Hard Rain

by Peter Abrahams

  “Oh,” said the man. “Mr. Mickey. Call me Mr. Mickey.”

  It was a name Pat had never mentioned. That left other possibilities. “Is it money you want?” Jessie said slowly. No reply. “Is that it?”

  “We can discuss that tonight.”

  An icy current raced through Jessie’s veins. “Have you got Kate? Is this some kind of ransom demand?”

  The man laughed, or rather, Jessie sensed, made patronizing sounds in the guise of laughter. “Of course not,” he said. “I have information I think you shall want, that’s all. But for reasons that will become perfectly clear, I should make it known to you in person. Okay?”

  Jessie didn’t know the answer. What sort of information could he have? Kate was in Vermont, but he hadn’t appeared to know that. “I don’t really know,” she said. “Is Kate safe? Is Pat still with her? Was he in an accident?”

  The man sighed. “Let me put it this way, Ms. Shapiro. I’m a private detective, working on another matter. I happened to stumble on something I think you’ll want to know.”

  “Are you selling it or giving it?”

  “I already suggested we discuss that at the proper time, Ms. Shapiro. See you at eight.” Click.

  Jessie slowly replaced the phone. Stapling notices around town was an invitation to crank callers. The man hadn’t offered one fact that couldn’t have been taken from the notice itself; he hadn’t offered any facts at all. On the other hand, he could have been much more insistent about the meeting, and he hadn’t sounded like a crank. He’d sounded like a Swedish art historian she’d met at Philip’s.

  Jessie looked under detective agencies in the L.A. yellow pages. There was no listing between Michaelson and Mitchum. She tried Santa Monica, West L.A. and Valley listings. No Mr. Mickey. That didn’t mean he wasn’t who he said he was. DeMarco might know. Jessie looked up his number, and dialed it. Someone picked up the phone at the other end. Children were crying. A woman screamed, “You’ve ruined my life.” A man yelled back, raw and uncontrolled, but it was DeMarco. The woman said, “Hello?”

  Jessie hung up.

  At 7:45 Jessie picked up her suitcase. On her way out of the house, she passed the “My Mom” poem on the fridge door. She took it off, folded it carefully and slipped it in the pocket of her jeans. Then she put the suitcase in the trunk of the car and drove down to the pier, parking on a side street. The sun had set; the sodium moon had risen, but fog was rolling in, dulling its glow and spreading an orange sfumato through the night, reminding her of “Valley Nocturne.” A strange light, and not much of it, but enough to see Mr. Mickey. What could be lost by having a look at him, hearing what he had to say, before she drove to the airport? It might make her better equipped to deal with Pat.

  Jessie walked down the pier. On a summer evening, and maybe even a few hours earlier, it would have been crowded with tourists, high school kids, beachers, dope smokers, beer drinkers. Now all the concessions were closed—the hot dog stand, the T-shirt place, the bumper cars, the merry-go-round—and everyone gone. Only smells remained: grease, onion, motor oil, urine, and, from below, the sea.

  Jessie came to the end of the pier. She almost missed the man sitting there, his feet dangling in the air, his back to a trash can. He wore a straw hat with a frayed brim and held a fishing rod loosely in his hands. “Mr. Mickey?” Jessie said.

  “No hablo inglés.” The man didn’t look up.

  She walked back. The thickening fog closed around her, damp and cold. A foghorn sounded, somewhere at sea. Up the coast, another answered. Jessie began to worry about whether planes would be flying. She quickened her stride.

  As she passed the merry-go-round, a shadow separated itself from the other shadows. “Ms. Shapiro?” a man said.

  “Oh. You scared me. Mr. Mickey?”

  “I’m forever doing so.” Up close the man still spoke with the very faint accent she couldn’t place.

  Mr. Mickey came a little closer. Jessie saw he was taller than he had seemed; his perfect proportions disguised his height. He was huge. She fought an urge to back away.

  “What do you know about my daughter?”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss this matter myself.”

  Jessie backed away. “What does that mean?”

  “I have a … supervisor. He will answer your questions.”

  Jessie looked around and saw nothing but the carousel, shrouded in fog.

  “I’m here to take you to him,” Mr. Mickey said. “But first there are a few preliminaries.”

  “Preliminaries?”

  “Formalities.” The man held out his hand. “Your ID, please.”

  “What for?”

  “Procedure.”

  “You already know who I am. You called me by name.”

  “We need proof.”

  “Who else would I be, for Christ’s sake.”

  He withdrew his hand. “Very well, then. I’m afraid there’s no more to say.”

  Jessie stood where she was. The man’s face, in the dim orange light, remained indistinct; she had an impression of high cheekbones, fair skin, fair hair, but no impression at all of what was on his mind. “How do I know you have anything to tell me about Kate? Everything I do know makes it seem unlikely.”

  “How is that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what is it you know that makes our knowing unlikely?”

  Without understanding exactly why—maybe it was his size, or the smell of the sea from below, or just the fog—Jessie avoided his question. Perhaps it was its very precision that scared her off. “You’re supposed to be the one with the information,” she said.

  Orange light glinted off the man’s teeth. Was he smiling? “I find your attitude very strange,” he said. “We are trying to help you.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t that what you expected people would do when you put up the posters?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps that’s true. Nevertheless, it’s happened. We have information concerning the whereabouts of your daughter. You, on the other hand, may have information, unsuspected I’m sure, about a case we’re working on. We propose a simple exchange.”

  “Then you know where Kate is.”

  “That is for my supervisor to say.”

  “Why this secrecy?”

  “It has nothing to do with you. The other matter is rather delicate.”

  “But I don’t know what it could be. What kind of information do you want?”

  The man held out his hand again. “First, please,” he said, “your ID.”

  “Is it a drug case? Is Pat in some kind of trouble?”

  Mr. Mickey sighed. “Do you want your daughter back, Ms. Shapiro?”

  Jessie took out her wallet and handed him her driver’s license.

  Mr. Mickey shone a pencil flashlight on it. Jessie got a good look at him. He had high cheekbones, all right; they threw shadows almost into his eyes, but not quite. The eyes were clear blue, pale as the farthest sky in a Venetian painting; the hair platinum blond, lit with orange from the fog. He combined all the colors of “Valley Nocturne” and added the extra something that would have made the painting disquieting.

  “Thank you.” He gave back her license and switched off the light. His features slipped back into the fog.

  “I looked you up in the yellow pages,” Jessie said. “You’re not there.”

  “The agency is not in my name.”

  “What name is it in?”

  “My supervisor prefers to make his own introductions.” Mr. Mickey took out a notebook.

  “Are you from Scandinavia?”

  “No,” he said; annoyance edged into his tone. “Hermosa Beach.” He flipped through the pages. “I must clarify a few details before we proceed. First: did you see anything unusual when you were in Pat Rodney’s house, subsequent to the disappearance?”

  “What makes you think I’ve been in the house?” The image of the real estate man standing outside Pat’s
house flashed through her mind. “This isn’t all part of some real estate deal, is it?”

  Mr. Mickey laughed. “That’s very funny. But please, Ms. Shapiro, don’t play at detective. That’s our job. Just answer the question.”

  “But I have a right—”

  “Ms. Shapiro.” Mr. Mickey’s voice rose a little; his accent thickened. “You act as if there were lots of time for talk. Let me inform you that in disappearance cases, time is the crucial factor. Try to understand that a crime has been committed, a crime, not directed at you or your daughter, but which has affected you all the same. I believe that my supervisor is prepared to put you in possession of the facts, if only you will cooperate in this simple interview.”

  “Was this crime directed at Pat? Or by him?”

  “Neither. We’re not interested in him. We’re interested in recovering a sum of money. That’s all. There. You have it. Now you know all.”

  Jessie let out her breath. “Okay,” she said. “There was strange writing on the blackboard in Pat’s kitchen. Is that what you’re after?”

  “Strange?”

  “Foreign. It had been erased, but I was able to restore it, enough to read, anyway.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I haven’t been able to translate it. The words were ‘Toi giet la toi.’ We thought it was French, at first, but it’s not.”

  “We?”

  “Me and some friends.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Mr. Mickey was silent. The sea made sucking sounds round the pilings below. “I suppose not,” Mr. Mickey said at last, “given the nature of the message.”

  “Why? Do you know what it means?”

  “Yes. It’s a saying. Freely translated, it means something like ‘Make hay while the sun shines.’”

  “In what language?”

  “Arabic. It’s a common saying in the Arab world.”

  “But it wasn’t written in Arabic.”

  “It’s the phonetic equivalent,” Mr. Mickey said impatiently. “Does Pat Rodney have any Arab friends?”

  “Not that I know of. Why do you know Arabic?”

  “What an American question,” Mr. Mickey replied. “I’ve worked in the oil business. There’s an American answer.” He turned a page in his notebook. Jessie wondered why Mr. Mickey had needed a light to read her license but wasn’t using it now and why anyone would write “Make hay while the sun shines” on Pat’s blackboard. Mr. Mickey looked up. “Did you see anything else unusual in the house?”

  “Not exactly. But I heard a portion of a message on his answering machine. Later, when I went to listen again, the tape had been wiped.”

  “Do you remember what it said?”

  “It was a woman. She seemed to be warning Pat of some danger, telling him to get away.”

  “Away where?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Would you recognize her voice if you heard it again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mr. Mickey closed the notebook and put it in his pocket. “I think we’re ready for my supervisor.”

  “Where is he?”

  “This way.” Mr. Mickey led her off the pier, but instead of heading toward the street, he turned down the staircase that led to the beach.

  “Where are we going?” Jessie asked.

  “To see him.”

  But Jessie saw no one on the beach. That didn’t mean there was nothing to see: a dark shape bobbed on the water, a few yards offshore. Mr. Mickey blinked his flash at it. Jessie heard an engine, muffled by the fog; the dark shape edged closer to the beach. “Is he on the boat?” Jessie asked.

  “No, But we’ll get to him faster this way.” He didn’t repeat that time was the crucial factor in disappearance cases. He’d made the point.

  The sand slid under a ruffle of foam. Cold seawater lapped at Jessie’s feet. From where she stood, she could see that the boat was a large cabin cruiser; a dark figure stood high above on the tuna tower, hands on the controls.

  “I haven’t got much time,” Jessie said.

  “No? We’re ten minutes away.” Mr. Mickey waded in. It was worth ten minutes. Jessie followed.

  Mr. Mickey turned to her. “Here,” he said.

  “No.”

  But he picked her up anyway, as easily as a sack of laundry, and lifted her onto the deck. Maybe he thought he was being gallant; maybe he was just demonstating their relative strength. Jessie hated it.

  Mr. Mickey climbed in after her. He glanced up at the figure on the tuna tower, a man, Jessie now saw, wearing a straw hat with a torn brim. Had the boat been tied under the end of the pier? She was still scanning her memory when Mr. Mickey said, “Andale.” The word stiffened on his tongue.

  The bow swung slowly around. Then the boat surged forward with a roar of power. Jessie was knocked down. She lost her breath. Lying on the deck she felt the strength of the engines. It scared her.

  Mr. Mickey helped her up, half-dragged her to a fishing seat in the stern. He yelled something in her face. It might have been an apology. She couldn’t hear over the engine noise. Mr. Mickey yelled again.

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  He made drinking motions.

  “No,” Jessie shouted at him. “Nothing.”

  Mr. Mickey smiled and made more drinking motions. He turned and went into the cabin. A column of yellow light poked out of the doorway for a moment. Jessie glimpsed a wall full of electronic equipment, lit with a swinging Tiffany lamp, before the door closed. A television had been on. John Wayne was manhandling a saloonful of greasy customers. Even with all of MGM’s help, he didn’t look quite as powerful as Mr. Mickey.

  Jessie’s eyes readjusted to the darkness. The boat flew through the fog on a boiling white V. She’d never been on such a fast boat. L.A. had already vanished in an orange cocoon.

  A hand touched her shoulder. Mr. Mickey. He set down two crystal snifters and a bottle on the table between the two fishing chairs. Armagnac. Le Comte de Quelque-Chose. Mr. Mickey poured, held out a glass to Jessie. The smell of the Armagnac rose up, a good smell. She drank. Mr. Mickey smiled and, leaving the bottle where it was, took his own drink inside.

  The Armagnac began to drive the chill out of Jessie’s body. She took another sip and another. Stop it, she told herself. She had a long night ahead. Mr. Mickey’s supervisor. The plane to Boston. She looked at her watch. Only 8:45. Plenty of time: must be almost there. What direction were they headed? She’d be able to tell better from the bow.

  Jessie rose. Her legs felt weak. She took a few steps toward the bow. The orange cocoon lay on the right side: they were heading north. Above she saw the man in the torn straw hat, his bare feet planted on the platform.

  She turned and went back to her chair. On the way she noticed a life ring hanging from the gunwale. Something was written on it in block letters. She went closer—it took a long time—and read the word: Ratty.

  Was that the name of the boat? Jessie made the long journey to the stern. Holding tight to the rail, she leaned over, her head directly above the point of the boiling V, throbbing with the noise of the engines. There was nothing written on the stern. She touched the point where a name should have been. It felt sticky.

  Jessie stood up. She felt dizzy. Seasick? No, just dizzy. She moved toward the fishing chair, but so slowly. Dizzy. And sleepy, too. A sudden, irresistible sleepiness was metastasizing through her body, up to her brain. “Oh, God,” she said.

  Jessie didn’t quite reach the chair. The boat dipped over a swell, making her lose her balance and fall over the table, knocking the bottle of Armagnac and the crystal snifter to the deck. Jessie went down too. She lay in a puddle of Armagnac, feeling the sharpness of the broken glass against her skin and the power of the big engines, down below.

  14

  Thursday night was Bela’s night. That meant slivovitz in thimble glasses, the “Opera Box” on the radio and Bela saying things like, “This is a
pansy country, Ivan. It always was; I just didn’t see it at first.” Then he’d lean forward in his armchair, the way he was doing now, a little man who’d once been built like a pit bull, with stubby legs and a barrel chest; now all that remained was the fighting instinct.

  “Do you mean sexually?” Zyzmchuk asked. “Homosexuality exists in the old country, too, Bela.”

  Bela knocked that argument aside with the flat of his hand. “I don’t mean that,” he told Zyzmchuk, who knew it already; he’d just been hoping to sidetrack the old man. “Not just that, anyway. I’m talking about the whole mentality. Macho!” he snorted. “Bankers with manicures! Politicians with dyed hair! Pleaders, beggars, whiners. They call that macho. I’ll tell you what macho is, Ivan. Macho is pansy. It has to be, right? It’s Latin. Latins can’t fight. Everybody knows that. You know who can fight, Ivan?”

  “Who?”

  “And I’m not talking about the Koreans, the Japs, the fucking Russians. You know who can really fight?”

  “Who, Bela?”

  “The Brits. I don’t mean the little Lord Pansies. I mean the lower-class Brits.”

  “The ones who riot at soccer games?”

  Bela’s eyes hardened; his jaws snapped shut. Björling was on the radio. Dein ist mein ganzes Herz. Not Zyzmchuk’s kind of thing, but definitely the old man’s. His eyes misted over, all anger gone. His hand reached for slivovitz, poured it into his mouth. The sweet voice filled the room. Bela had excellent sound: a CD from Nakamichi, Acoustic Research speakers that could handle two hundred watts, an amplifier that could provide them. Was that pansy too?

  Zyzmchuk kept that thought to himself. Björling came to the last big note and blew it effortlessly away. Björling had always been a big favorite in Bela’s family. Zyzmchuk remembered the chipped Blaupunkt, stolen from the Germans, that had sat on a kitchen table, long ago. The radio was gone, the house was gone, the family was gone, the country, in a sense, was gone too; but Björling was as good as ever, maybe better, on Bela’s sound system.

  Bela drained his glass but didn’t let it go, cradling it in his hard hands. When he spoke again, his voice was much softer. “You know why the Brits, the lower-class Brits, are such great fighters?”