Cash. All right?”

  She said, “All right,” and opened the door wide.

  THERE WERE THREE cardboard cartons, one large and two small, a small overnight case, and a larger suitcase. That was all. Mrs. Fong left him alone with it all, in one corner of her dusty basement; now that she’d been paid, she didn’t seem to care if he walked off with anything. Or maybe she just didn’t want to know.

  He stood looking at the meager pile, feeling irritated at himself and vaguely foolish. Forty dollars to paw through a dead stranger’s belongings. What was the point? The chance of his finding anything enlightening was slim to none. Jerking himself around, that was all he was doing. Why couldn’t he simply let go of her, forget that their paths had ever crossed?

  He knelt and opened the largest of the cartons.

  Clothing. Underwear mostly. Two sweaters, both of which he recognized from the Harmony Café. A Western-style shirt with fake-pearl snap fasteners in place of buttons. Three blouses. A stained suede jacket.

  The second carton yielded half a dozen tattered paperback books, a skimpy collection of cosmetics (but no perfume or toilet water), a street map of San Francisco, a half-full box of saltine crackers (inexplicable that Mrs. Fong would have put stale crackers into the carton), an old-fashioned, inexpensive pocket watch with a scratched cover and an imitation gold chain flecked with greenish oxidation, and a torn and dusty child’s panda bear minus one of its shoe-button eyes.

  The third carton: A pair of worn and badly scuffed boots that bore a scrolled cowboy design. A pair of sandals and a pair of flat-heeled shoes. Two skirts, one pair of slacks, one pair of Levi’s jeans.

  The small overnight bag was empty. The larger suitcase contained the thin cloth coat Mrs. Lonesome had worn to the Harmony most evenings, and nothing else.

  Pathetic lot. Remarkably so for a woman who’d had fourteen thousand dollars in cash in a safe deposit box. Looking at it spread out on the basement floor made him feel sad, depressed. The only personal items, really, were the pocket watch and the bear.

  He picked up the watch, worked the stem. The hands moved but the winding mechanism was broken. He slid a thumbnail under the dust cover and flipped it up. Words had been inexpertly etched on the casing inside, as if with a homemade engraving tool. Letters and portions of letters were worn away, but the full inscription was still distinguishable when he held the casing up to catch the light from a naked bulb overhead.

  To Davey from Pop.

  Davey. Husband, lover, brother, friend? There was nothing to give him a hint—to Davey’s identity or to the reason why she’d kept the watch.

  Same with the panda bear. It looked old: hers, from her childhood? Or had it belonged to a child of her own? He remembered the damaged photograph Del Carlo had told him about, that she’d taken into the bathtub with her for the last few minutes of her life. Did a child have something to do with her suicide—the loss of one, maybe? A little boy named Davey? Davey’s watch, Davey’s panda?

  The depression was heavier in him now. He told himself to put everything away, get the hell out of here; the toy bear’s one remaining eye seemed to be staring at him, for God’s sake. Instead, compulsively, he unfolded the San Francisco map to see if there was anything written or marked on it (there wasn’t), even poked inside the box of saltines before he dragged over the half dozen paperbacks.

  One of the books was poetry—A Treasury of American Verse. Three were thick historical romances, all set in the South before or during the Civil War. The fifth: a Western novel with a cover even more lurid than those on the romances. The sixth: a nonfiction self-help book called Coping with Pain and Grief. Odd assortment. But the last might be significant, he thought. Grief and loneliness went hand in hand, especially if a child was involved. So did grief and suicide.

  Messenger thumbed through the self-help volume. No dog-eared pages, no underlining, no personal annotations; and nothing tucked in among the pages. He riffled through each of the other five books, not expecting to find anything in them, either. But on the last page of the verse treasury, something caught his eye—stamped words in faded red ink.

  Beulah Public Library.

  Beulah. A town, or possibly a county. But in either case not in California; he’d never heard of the name before.

  He went through the other books again. None bore a similar stamp. The one didn’t have to have any direct connection to Ms. Lonesome then. Books travel in different ways, sometimes go through many hands. And this edition had been published in 1977, a lot of years ago. She might have picked it up anywhere, some place far away from Beulah, wherever Beulah was.

  He wondered if Del Carlo had noticed the stamp. Even if he had, chances were he’d had similar thoughts and dismissed it. Worth discussing with him? Worth stopping first at the main library, to see if he could locate Beulah—?

  No, he thought. Dammit, no.

  Thousands of towns spread across the U.S., some so tiny they weren’t even on most maps; if Beulah was one of the little ones, it could take days of research. And for all he knew, more than one Beulah existed—four, five, or six of them. And even if he found just one, what then? He didn’t have the resources to follow up on such a slender lead. Del Carlo did, but like all big-city cops, he was overworked. He wouldn’t care enough to waste any more time or public funds on a simple suicide case. You couldn’t blame him for not caring enough.

  The whole idea was an exercise in futility. Just as paying forty dollars for a look at these pitiful memento mori had been.

  Enough, Messenger. The obsession ends here, tonight. Ms. Lonesome is dead and you’re alive—get a grip before it’s too late and you really do have a breakdown, before you wind up existing in a little vacuum of despair.

  Quickly he scooped the books and bear and watch and the rest of her things into the cartons and cheap suitcases. Then he stood, turned away.

  But he didn’t leave just then. Not for another minute or so.

  Not until, in spite of himself, he’d turned back to the cartons and found the copy of A Treasury of American Verse and hidden it inside his coat pocket.

  4

  THE RED-HAIRED WOMAN’S name was Molene. Molene Davis. He asked her about it after she introduced herself, to make sure he’d heard her correctly, and she spelled it for him. No, it had nothing to do with the town of Illinois, which was spelled differently anyway. Her father had been a poet, she said. As if that explained it.

  He’d noticed her shortly after his arrival with the Engstroms. Jeanne’s brother, a bearded bear of a man who was high on either ego gratification or some chemical substance, had whisked her and Phil away, leaving Messenger to fend for himself. There were sixty or seventy people already in the cavernous, paint-spattered North Beach loft, and more arriving every minute; the crush of people, the too loud voices and too hearty laughter, made him edgy—would eventually, if he stayed too long, make him claustrophobic. Crowded rooms always had that effect on him. Not enough space, not enough room to breathe.

  But he was here to have a good time. Meet people—meet a live woman who interested him, if he was lucky. And from a distance the redhead had struck him as interesting. Tall, as tall as he, and he was nearly six feet. Very thin, almost hipless, but lithe in her movements, sinuous, as if she might be double-jointed. His age, or maybe two or three years older. Dressed in black jeans and a black tunic top, the red hair tumbling in tight curls halfway down her spine. Long, narrow face and big, dark, restle
ss eyes. He watched her for five minutes or so as she got herself a glass of wine, nibbled at canapés. When he was satisfied that she was alone he forced aside his natural reticence and approached her.

  He half expected to be blown off, but she surprised him. Quick smile, quick appraisal, quick connection. Up close, her eyes struck him as shoe-button—like the one eye on Ms. Lonesome’s toy panda. No, he thought immediately, not like that at all. Hers were real eyes: bright, intelligent. Alive. Yes, and interested in return.

  “I’m an artist,” she said. “I create mobiles. Mobiles by Molene. Alliterative, don’t you think? I work mainly in the fourth dimension—explore the fourth dimension, you might say. You know what I mean? Not exactly? Well, there’s the dimension of length—that’s one. The dimension of breadth is the second. Depth is the third. Well, what I do in my mobiles is to geometrically extend the lines in each of those three dimensions to create a fourth, to artistically and visually enter the fourth dimension. …”

  She enjoyed the sound of her own voice. But that was all right. What she said was engaging enough, if not wholly explicable, and she talked with a great deal of energy and intensity. Besides, her monologues saved him from having to think up words to fill the usual conversational lulls that develop between strangers. He was poor at the game of small talk. But if there was one social amenity he was good at, it was listening attentively.

  Still, she was not one of those individuals who view others as little more than sounding boards. Nor was Molene Davis the only topic of fascination for her. “Tell me about Jim Messenger,” she said before long. And when he did, briefly, she didn’t seem to consider being a CPA a dull and boring profession, as so many people did. “You sound like a very stable guy, Jim,” she said.

  “I like to think I am.”

  “Personally as well as professionally?”

  “Yes. I’m pretty conventional.”

  “Not married, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Ever been?”

  “Once, in college. It didn’t last long.”

  “Neither did mine. I was married too young, too.”

  “Sins of our youth, I guess.”

  “Brian and I didn’t have any kids. I didn’t think I wanted any, then or ever. Now … well, I’m not so sure. I can hear my biological clock ticking.”

  “Not in this crowd, you can’t.”

  Molene laughed. “How about you, Jim? Any kids?”

  “No.”

  “Regret it?”

  “Once in a while. Not very often, I have to admit.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out to be a father.”

  “An everyday kind of father, you mean. Changing diapers and feedings at three A.M. and all that.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I can understand that. Most men aren’t, and too many make the mistake of thinking they are. How about being a husband? Do you miss that?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I don’t mean sex,” she said. “I mean living alone … you do live alone?”

  “Yes. An apartment out near Ocean Beach.”

  “Living alone, not having someone to come home to every night. Do you miss that, Jim?”

  He hesitated before answering. What did she want him to say? Yes, I’m lonely and I really would like to be married? No, I’m content being single, living my life as I see fit, without family responsibilities and encumbrances? He didn’t even know himself what the true answer was.

  “I don’t really miss it, no,” he said at length. “I guess you could say getting married again isn’t a central ambition in my life.”

  “It’s not even a minor one in mine,” Molene said. “Once is enough, thank you. I’m too damn set in my ways to put up with a male underfoot day after day.” She shrugged and finished her wine. “How’s that for brutal honesty?”

  “I like people who are honest,” Messenger said.

  “So do I. We’re going to get along fine, aren’t we, Jim?”

  “I hope we are.”

  He brought her another glass of wine and some more canapés on a napkin. They talked about random subjects, mostly impersonal. Or rather, she did most of the talking and he did most of the listening. The party swirled around them, the big loft getting more and more jammed until it resembled, at least to Messenger, the party scene in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. If it hadn’t been for Molene he would have fled by now. As it was, he longed for space and quiet and fresh air.

  She seemed to sense this need in him. Either that, or she felt the same claustrophobic effect. “Jim, why don’t we get out of here?” She had to lean close and half shout to make herself heard above the babble. “All this noise is giving me a headache.”

  “I was about to suggest the same thing.”

  “My apartment is just a few blocks from here.”

  He felt a stirring of excitement. “Fine.”

  “I want you to see my mobiles.”

  “I’d like to. Your etchings, too?”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. Poor attempt at humor. He liked Molene, found her sensual and attractive, and he very much wanted to go to bed with her; he hadn’t been with a woman in what seemed like a very long time. Don’t blow it by being trite, Messenger.

  “I’d better tell the people I came with that I’m leaving,” he said against her ear. “Otherwise they’ll wonder what happened to me.”

  “I’ll meet you in the hall.”

  “Five minutes.”

  It took him that long just to find Phil Engstrom. When he said that he was going, Phil winked and asked him if it was with the redhead he’d been talking to. He said yes. “Cute,” Phil said, “if a little too skinny for my taste. Didn’t I tell you coming along tonight would be worth your while?”

  “You told me.”

  “What’s her name? What’s she do?”

  “Too noisy in here. I’ll tell you Monday.”

  “Details too, Jimmy.” Another wink. “Blow by blow.”

  Messenger moved away without answering. Some men, and Phil was one of them, never outgrew the boy’s locker-room approach to physical intimacy. How far did you get? What did she do? What did you do? How was it? He himself didn’t understand the need to cheapen and dehumanize sex. A personal relationship wasn’t a game, and it shouldn’t be fodder for somebody else’s childish jokes and analysis.

  Molene was waiting in the hall. Out on the street they paused to drink in the cold night air. Then she took his arm, held it tight against her small breast as they walked uphill on Green Street. Her apartment was on Reno, she said, a little alley off Green. Just a couple of blocks.

  Her building turned out to be a converted Victorian, the second-floor apartment small and cramped. Mobiles hung everywhere, either individually or in what appeared to be some sort of interconnected pattern—free-form bits of wood, metal, and pottery, some with brightly hand-painted designs, others in their natural state. Walking around and among them was like traversing an obstacle course. To Messenger they made the apartment seem chaotic. Living here, he thought, would be like living in the midst of an unsettling dream.

  Molene poured glasses of wine for each of them, then sat close to him on a huge, cracked-leather beanbag settee: a refugee of the sixties. Her perfume was musky, not unlike cloves. The heat in his loins fanned and grew.

  She asked him what he thought of her mobiles. He said they were fascinating—but he kept his eyes on her so he wouldn’t have to look at them. She talked about art and the fourth dimension for a time, using phrases that meant little or nothing to him. Then she set her glass down and took one of his hands in both of hers. Almost solemnly she asked, “Jim, have you had an AIDS test?”

  “AIDS test? No,” he said, “I haven’t.”

  “Don’t you think you should?”

  “Well, I’m not … I don’t sleep around much.”

  “Neither do I. But I had one to be safe.”

  He didn’t
know what to say.

  “You really should, you know,” she said.

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Will you, then? For me?”

  “All right. Yes.”

  “Good. Oh, that’s good.” She smiled close to his mouth. Hers was very red, very wet. “What about other tests, Jim?”

  “Other … I don’t know what you mean.”

  “A fertility test. Have you had one of those?”

  “No.”

  “Well, we can talk about that later. Tonight … tonight we’ll just be careful and enjoy ourselves. You have a condom?”

  “No.”

  “No problem. I have some. But I like it better without, don’t you? So much nicer that way.” She smiled again, sloe-eyed now, and when she stood up among the mobiles her red curls seemed to become a misshapen part of one of them. She still had hold of his hand; she tugged on it gently. “Come to bed, Jim,” she said.

  He understood the truth by then, with too sharp clarity. All the fire had died quickly and the attraction was being smothered under the ashes. He went with her anyway, in a gesture of bitter defiance. But it was a fool’s mistake. The defiance soon changed to shame, as he should have known it would. He didn’t stay long in her bed. Or in her cramped, surreal apartment. And when he left, both of them knew he would not be coming back.

  With Molene he was impotent.

  He couldn’t have sex with her because she didn’t look at him as a person or even as an instrument of pleasure. She didn’t see him at all.

  What she was after was a baby. Just that, a baby.

  He had been nothing more to her from the first than an adequate sperm donor.

  SATURDAY MORNING, half an hour past dawn, Messenger put on his sweats and an old pair of Reeboks and drove to Golden Gate Park. A couple of years ago he’d gotten into running on a regular basis—early mornings before work and on weekends. Twice he’d entered the twenty-six-mile Bay to Breakers endurance race, and the second year he’d actually finished near the head of the pack. But then his knees and the tendons in his legs began to weaken; he’d cut back, on advice from his doctor, then quit running altogether and settled for aerobics as a much less painful method of keeping himself in shape. He hadn’t been out on a run in six months now. Hadn’t felt the need until this morning.