Nightcrawlers nd-30

by Bill Pronzini

  “Good idea.” I gave him the address. “If she shows or checks in meanwhile, I’ll call your cell. If you don’t hear from me, go ahead out there.”

  Too much on my mind. And too quiet in the office with Runyon gone and Tamara absent. I couldn’t seem to concentrate on my work; my mind kept skipping around helter-skelter.

  Dancer, Cybil. Remember D-Day. Amazing grace. That bulky envelope. Kerry’s odd behavior. Cybil’s reticence. Secrets. But what kind?

  Dancer had made any number of passes at her and once tried to talk her into divorcing Ivan the Terrible and marrying him, back around 1950; but she’d had very little to do with him after the war, and no contact at all since the pulp convention fiasco. Kerry had disliked him for his crude ways and his open hunger for her mother. Old Ivan had actively hated him for those reasons and because he’d considered Dancer a worthless hack. During the war, while Ivan was an army liaison officer stationed in Washington, loneliness and the Pulpeteers’ freewheeling lifestyle had led Cybil into an affair with Frank Colodny, editor of Midnight Detective. Bad choice: Colodny had been a blackmailer and a thief, among other things-sins that many years later had gotten him murdered. But neither Dancer nor Cybil had had anything to do with his death at the pulp convention, even though Dancer had been arrested for it. And when pressed, she’d been candid about the affair. She’d also told me she had had plenty of other offers and turned them all down; she loved Ivan and she wasn’t promiscuous. And I believed her.

  No buried secrets in any of that, as far as I could see.

  But there had to be something pretty disturbing either in her past relationship with Dancer or that Dancer knew about to upset her this way. Something that Kerry also either knew about or suspected. The contents of the envelope felt like a manuscript, book length or close to it. A novel or nonfiction work he’d written for or about Cybil, and wanted her to have as a love offering-or maybe hate offering-from the grave? Dancer had had his sentimental side, and he could also be mean-spirited and cruel; he was perfectly capable of concocting one type or the other. But I couldn’t imagine anything fact or fiction that would rattle her after so many years. Or what D-Day had to do with it. Or what amazing grace might signify.

  I kept telling myself to quit picking at it and forget about it, it was none of my business anyway. Fat chance. It was my business. Cybil and Kerry were family and Dancer had put me in the middle of it and it was having a none too pleasing effect on my marriage. Besides which, I don’t like secrets and I chafe at puzzles I can’t solve.

  One way or another, I was going to dig out some idea of what this was all about.

  Noon came and went.

  No Tamara.

  The more time that passed without word, the more edgy and restless it made me. Every time the phone rang I jumped at it. Routine business, until Jake Runyon’s voice came over the wire at a quarter to one.

  “She’s not at her apartment,” he said. “I talked to a couple of the neighbors. Nobody’s seen her in the past twenty-four hours.”

  “What about her car… her boyfriend’s car? Red Toyota…”

  “I remember. No sign of it in the neighborhood.”

  “I don’t like this. I’m starting to get bad vibes here, Jake.”

  “I hear you. Want me to take a run over to San Leandro, check out that surveillance address?”

  “I’ll do it. You’ve got other business.”

  “Nothing that won’t keep.”

  “What about the gay bashings? How’s that going?”

  “Making progress.”

  “Line on the perps?”

  “No IDs yet, but it turns out they’re not picking at random-the victims were sexually involved with a seventeen-year-old kid named Troy.”

  “All three victims?”

  “All three.”

  Including his son’s partner. But I didn’t say it and neither did he. All I said was, “Hell of a hard row to hoe sometimes, being a father. Particularly for men like us.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “You have more work you can do on the investigation-now, I mean?”

  “It can wait until I’m on my own time.”

  “The hell with that,” I said. “Go ahead and get on it. I’ll let you know if there’s any news about Tamara.”

  The trip to the East Bay was a waste of nearly two hours.

  The San Leandro neighborhood Tamara had been staking out was lower middle class and early-afternoon quiet. There was no sign of Horace’s red Toyota on the 1100 block of Willard Street, or anywhere else on Willard or within a four-block radius. I parked in front of number 1122, the house where deadbeat George DeBrissac might or might not be hiding out, and went and rang the bell and got no answer.

  Start ringing other doorbells? Bad time for it. Most of the residents were away at work or out shopping; Tamara had been here after dark, so anybody who might’ve seen her might not be home until after dark. Better to wait until tonight, if it came down to that.

  So I drove back to the city and South Park. It was just three o’clock when I got off the elevator in front of the new offices.

  Still no Tamara, still no word from her.

  Time, past time, to start making some calls. I decided on a compromise where her family was concerned. If there was a serious problem and her family knew about it, I was pretty sure somebody would have let me know by now. And I didn’t want to sound an alarm to them yet. Her father was a Redwood City cop, overprotective and none too keen about her choice of profession, even less so after that close call last Christmas; they had a prickly relationship, and he and I had never been more than civil to each other. He’d be in my face from the get-go. And if it turned out the absence had a simple explanation, I’d have Tamara’s disapproval to deal with as well.

  So I made my first call to her sister Claudia, a lawyer with the public defender’s office. Tamara was out somewhere, I said, and I was trying to locate her. Had Claudia heard from her today? No, Claudia hadn’t. Like her sister, she was a sharp young woman; there must have been something in my voice that she picked up on, because she asked immediately if anything was wrong. I gave her an evasive answer and got off the phone by pretending I had another call.

  We had an office Rolodex file of names and addresses that included some personal contacts, among them Tamara’s closest friends. Lucille Cranston hadn’t spoken to her in several days. I couldn’t get hold of Deanne Cotter. The third call, to Vonda McGee at the Design Center, produced some results.

  “Well, yeah,” Vonda said, “I talked to her last night.”

  “In person or on the phone?”

  “Phone.”

  “She call you or you call her?”

  “I did, on her cell.”

  “What time?”

  “I think… around eight or so.”

  “Where was she? San Leandro?”

  “Didn’t say. We only talked for a couple of minutes. She kind of blew me off.”

  “Is that right? Why?”

  “Said she couldn’t talk, she was on a job. She sounded a little weird. Off the hook.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “Like she was messed about something.”

  Young people and their slang. “Upset? Scared?”

  “Not scared. Just sort of heavy-duty stoked.”

  “Does that mean excited?”

  “Yeah. Not all there, you know? Off the hook.”

  “Distracted. Tensed up.”

  “Right.”

  “What was bothering her, she give you any idea?”

  “No. Well, she said something about dealing with a half-and-half, same as I am.”

  “Half-and-half?”

  “Half black, half white,” Vonda said. “See, I’m dating this guy, a white guy who’s also Jewish, and he’s getting serious, he wants to meet my people and they’re not too cool about the mixed-race thing. So I called Tam to-”

  “Did she give you a name, say anything at all about this half-and-half?”
/>   “Just that she was dealing with him.”

  “Him. A man.”

  “I guess so. That’s the impression I got.”

  “Somebody she met and was attracted to?”

  “No, not like that. Horace is her man, only man she wants.”

  “Some guy who hit on her, kept bugging her?”

  “Uh-uh. Didn’t sound like that either. She’d’ve said if it was a sex thing.”

  “What do you think she meant by ‘dealing with him’?”

  “No idea,” Vonda said.

  “Did it sound like an immediate thing-a situation she had to deal with then and there, wherever she was?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s all she said. Well, except that race doesn’t always have to be an issue. Be nice if that was true. Then she said she’d call me later, we’d talk then, and cut me off.”

  “But she didn’t call you back.”

  “Uh-uh. Not last night, not today. Funny-when Tamara says she’s gonna do something, she always does it. You know?”

  “I know,” I said.

  “How come you asking me all these questions anyway? I mean, why don’t you just ask Tam?”

  “She’s been out of the office all day. I’m trying to find her.”

  “… Nothing wrong, is there? I mean-”

  I said, “I hope not, Vonda. Thanks for your help,” and rang off.

  I went and got the DeBrissac file again. As I remembered, he was down in there as a “male Caucasian.” To make sure, I put in a call to the Ballard Agency in Portland. They verified it: George DeBrissac was Caucasian, his ex-wife was Caucasian, and that made it pretty likely the cousin who owned the San Leandro house was Caucasian.

  So was this half-and-half part of the “something that went down” on Monday night that’d bothered her enough to do some checking? What had she meant by “dealing with him”?

  And the big question: Did he have anything to do with her sudden disappearance?

  15

  JAKE RUNYON

  Paul Venner, Troy’s lover who worked in the Castro leather shop, wouldn’t talk to him. Venner was in his twenties, had orange spiked hair and a tattoo of a scorpion under his right ear and a muscled body encased in black leather pants and an orange T-shirt with the words QUEER POWER emblazoned on the front; he wore his hostility toward both heterosexuals and cops like another motto on the sleeve. He stonewalled every question Runyon put to him by saying aggressively, “No comment. Buy something or get out, you don’t belong here” or “Hey, you’d look good in cowhide and chains” or “How about a fur-lined jock strap, they’re on sale this week.” Runyon didn’t bite on any of it. Nothing ever showed on his face unless he wanted it to, and he showed Venner nothing but a flat stare the entire five minutes he was in there. When he said, “You’d better watch yourself, kid, or you’ll end up in the hospital like the other three victims,” and got another smart-ass comment in return, he walked out. The Paul Venners of the world, the hard-line haters, the self-involved screw-everybody-else jerks gay or straight, deserved whatever they got.

  Another visit to Jerry Butterfield’s house-a refurbished post-1906 earthquake cottage with an add-on garage-also bought him nothing. Still nobody home. On the back of one of his agency business cards he wrote his cell-phone number and a brief call-me-it’s-important message, and wedged the card into the doorjamb above the lock. If he didn’t hear from Butterfield by seven or eight tonight, he’d follow up again himself.

  Next stop: Hattie Street.

  Keith Morgan was fifty or so, heavyset, sad-eyed. Lines and wrinkles calipered a small mouth, scored his cheeks and neck; even his head beneath a sparse combing of brown hair showed faint furrows. His first-floor studio apartment in the big, blue Victorian was dominated by framed photographs of a thin bearded man alone and in candid shots with Morgan, and prints and lithographs of dogs of one kind and another. A live dog, old and shaggy, of indeterminate breed, followed its master everywhere and never left him alone; it showed no interest in Runyon. Cataracts made its eyes look like blobs of milky glass.

  Morgan had no problem with Runyon being straight or a detective. He listened to a brief explanation for the visit, nodded, showed him into the apartment, turned off a TV tuned to a noisy talk show, offered him something to drink, and then sat in a creaky recliner with the blind animal at his feet. The room smelled of dog and some kind of food with a lot of curry powder in it.

  “Troy,” he said. “Well, I guess I’m not surprised he’s the cause of trouble.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Morgan?”

  “Wild young fool. The kind with no sense. Won’t listen to anybody, think nothing bad will ever happen to them and they’ll live forever.”

  “Promiscuous, I’ve been told.”

  “Lord, yes. He had a parade of lovers in and out.” Wry mouth. “He even propositioned me right after he moved in’offered to trade sex for his rent. I refused, of course. I would have even if I owned the building.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m HIV positive,” Morgan said.

  “I see. Recent diagnosis?”

  “No, I was diagnosed more than ten years ago. Amazing the disease hasn’t killed me by now. My partner wasn’t so lucky. He died nine years ago. Probably infected by me, though that’s not certain.”

  Runyon said, “I’m sorry,” and meant it.

  “So am I. But you learn to live with it. Learn to live without sex, too. I gave that up when Dave died.” His lips moved, shaped something that might have been a ghost of a smile. “I felt it was the least I could do to honor his memory.”

  “Did you tell Troy you were HIV positive?”

  “I did, and he still offered me safe sex. See what I mean by wild young fool?”

  “He moved out two weeks ago, is that right?”

  “He vacated his room two weeks ago, yes.”

  “Why the distinction?”

  “He didn’t move voluntarily. I kicked him out.”

  “For what reason?”

  Morgan sighed heavily. At the sound, the blind dog raised its head and keened the air; when the sound wasn’t repeated, the shaggy head went down again on stretched-out forepaws.

  “I found out he was underage,” Morgan said. “Troy looks much older, but he’s only seventeen.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “From his brother.”

  Runyon said, “Brother?”

  “That’s right. You didn’t know he had a family?”

  “I don’t know much about him at all. What’s the brother’s name?”

  “He didn’t say, but when I confronted Troy, he called him Tommy. He showed up here one day looking for Troy. He… well, he was belligerent and abusive.”

  “Homophobic?”

  “Probably. No, definitely. He called my home a ‘fag house.’ Why did I let an underage kid live in this ‘fag house,’ he said.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “There’s a resemblance to Troy, but he’s darker, not as good-looking. In his early twenties.”

  “Tall, slender?”

  “That’s right.” Morgan frowned, ran the tips of his fingers across his lower lip. “You seem to know him. I take it you think he’s one of the men responsible for the assaults.”

  “Pretty good chance of it.”

  “I’m not surprised. Belligerent, abusive, homophobic, and not very bright-a lethal combination. His brother is underage and gay, so he’s taking out his anger and hatred on Troy’s lovers.”

  “Beginning to look that way.”

  “Sick, senseless.”

  “Most acts of violence are.”

  “Do you think I’m in any danger?”

  The question was matter-of-fact, more one of curiosity than fear. The right answer was yes, anybody in the gay community who’d had anything to do with Troy was a potential victim. Runyon gave him the other answer, the one designed to reassure.

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Morgan. Tommy and his buddy aren’t going to be run
ning around loose much longer.”

  Morgan nodded. Maybe he believed it, maybe he didn’t.

  “Was Tommy by himself when he was here?” Runyon asked.

  “I didn’t see anyone else.”

  “You happen to notice what kind of vehicle he was driving?”

  “I’m sorry, no, I didn’t.”

  “Was Troy home at the time?”

  “No, and a good thing he wasn’t. As angry as Tommy was, there’d have been a scene.”

  “He just went away? Tommy, I mean.”

  “Not before he said he’d ‘fix me’ if I let Troy keep on living here. ‘Tell him to get his ass back home fast or I’ll come and drag it back.’ His exact words. I don’t like threats, but letting rooms in this building is my responsibility. I can’t afford to lose my manager’s position, or this apartment.”

  “So you gave Troy his walking papers that same day?”

  “As soon as he came home. Once I verified his age, I had the legal right.”

  “How did you verify it?”

  The blind dog, asleep now, let out a long, low groaning sound and one of its back paws began a spasmodic twitching. Morgan looked down at the animal, and his sad eyes grew even sadder. “Poor old Doc,” he said. “He’s sixteen, he has arthritis and half a dozen other ailments. I’m going to have to put him down soon.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I hate the thought of it,” Morgan said. “He’s all I’ve had since Dave died. I don’t know how I’m going to get along without him.”

  “You could get another dog.”

  “Yes. I could. I suppose it’s better than being alone.”

  For him it was. For Runyon, being alone was better than trying to replace the irreplaceable. He said, “About Troy. You were going to tell me how you verified his age.”

  “Well… I probably shouldn’t admit to this,” Morgan said, “but after the brother left I was so upset I used my passkey to get into Troy’s room. I don’t make a habit of that sort of thing-I believe in everyone’s right to privacy-but under the circumstances… well, I felt justified.”

  “And you found what?”