Scattershot nd-8

by Bill Pronzini

  “What? From who?”

  “The Hornback woman’s lawyer, for one. A couple of others with some clout. The lady has a few friends around town, it seems.”

  “Jesus Christ, Eb …”

  “They’re clamoring for a suspension,” he said, “at least until the suit comes to trial.”

  “You’re not seriously considering that-”

  “I’m not, but then I’m not the Chief and I’m not on the State Board of Licenses.”

  “But my record is clean, damn it!”

  “That’s the big factor on your side,” he said. “It might be enough to let you keep your ticket. Then again, it might not be. We’ll just have to see which way the wind blows in the next few days.”

  “And what are you doing, meanwhile?” I asked angrily. “You’re supposed to be a friend. Why the hell didn’t you put in a word on my behalf?”

  “Maybe I did.”

  “Sure. I’ll bet. What about your investigation? Haven’t you turned up anything in Hornback’s background?”

  “Not so far,” he said. “He played it pretty close to the vest. Not even a whisper of a girl friend. No secret bank accounts or safe deposit boxes or large investments. The auditor Mrs. Hornback’s got going over the firm’s books claims to be able to prove shortages amounting to a hundred and eighteen thousand dollars, so it looks like she was right about that part of it. But that doesn’t do you any good, does it?”

  “Crap,” I said. Which summed up everything I was feeling at the moment.

  “You’ll hear from me if anything comes up, hotshot,” he said. “One way or another.”

  And that was the end of that.

  The eased frame of mind Kerry’s call had put me in was gone; a moody anger, laced with indignation, had hold of me now. I could not afford to have my license suspended. If that happened I would be out of business, twenty years of struggle and hard work down the drain. And then what the hell would I do? I was fifty-three years old; I had never been anything in my adult life except a cop; I was not qualified to do anything else. Get a job as a dishwasher or a ditchdigger or a delivery boy? Jesus. But I’d have to get some kind of job, because my meager savings wouldn’t last me more than a couple of months. Either that, or start selling off my collection of pulp magazines …

  No, I thought. Damn it, no. They’re not going to pull my license; it won’t happen. They’ve got no right to do a thing like that, no goddamn right!

  I needed to get out of there, before I started breaking things. The one thing I wanted to break most was Mrs. Hornback’s head, and that was a dangerous thought. I locked up the office and stalked to my car and drove home like a maniac, cursing other drivers, taking out some of my rage on them. There were no parking spaces near my flat; I put the car into a bus zone, the hell with it. When I came out later and found another ticket on the windshield I would tear it up and scatter the pieces. The hell with the city, too.

  Inside my flat I popped a Schlitz and drank it in two swallows. Then I opened another one and went in and took a shower. The beer and the hot water washed away the last of my anger, leaving only the moodiness. Some day. Some frigging day.

  And it got worse, too. I was just coming out of the bathroom, wearing my old terrycloth robe, when somebody knocked on the front door. I thought it was probably one of the other tenants, since visitors have to be buzzed in at the building entrance downstairs. My friend Litchak, the retired fire inspector who lived on the ground floor-maybe that was who it was. He was always after me to play checkers with him.

  I went out and unlocked the door. But it wasn’t Litchak; it wasn’t anybody I expected or cared to see.

  It was old Ivan the Terrible.

  TWELVE

  We stood there looking at each other. Ivan Wade was in his early sixties and so damned distinguished-looking he made me feel sloppy and rumpled, particularly now in my old terrycloth robe; he had brown hair and a neat black mustache- the contrast was part of his distinguished appearance-and a reserved sort of face with all the features grouped in close to the center. The first time I’d met him, my impression of his eyes had been that they were gentle; looking at them now, I decided that what they really were was cold. He wore a camel’s-hair overcoat, a gray silk suit, and a perfectly knotted tie with a gold clip.

  A good ten seconds went by in silence. At the end of it he said, “Do you mind if I come in?” in a voice so stiff he could have used it to punch a hole in the wall.

  “I suppose not,” I said. Which was a lie. I didn’t want to talk to him, not now, all beleaguered and unprepared; I considered shutting the door in his handsome face. But then, maybe a confrontation with Wade wasn’t such a bad idea. It was bound to happen sooner or later; it might as well be now- get it over and done with. I opened the door wider and stood aside, and he came in.

  He had himself a look around. Dustballs under the furniture, clothing and magazines and dirty dishes strewn around-he didn’t like any of that; distaste flickered in his eyes. The shelves of pulp magazines didn’t seem to impress him much, either. Like his wife, Cybil, he had been a successful pulp writer back in the forties, specializing in fantasy/horror stories for Weird Tales, Dime Mystery, and other publications in the genre. But then he had gone on to radio scripting, the slick magazines, some TV work, and finally to novels and nonfiction books on occult and magic themes, — he had even become a pretty adept amateur magician. He no doubt considered the pulps as having been something of a literary ghetto. Which made me, as a collector and aficionado, the rough equivalent of a slum landlord in his view.

  He said, “You keep an untidy house.”

  “I like it that way. It’s comfortable.”

  “To each his own.”

  “That’s right. How did you get into the building? Pick the lock on the downstairs door?”

  “I don’t find that amusing,” he said in his hole-punching voice. “One of your neighbors was just leaving; I told him I was here to see you, and he let me come in.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, to what do I owe the honor? I thought you were off selling books in New York.”

  “I was. Until this morning. I decided to fly back via San Francisco so I could see Kerry.”

  “Did you?”

  “See her? Yes. I stopped by her office, and we had a drink together after she was through.”

  I could feel my fingers curling into fists; I straightened them out again. We were standing on my worn carpet, him near the couch, me near my favorite chair, with the cluttered coffee table off to one side like a barrier waiting to be slid into place. And we were going to keep on standing there that way. I was damned if I would ask him to sit down, or offer him any other form of hospitality.

  I said, “So then you decided to come see me. Does Kerry know you’re here?”

  “No. I didn’t tell her.”

  “That figures. All right, what do you want?”

  “I should think that would be obvious.”

  “Maybe. But suppose you tell me anyway.”

  “I read your morning paper while I was waiting for Kerry,” he said. “You’ve become notorious, it seems.”

  “That Hornback woman’s charges are a crock.”

  “Are they?”

  “You’re damned right they are. Kerry knows that; she must have told you the same thing.”

  “So she did.”

  “But you don’t believe it, right?”

  “I have an open mind,” Wade said, which was another crock. His mind was closed up as tight as a party politician’s. “But the fact remains, you’ve been publicly accused and you’re about to be sued for criminal negligence. You stand to lose your license, your apparent good name, and your livelihood.”

  “I’m not going to lose any of those things.”

  “Perhaps not. But the possibility does exist. And you must admit that no matter what happens, all this negative publicity will damage your professional status.”

  “I don’t admit that,” I said. “I don’t have to admit anyt
hing to you.”

  The ghost of a smile, cold and waspish, turned one corner of his mouth. “That’s standard procedure, isn’t it? The invoking of the Fifth Amendment?”

  I wanted to tell him to go screw himself. I wanted to stuff him into one of the drawers in the sideboard. Instead I jammed my hands into the pockets of my robe and glared at him.

  “Assume your reputation has been irreparably damaged,” he said. “Assume that whatever the legal outcome of this matter, you’re forced out of the investigating business. How will you earn a decent living?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”

  “Of course it is. You want to marry my daughter. If she agrees, you’ll not only become her burden but mine by extension.”

  “I don’t intend to become anyone’s burden!”

  “How would you hold up your end of the marriage contract? Or would you expect Kerry to support you?”

  “All right, Wade, that’s enough.” I came out hard and angry, like a threat. Maybe it was a threat. His icy control was starting to make me lose my own, — I’m an emotional man and I don’t react calmly to people like Ivan Wade. I could feel myself sliding into a dangerous frame of mind. “I don’t like your insinuations and I don’t much like you. What happens between Kerry and me is personal and private and I think you ought to stay the hell out of it.”

  “I have no intention of staying the hell out of it,” he said. “Kerry is my daughter; I have every right to concern myself with her personal life. She made a serious mistake before; I don’t want her to make another. I don’t want her hurt.”

  “Neither do I. If she gets hurt it’ll be on your head, not mine.”

  “Nonsense. You’re not going to marry her, my friend.”

  “I’m not your friend,” I said. “And I don’t give a damn what you think or what you want. All I care about is what Kerry wants.”

  “She doesn’t want you,” he said.

  “That’s for her to say.”

  “And she will.’”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I know so. She won’t marry you.”

  A sense of suspicion, as icy as Wade’s calm, began to slither through my mind. I could feel my face starting to flush, a vein pulsing on one temple. “You got to her, didn’t you? Over that goddamn drink tonight. You bastard, you finally got to her.”

  “I do not like to be called names.” “No? Bastard. Meddling son of a bitch.” His own face got dark, like clouds piling up. He said, “You’re coarse and boorish on top of everything else,” and for the first time there was hard emotion in his voice. “I can’t understand how Kerry could ever have been attracted to a man like you.”

  “I can’t understand how she could have been fathered by a man like you.” The clouds kept on piling up in his face. “My only consolation,” he said, “is that you’ll soon be out of both our lives. Very soon.” “Not if I have anything to say about it.” “But you don’t. I told you that.” “I’ll believe it when I hear it from Kerry.” “Then you’ll believe it tonight.” “Is that what she told you? That she was going to send me packing tonight?”

  “She didn’t have to tell me. I know my daughter.”

  “You don’t know your ass from your elbow.” “Crude,” he said. “God, you’re crude.” “That’s right. I’m crude and I’m coarse and boorish, and I’m a fat scruffy fifty-three-year-old private detective. And you’re a shit, Wade. You’re the biggest shit I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  “Damn you,’” he said. He had begun to shake. Which made two of us; I had been shaking for the past couple of minutes. “I believe those charges against you are true. I believe you’re capable of anything.”

  “You want to see what I’m capable of? Hang around here another minute.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I think I am.”

  “How dare you-”

  “Get out of here, Wade.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, you know.”

  I took a step toward him. “Get out of here,” I said. “Or I’ll throw you out. I’m not kidding.”

  He didn’t move for five or six seconds; his eyes cut away at me like knives. But he was only saving face. He could tell by the way I looked that I was dead serious about heaving him out on his ass, and he was not about to get into anything physical with me; I had too much size and weight on him, and too much anger. He wheeled around finally and stalked out. He was not a door slammer; he shut the door quietly behind him, as if he felt by doing that he was getting in the last word.

  I went into the kitchen and ripped the tab off a can of Schlitz and took the can into the living room and sat there drinking from it and shaking. It took a good five minutes for the shaking to stop and the anger inside me to ebb into a dull, hot glow. I quit thinking about Wade, but I couldn’t quit thinking about Kerry. Jesus, what if he had got to her? What if she was going to send me packing tonight? I didn’t know what I’d do, and that scared me. Too many things were happening in my life, too many pressures piling up; I just was not equipped to handle this kind of emotional overload.

  When I finished the beer I took another shower, a cold one this time. Then I shaved and got dressed. I was strapping on my watch when the telephone bell went off. Even before I answered it, I knew that it had to be Kerry.

  “I just talked to my father,” she said. She sounded upset and angry. “What did you do to him?”

  So the old bastard had gone right out and telephoned her. I should have known he’d do that; I should have called her myself, explained the flare-up to her before he could give her his own biased version of it.

  “I didn’t do anything to him,” I said. “What did he say I did?”

  “Called him vulgar names. Threatened him. For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you?”

  “What’s the matter with me? Listen, he showed up here uninvited and started in on me about the Hornback woman’s accusations. Then he said he’d seen you and you weren’t going to marry me. He seemed pretty damned positive.” =J|r “I didn’t tell him that.”

  “Then where did he get the idea?”

  “I don’t know. He shouldn’t have gone to see you, but that doesn’t excuse your behavior.”

  “Maybe not, but he made me mad. I’ve had a rough day, I don’t need that kind of aggravation.”

  “So you took it all out on him.”

  “No. It’s his fault, not mine. Why do you automatically take his side?”

  “He’s my father,” she said. “I don’t like you threatening him or calling him names.”

  “You should have heard what he said to me.” “Oh, God, I hate situations like this. Your side, his side-you’re both driving me crazy.”

  “Kerry, look, I’m sorry if you’re upset. But I’m upset, too. I don’t know where I stand with you, and that’s driving me crazy. Are you going to marry me or not?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure of what? That I don’t know yet?” She made an exasperated noise. “God!”

  “When will you know?”

  “I don’t know that either. I need time. Why won’t you accept that?”

  “Do you want me to shut up and go away for a while?”

  “I want you to shut up. Stop pressuring me.”

  “All right, I’ll shut up. But what about your father? Will he shut up?”

  “I can handle my father,” she said. “How many times do I have to tell you that? You just stay away from any more confrontations.”

  “Tell him the same thing,” I said. “He’s the one who came to see me, remember?”

  There was one of those silences.

  I said, “Kerry?”

  “I’m still here.”. “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t let it happen again.”

  “Good. You’d better not.”

  “Do I still get to come over and eat lasagna?”

  Pause. “I don’t feel much like cooking,” she said.r />
  “We could go out somewhere….”

  “I don’t think so. Not tonight.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “Maybe. Call me at work.”

  “Sure, Fine.”

  “Now you sound petulant.”

  “I’m not petulant. Just disappointed.”

  “Me too,” she said. “I’ll tell my father you apologize for the way you acted. And I’ll see to it that he apologizes to you, too.”

  Yippee, I thought. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Damn. Damn! I had been sitting on the bed; I got up and paced into the living room and looked out through the bay window. The fog was so thick that it turned the lights of the bay into indistinct smears in the distance. I moved over to the shelves of pulp magazines and looked at them for a while.

  Then I sat down and looked at the walls. I was beginning to feel claustrophobic.

  I don’t need this, I thought. I don’t need to mope around here all by myself, watching the walls close in. I ought to go out and get roaring drunk, that’s what I ought to do.

  The more I thought about that, the better I liked the idea. It had been a long time since I’d got roaring drunk; maybe that was just what I did need. So I grabbed my coat, said to hell with everything, and went off to drown my sorrows.

  I didn’t drown my sorrows and I didn’t get roaring drunk. I sat in a tavern on California Street, drank four beers, talked to nobody, developed a headache, and came home and went to bed cold sober.

  It was one of those days you couldn’t win for losing.

  THIRTEEN

  On Friday morning I got another jolt from the Fourth Estate. I bought a Chronicle on Drumm Street and took it into my office, and there, on page one this time, was a lousy photograph of my phiz that made me look mean and puffy, and a headline that said: PRIVATE EYE INVOLVED IN ANOTHER HOMICIDE.

  It was the Xanadu thing, of course. The local press had got wind of it, as I should have realized they would, and the reporter had made a big deal out of what he called my “private eye pyrotechnics.” The thrust of the piece was: Supercop or Shady Angle Player or some sort of Typhoid Mary who bungled into and out of disaster at every turn-which was I? The story was continued on the back page, where I found a second story, this one an account of yesterday’s press interview and including the complete text of my written denial of Edna Hornback’s charges. The reporter didn’t draw any conclusions in either case, but then he didn’t have to. All the sensationalism, and the l