The Other Side of Silence

by Bill Pronzini

  No, the hell with that. Geena’s knock on him: not aggressive enough, not a fighter anymore—a quitter. Besides, detectives were expensive and he didn’t have unlimited funds, and there were no guarantees a pro would be able to find out any more than he could. Ulbrich hadn’t found Spicer and the boy, had he?

  All right. Man up and use his head from now on.

  He rode the escalator to the second floor, where there were a steak restaurant—Old Billy’s Texas Grill—and a coffee shop. He sat in one of the coffee-shop booths, tried a new approach on the woman who waited on him.

  “I’m looking for a friend of mine. He might work here, might be a friend of one of the woman employees—I’m not sure which.” And then Banning’s description. Casual, offhand. No mention of the name Banning.

  Craps—a loser.

  After eight by the time he finished picking at a bad tuna salad. He tried the same line on the cashier while he paid his check, and when he went back down to the casino, on a different cocktail waitress.

  Craps again.

  THREE

  THE INTIME ROOM RESEMBLED an oversized 1930s nightclub laid out in a circular fashion, with the three bars and the stage forming an outer ring around an inner one of close-packed tables lit by blue lamps and a parqueted dance floor. Waiters in tuxedos circulated among the tables; even the bartenders were in soup-and-fish. New Orleans-style jazz music blasted from loudspeakers. Benny Amato and his Jazzbos were onstage, warming up for their opening set with riffs and trills and runs that you could hear when one of the recorded pieces ended. The place was packed, standing room only at the bars. Fallon’s choice of the rear bar had been the right one. It was the least jammed of the three because it was the farthest from the performers.

  He jostled his way to a position at one end. The stage was a long way off, but he had a clear enough look at the musicians. Mixed group—Latino, African-American, Caucasian. The piano man appeared to be the leader, Benny Amato. The rest were drums, bass, alto sax, tenor sax, trombone, cornet, and Eddie Sparrow on trumpet. Sparrow sat slumped on a stool, doing less noodling with his instrument than the others. He was even smaller in the flesh than he’d appeared in the group photo, maybe five and a half feet tall and a hundred and twenty pounds. He didn’t look as if he could blow a dozen riffs without losing his wind and keeling over.

  Fallon knew a little about jazz. Geena’s brother Stephen was a nut on it, had insisted on dragging them to jazz clubs and festivals in the L.A. area. He liked it well enough, in small doses—the bluesy, sweet-and-lowdown pieces more than the wailing, frantic arrangements. There wouldn’t be much of the former here tonight, he figured, but he was wrong. The Jazzbos mixed it up pretty well, up-tempo and down-tempo, classics and less well-known compositions and a few that were probably of their own devising.

  The first set was strictly Dixieland, which meant that they’d do swing, probably thirties-style New York or Kansas City, for the second set, and fusion—jazz elements mixed with pop, rock, folk, R&B—for the third. Their late-hour sets would be a mix of all three, with plenty of improv for the true aficionados who would rather linger here than head downstairs to the gaming tables.

  They had the usual repertoire of standards: “When the Saints Go Marching In,” “Saint James Infirmary,” “Basin Street Blues,” “Stompin’ at the Savoy,” “Take the A Train,” “Blues in the Night,” “Perdido,” “Gloomy Sunday.” Mixed in were vocals featuring the dark and slinky Helen Dupree: “Moanin’ Low,” “Jazz Me Blues,” “Skeleton Jangle.” Good group, all right, with Amato’s piano and Sparrow’s trumpet dominating the instrumentals. Despite his slightness, Sparrow seemed to have more energy and stamina than any of the others. Plenty of talent, too. His solos earned him enthusiastic applause.

  When the first set ended, Fallon watched the musicians file off. Some of them went backstage, while three others, Eddie Sparrow among them, moved out through the audience. It took Sparrow six or seven minutes of handshakes and brief conversations to make his way to the rear bar. When he got close, Fallon stepped out and went to meet him.

  “Eddie. Eddie Sparrow.”

  The little man focused on him, ran liquidy brown eyes over him. “You Rick?” he asked in a surprisingly husky voice.

  Noise and people swirled around them. Fallon had to stand close and lean down to hear and be heard. “That’s me. You blow a mean trumpet, Mr. Sparrow.”

  “Thirty years of lip, man. Jazz your business, too?”

  “Not like it’s yours. Buy you a drink?”

  “Never use it. Come on, we’ll talk out front. Too crowded in here.”

  Fallon followed him out and a short distance away from the entrance. When Sparrow stopped, he said, “Five minutes, that’s all I got for you.”

  “Five’s plenty.”

  “So why the note? What’s worth my while?”

  “Court Spicer. I’m trying to find him.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “I heard the two of you were friends, so I thought maybe—”

  “Friends, hell,” Sparrow said. “That dude don’t have any friends. You’re not one any more than I am. What you want with him?”

  “Personal business.”

  “Money business?”

  “Among other things. I’ll pay cash for his current address.”

  Sparrow laughed, showing three or four gold teeth. “If I knew it, you could have it for free.”

  “So you don’t know if he’s living in Vegas now?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Or if he is, where he might be playing?”

  Shrug. “Bound to be a joint, solo or with some crappy trio. Spicer’s strictly second-rate.”

  “You ever play a gig with him here?”

  “Never. Once, in San Diego, when I needed some quick cash. Once was enough.”

  “He played Vegas about three years ago. You wouldn’t have been here then, by any chance?”

  “Three years ago? Uh-uh. I was with the Jazzbos in L.A.”

  “Something went down around that time, something that brought Spicer some heavy cash. Any idea what it was?”

  “You mean a gambling score?”

  “Any kind of score.”

  “Not that I heard about. That cat’s mojo is strictly bad.”

  Fallon let it go. “I understand you saw him not too long ago.”

  “Yeah, I saw him. Jam over in Henderson last Sunday.”

  “Talk to him?”

  “No, man. He was leaving when I got there,” Sparrow said. “Did a fast fade when he saw me.”

  “Like he was trying to avoid you?”

  Shrug. “We never did have much to say to each other. And him and the dude he was with seemed to be in a hurry.”

  “What dude? You know him?”

  “Never saw him before.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Mean-looking, that’s all I remember.”

  “Dragon tattoo on his right wrist?”

  “Tattoo . . . yeah. Dragon breathing fire.”

  Banning.

  “You said this gig was in Henderson. Where, exactly?”

  “Some rich cat’s hacienda in the desert. He’s a buff. Throws regular jazz parties, pays high and handsome for the best improv talent. Must’ve been a hundred people at this one.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Rossi. Big wheel in one of the chemical outfits over there.”

  “You remember the address?”

  “No. Benny made the arrangements.”

  “Maybe you could ask him? It’s worth a hundred to me.”

  “Forget it, man. He knew I was out here talking to you, he wouldn’t like it. Besides, you don’t need an address. That hacienda’s all by itself on a hill, mesa, whatever they call ’em out here. Biggest place around, you can see it a mile off when it’s lit up at night.”

  “What part of the desert?”

  “East. Far enough out you can see the lake from up there.”

  “
Lake Mead?”

  Sparrow shrugged, then glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. “Five minutes are up.”

  “Pay you something for your time?”

  “Oh, five skins’ll do it.”

  “. . . Five hundred dollars?”

  “You said worth my while, right?” Sparrow laughed again, gave Fallon a broad wink. “Jerking your chain, man. You planning on giving Spicer a hard time when you find him?”

  “Yes. A hard time.”

  “Then you don’t owe me a thing.”

  * * *

  Late-night quiet at the Rest-a-While. Neon sign, office lights, scattered nightlights; everything else was shadows. Fallon shut off the Jeep’s lights as he rolled past the office; pale desert moonlight guided him into a space two doors down from number twenty. He lifted the pack off the floor where he’d stowed it, swung it onto his shoulder as he stepped out. He walked soft to the room door, paused to listen, then slid his hand down along the jamb below the lock.

  The piece of toilet paper was gone.

  He keyed the door open and shoved it inward, standing back to one side. Nothing happened. A thin trail of moonlight penetrated the darkness within, showing him a portion of the carpet and one corner of the rumpled bed. He stayed where he was for a minute, listening to unbroken stillness. Finally he moved forward, reached around the jamb, found the light switch and flicked it on.

  Empty. Come and gone, whoever the intruder was. Went away frustrated, likely, because Fallon hadn’t left anything of himself in the room.

  He dumped the pack on the bed and went right back out again, locking the door behind him. The office lights were on, but so was the night latch. A different clerk, in his sixties and gray-bearded, sat reading a paperback behind the desk. Fallon rang the night bell. The clerk stood up like a soldier coming to attention. He took his time walking over, peering warily at Fallon through the glass.

  “Help you, sir?”

  “I’m one of your guests.” Fallon waggled his room key to prove it. “Talk to you for a minute?”

  The clerk relaxed, shrugged, went back behind the counter and buzzed him in. “Problem with your room?”

  Fallon said, “No. Just wondering what time the day clerk comes on. Charley, isn’t it?”

  “No, his name’s Max.”

  “Now where did I get Charley from? Max, you said? Max what?”

  Brief hesitation before the clerk said, “Arbogast. You have some sort of problem with him?”

  “Not that type, is he? Hard to get along with?”

  “Everybody’s hard to get along with sometimes,” the night man said. His expression and the pitch of his voice indicated that he didn’t much like Max Arbogast.

  “Complaints about him from other guests?”

  “You want to make one, Mr.—?”

  “Spicer. Court Spicer.” The clerk didn’t react to the name. “No,” Fallon said, “I just need to talk to him about a friend of his, comes to the Rest-a-While sometimes—midthirties, heavyset, tattoo on the back of his right wrist, wears a cat’s-eye ring. You know him?”

  Again, no reaction. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “Max wouldn’t happen to live here, would he?”

  “Would you live here if you didn’t have to?”

  “When’ll he be in in the morning?”

  “He won’t. Tomorrow’s Sunday. One of his days off.”

  “Maybe I can catch him at home then. You know where he lives?”

  “Couldn’t tell you if I did. Rules.”

  “Sure. Rules.”

  There was one Arbogast listed in the phone directory. M. Arbogast, 1189 Ocotillo Street, North Las Vegas. The right one? He’d find out in the morning.

  The room had a cramped, airless feel and he slept restlessly. He was awake for a good hour before dawn, up and dressed and on his way just as the pink-and-gold sunrise colors began to seep through the sky.

  FOUR

  OCOTILLO STREET: SEVERAL BLOCKS of lower middle-class, lowrise apartment buildings stretched out between two thoroughfares. Number 1189 was two stories of one- and two-bedroom units, built of stucco and wood and arranged in a squared-off horseshoe with the closed end facing the street. A sign above the entrance read: DESERT VIEW APARTMENTS. Sure. Right. If you took a ladder and a pair of binoculars up onto the roof, maybe. From the apartments, all you’d be able to see were urban glimpses that might have been of any city in the country.

  It was a few minutes past seven, Sunday morning quiet, when Fallon found a place to park on the crowded block. He locked the Jeep with all his belongings inside, walked to where a cactus-bordered path led to the building’s entrance—a set of glass doors that were closed but not locked. When he passed through, he was in a tunnel-like foyer that opened into a central courtyard. He scanned the row of mailboxes until he came to the one marked 2-D. The name tag on it, Max Arbogast, removed all doubts about the phone book listing.

  From the courtyard Fallon could see that the apartment entrances opened onto wide concrete walkways, motel fashion. Except for a central section of palm trees and low-maintenance ground cover around the pool area, the Desert View resembled the Rest-a-While. Man in a rut, Arbogast. Or maybe this type of structured environment was his comfort zone.

  Apartment 2-D was in the near wing, second floor, with access by elevator or outside staircase. Fallon climbed the stairs, walking soft. Each unit was set off from its neighbor by short stucco walls that created a narrow little sitting area and gave the illusion of privacy. A curtain was drawn across the window alongside the door marked 2-D. Through the glass he could hear the hum of an air conditioner, even though the early morning was cool. The television was on in there, too, indicating that Arbogast was awake.

  He put his thumb on the bell button and left it there until he heard footsteps approaching. There was a short silence—Arbogast looking through the peephole in the door—and then a muttered “Oh, Jesus!”

  “Open up, Max.”

  Arbogast said more clearly, “What’s the idea, what do you want?”

  “Talk. Open the door.”

  “No. Go away.”

  “Talk to me or talk to the police.”

  “. . . The police? Listen, you can’t—”

  “Want me to say it louder, so your neighbors can hear? I can make a lot of noise before I call the cops.”

  Nothing for a few seconds, while Arbogast wrestled with a decision. Then a chain rattled, the lock clicked, the door opened a few inches. Fallon pushed it inward, saw Arbogast backing away into the center of a cluttered room, went in and shut the door behind him. The apartment smelled of coffee, stale food, unwashed clothes. Your typical sparsely furnished bachelor’s quarters: dirty dishes, empty beer bottles, newspapers and clothing strewn over the floor, the TV set blaring away in one corner. The television was the only new, clean-looking item in the room—a 42-inch flat-screen job.

  Arbogast was in his bathrobe, a coffee cup clutched in both hands against his chest as if he were afraid Fallon might try to take it away from him. Grayish beard stubble flecked his thin cheeks; what hair he had left was puffed out in little tufts around his head like a collection of dust mice.

  “What’s the idea coming here this time of day, threatening me with the cops?”

  “Turn off the TV.”

  “. . . What?”

  “The TV. It’s too damn loud. Turn it off.”

  Arbogast stared at him a few seconds longer, finally went to where a remote control unit lay on an end table and used it to stop the noise. Then he sidestepped to a breakfast bar that separated the living area from a kitchenette, set the coffee cup down and leaned back against it.

  “That’s better,” Fallon said. He moved forward until only a couple of feet separated them. “Now we can talk.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you. What you want? How’d you find out where I live?”

  “Banning.”

  “Who? Listen, I told you—”

  “I know what you told me
. Now you can tell me the truth.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything. I don’t know anything.”

  “Like I said. Me or the police.”

  “You can’t sic the cops on me, I haven’t committed any crime—”

  “No? How about an illegal search, for starters?”

  “A . . . what?”

  “Illegal search. You searched my room last night after I left the motel.”

  “I never did. That’s a damn lie—”

  “Then there’s accessory to rape and aggravated assault.”

  “What?” Arbogast’s hand spasmed; coffee slopped from the cup onto the sleeve of his robe.

  “That’s what Banning was doing in room twenty last Wednesday. Raping and beating up Casey Dunbar. And you helped him do it.”

  “No! I never did!”

  “He told you she was coming in. He told you to give her room twenty and make sure the rooms near it were empty. He told you to destroy the registration card afterward.”

  Arbogast shook his head. He looked as though he wanted to crawl down inside his robe and hide there, like a turtle retreating into its shell.

  “I didn’t know,” he said in a cracked voice. “I didn’t know.”

  “What didn’t you know?”

  “A favor, that’s all. He gave me a hundred bucks. You think I can’t use a hundred bucks?”

  “What’d he tell you was going on?”

  “He wanted to talk to her, that’s all. Private, he said. Just talk to her. I swear to God—”

  “But he didn’t just talk to her and you know it. Bloodstains on the bed, the bathroom towels. Right? The maid found them, or you did.”

  “Maria. I had to give her some of the hundred so she wouldn’t . . . Ah, Jesus, listen, you got to believe me, I didn’t know . . .”

  “When I checked in yesterday,” Fallon said, “you called Banning and told him I was there and asking questions. Then you called him again after you searched my room.”

  “I had to. He said . . . I didn’t know why you were there, who you were, I still don’t know, I had to call him.”