The Other Side of Silence

by Bill Pronzini

  He was sweating now, despite the air-conditioned coolness. Without touching anything, he made a quick search of the other bedrooms, then went downstairs and prowled the first-floor rooms. The place had a static, unlived-in feel; the only personal items Spicer had brought to it were in the two upstairs bedrooms.

  He made another call to Casey’s room at the motel. Still no answer.

  Where the hell was she?

  He’d been in there with the dead man a long time now—too long. Call the police, get it over with. Worry about Casey later.

  He couldn’t make himself do it.

  The urgency he felt now was to find her, find out what had gone wrong at the motel; she was still his first priority. Bring her back here with him, let her wait in the Jeep while he discovered the body all over again, and then he’d call in the law. Self-protection for both of them. There was time to do it that way, and not too much risk: the chance that anybody in the lighted neighboring house had seen him come in here was fairly slim.

  He thought about shutting off the lights before leaving, but he didn’t do it. If he hadn’t been seen coming in, he’d be careful not to be seen going out. And you don’t alter or compromise a crime scene in any way if you can avoid it. The door lock was a deadbolt, so he was able to close the door without setting it. From the porch, he made sure the street was empty before crossing to the Jeep.

  The same thought kept running on a loop inside his head: leaving like this is a mistake—you know damn well it is. But it hadn’t stopped him inside and it didn’t stop him now.

  The drive to the motel took twenty long minutes. He had to keep telling himself to take it easy, observe the speed limit, do nothing to call attention to himself.

  No lights showed behind the curtained window in Casey’s unit. Fallon put the Jeep into an empty space, went to rap on the door and call her name. Silence. He knocked again, louder, and a third time before he gave it up and trotted down to the motel office.

  The night clerk was a college-age kid with a scraggly crescent of chin whiskers. Fallon said, “My friend, the woman I checked in with, should be in her room but she doesn’t answer the door.” He described her, gave her room number. “Do you know if she went out?”

  “No, sir. I haven’t seen anyone looks like that.”

  “She might still be in the room. Sick or something. Could you open it up so I can check?”

  “Well, I don’t know . . . You say she’s a friend of yours?”

  Fallon dragged the receipt out of his pocket, slapped it down. “I paid for both rooms, you can see that. I’m worried about her. Come on, get your passkey. It won’t take long.”

  The clerk didn’t argue. They went to Casey’s room and he keyed open the door and put on the lights. Fallon pushed around him, inside. Empty. There was a measure of relief in that, but none in the fact that her suitcase and overnight bag were also missing.

  He took a quick look around, thinking that she might have left a note. Nothing. The only signs that she’d ever been there were the rumpled bed and a towel on the bathroom floor.

  Outside he asked the clerk, “How long have you been here tonight?”

  “Since five o’clock.”

  “On the desk the whole time? You didn’t go out for some reason and turn it over to somebody else?”

  “No, sir. I’ve been here the whole time. If your friend had checked out, she would have had to do it with me.”

  “She wouldn’t have checked out,” Fallon said.

  “Well, she’ll probably be back. Maybe she just went out somewhere to eat.”

  Fallon didn’t answer that. He said a curt thanks, unlocked the door to his own room, and closed himself inside.

  Immediately he tried her cell number again. Out of service.

  Spicer murdered, the boy missing again, and now this. There must be some connection, but what? None of it made any sense. Casey had no reason to leave voluntarily . . . unless she was the one who’d killed Spicer and taken Kevin. Was that even remotely possible? He didn’t see how it could be. She’d have had to find out somehow where they were living and then get out there in a cab right after Fallon left for the Wagonwheel. There might have been time for her to do that, barely—he could be wrong about the time of death—and the weapon could have belonged to Spicer and she’d managed to get it away from him . . .

  No, Christ, he didn’t buy it for a second. She was emotional, unpredictable, with self-destructive tendencies, but he couldn’t picture her as homicidal. And she wasn’t crazy, which she’d have to be to want revenge badly enough to jeopardize her relationship with her son.

  The only other possibility he could think of was that whoever killed Spicer had kidnapped both the boy and Casey. But how would the shooter know where she was staying? Well, there was an answer to that: she’d been seen and recognized at some point today, or he had, and they’d been followed here the way he’d followed Bobby J. last night. But then how would the follower know she was here alone? The timing said he’d have had to be in Bullhead City when Fallon left for the Sunset Lounge. An accomplice staked out here? Bobby J. and Yellow Beard working together?

  Far-fetched. Unbelievable.

  He quit trying to make sense of it, focused instead on what he was going to do. Drive back to the Bullhead City house, refind the body, call the law? Still an option, but not a good one with Casey missing. Without her he couldn’t prove he’d been here until 5:40 tonight, and his reasons for hunting Spicer might seem suspicious without corroboration. Like as not, with no other handy suspects, they’d chuck his ass into jail and hold him as a material witness. And if they wanted to, they could build a pretty good circumstantial case against him. The thought of spending even a short time behind bars put a cold knot in his gut. You couldn’t get any farther from wide open spaces than a jail cell.

  Could he get away with not reporting the murder? Maybe, if he was lucky. A lot of people knew he’d been looking for Spicer, but he’d never once used his own name and most of the inquiries had been in Vegas. The only ones in Laughlin who knew were the two women at Co-River Management and the night shift manager at the Sunset Lounge. They could describe him, but that was all and it wasn’t much. There was nothing distinctive or memorable about his looks. Average. His description fit ten thousand other guys.

  The manager, Haskell, would remember giving him Steven Courtney’s address and probably pass that information on to the police. But there was a way for Fallon to cover himself on that, up to a point.

  The card Haskell had given him was in his shirt pocket; he fished it out, punched up the number. While it was ringing, he had a few bad seconds trying to remember the phony name he’d used, finally retrieved it just before Haskell came on the line.

  “This is Sam Jackson, Mr. Haskell, the lounge owner from Vegas. Has Steven Courtney shown up or called in?”

  “Neither one. You didn’t find him, I take it?”

  “Afraid not. His car is in his driveway, but the house is dark and nobody answers the door. I thought maybe he’d finally shown up there. Now . . . well, he’s out of luck on that business matter I was telling you about. I’m heading back to Vegas early tomorrow morning.”

  “He’s out of luck here, too,” Haskell said. “If you want to hire him, he’ll be available come tomorrow.”

  “No, thanks. I don’t want no-show performers working for me any more than you do.”

  Okay. Covered at least until the police checked on Sam Jackson and found out he and the Star Lounge didn’t exist.

  How long before somebody found Spicer’s body? It might be days; no one from the Wagonwheel was likely to go out there to check on him. And when the body was discovered, the victim was Steven Courtney, according to his driver’s license and everybody who’d known him down here. In a homicide case the law usually checked the victim’s fingerprints, but there was a chance small-town law might not bother, and if they did, that Spicer’s fingerprints weren’t on file anywhere. A chance that the law would never connect Steven
Courtney and Court Spicer until somebody made the connection for them.

  So time was on Fallon’s side. Enough time to find out what had happened to Casey and her son.

  Final decision made, right or wrong. He was in too deep to get out of this mess any other way. Besides, she was still his responsibility. Quit on her now and he’d be quitting on himself.

  Fallon gathered his gear, stowed it in the Jeep, checked out. Casey still hadn’t contacted him. Wouldn’t or couldn’t. Wherever she was, wherever the boy was, it wasn’t Laughlin or Bullhead City.

  Five minutes later he was on Highway 95, heading north. He had to start someplace, and the best and closest option was Vegas.

  PART IV

  LAS VEGAS

  ONE

  CASEY’S TOYOTA WAS STILL in long-term parking at McCarran International.

  That didn’t have to mean anything one way or another. He’d driven straight to the airport, exceeding the speed limit most of the way; the probable window of time of her disappearance from the Laughlin motel was not much more than three hours. If she’d left on her own for some reason, it might not be easy for her to get to Vegas to claim the car.

  He was dog-tired from the day’s stress and all the miles he’d put on the Jeep. It was close to midnight now. Not much he could do at this hour. Number one on his list of possibilities was Bobby J., and trying to brace a hardcase when he wasn’t thinking clearly and his reactions were sluggish would be a mistake.

  Another motel, this one closer to McCarran than the previous Best Western. Five hours’ rest should be plenty; as soon as he was in bed he set the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. But the tension wouldn’t ease enough to let him sleep right away. Every time he shut his eyes, he could see Spicer lying there dead in the hall, and the padlock on the door to Kevin’s room, and the items of kid’s clothing dropped and forgotten on the floor.

  Seven thirty, Tuesday morning. McCarran International, long-term parking garage.

  The Toyota was still there.

  * * *

  Number one on the list: Bobby J.

  It didn’t take much imagination to picture a man with his track record shooting Spicer—money, a falling-out of some kind, whatever reason— and then snatching the only witness. What Fallon still couldn’t figure was Casey. If Bobby J. had grabbed her too, how and why? The only way it added up was that she’d somehow learned Spicer’s address on her own, made a wrong-headed decision to take a cab to Bullhead City, and been at the rented house when Spicer was shot.

  Two witnesses, if that was the explanation. And then what? Two more killings—a woman and a young boy, in cold blood?

  Don’t go there, Fallon. Get it out of your head.

  Bobby J.

  And no pussyfooting around this time. Straight at him. Fast and hard.

  The house at 246 Sandstone Way had a run-down look by daylight. Scarred stucco facade, weeds in the yard, the big prickly pear cactus grown into a wild tangle of branches, thorny pads, and unpicked fruit. The driveway was empty. No sign of the Mustang on the street, either. But that didn’t have to mean nobody was home.

  Fallon drove on by, parked around the corner. He’d taken the Ruger out of the console storage space last night, put it back again this morning. The difference was that now it held six live rounds. The risk of carrying a loaded weapon was no greater now than the risk he’d taken in not reporting Spicer’s murder, leaving the scene and the area. And it would be stupid to go up against a man like Bobby J. without it.

  He tucked the weapon into his waistband, above his right hip, and got out and walked back to 246. A young, plump woman in a housedress was picking up her newspaper on the property next door; she glanced at him curiously as he passed by. He nodded, smiling, keeping it casual. She didn’t smile back. And she lingered to watch him as he moved on up the front walk and rang Bobby J.’s doorbell.

  Nobody answered.

  He tried again. Echoes in an empty house.

  Shit. All worked up for a confrontation, and now this. He felt like slamming his fist into the wall to relieve the pressure.

  The neighbor was still standing there looking at him. He went back to the sidewalk and over into her yard, still keeping it casual, putting on another smile for her. She glared at him in return—a look that managed to convey a combination of weariness, annoyance, and suspicion.

  “Hold it right there, Mister,” she said before he reached her. “If you’re selling something this early in the day . . .”

  “I’m not a salesman.”

  “You a friend of that pair?”

  “No. I have some business with Bobby J.”

  “Bobby J.” Her tone and her mobile face both reflected distaste. “You don’t look like one of his kind.”

  “What kind is that?”

  “Sleazebag.”

  “I don’t know him. I’m just a man trying to do a job.”

  Screeches and other child noises came from inside her house, deepening her scowl.“Damnkids,” she said. “I should’ve had my tubes tied after the first one.”

  Fallon said, “Does he own the house over there?”

  “Who? Bobby Jackoff and his slut?”

  “Jackoff?”

  “That’s what my husband calls him. Some Polish name.”

  “What name?”

  “Don’t you know, you have business with him?”

  “All I know is Bobby J.”

  “Jackowsky, Jabowski . . . no . . . Jablonsky. That’s it, Jablonsky.”

  “About the house. Does he own it?”

  “Leased. The slut lived there before he moved in last year.”

  “Candy?”

  The woman made a spitting mouth. “Candy Barr. With two r’s. My God, the names these women give themselves.”

  “Can you tell me what time they left this morning?”

  “For all I know,” she said, “neither of ’em was home all night. It wouldn’t be the first time. Quiet over there for a change.”

  “You didn’t see his car?”

  “Didn’t see it, didn’t hear him jazzing the engine like he does some mornings. Or when he comes home drunk or stoned in the middle of the night when decent people are trying to sleep. I can’t tell you how many times he’s woken up the kids. They get woken up, I don’t get any sleep, my husband doesn’t get any sleep.”

  “Do you know if he has a job?”

  “A job? Him? Hah. He does anything at all besides gamble, it’s probably something crooked.”

  “He’s a gambler?”

  “Poker. Big poker player, to hear him tell it. Bragged to my husband once about how much money he wins at the casinos.”

  “Any one in particular?”

  “Who knows? The one where Candy Barr works, probably. Calls herself a dancer. Hooker, more likely. Foul mouth. You should hear the things they shout at each other over there. You should’ve heard what she called me once. It’s enough to make you sick to your stomach.”

  “There’s a friend of Bobby J.’s—big man, blond, thick blond beard. Drives a Ford Explorer.”

  “Oh, him. He comes around sometimes. Another sleazebag.”

  “You know his name?”

  “No, and I don’t want to know it.” She frowned at Fallon. “You sure ask a lot of questions.”

  Before he could make up a response, more screeches rose from inside her house, followed by a long wailing shriek. A girl about five came running out in her pajamas, yowling. “Mommy, Mommy, Conner hit me, he hit me with a spoon, he hurt me!”

  “I’ll hurt him,” the woman said grimly. “I’ll blister his little ass for him.”

  “Blister his ass, blister his ass!”

  “Shut your mouth. You sound like the slut next door.” She took the little girl’s hand, led her inside without another word to Fallon.

  * * *

  Casino Slot Machine Repair was open for business when Fallon pulled into the lot. The only vehicle parked there was a van with the name of the business lettered on the sid
es. He slotted the Jeep next to it, went inside to the offkey clang of a bell above the door.

  Cluttered showroom, heavy with the smell of machine oil. Rows of electronic and mechanical slots and video poker machines lined two walls. Restored and for sale, according to placards on each, their cases polished, their glassed-in faces making the room bright with color even though they were unlit. A combination workroom and warehouse, visible through an open set of doors, took up most of the rear of the building—the place where Bobby J. and Yellow Beard had waited in ambush.

  A man in overalls, wiping his hands on a greasy towel, appeared from the workroom. Midforties, fair-haired, clean-shaven except for a Fu Manchu mustache. And big—almost as big as Yellow Beard. He looked at Fallon in a neutral way before he said, “Sam Vinson, at your service. What can I do for you? Repair problem?”

  “No. I—”

  “Looking to buy, then? I just finished restoring a real nice ’64 Bally Star Special, one of the first electro-mechanical hopper pay slots. Perfect condition. Make you a good price on it.”

  “No thanks. I’m looking for Bobby Jablonsky.”

  “Bobby J.?” Nothing changed in Vinson’s expression. “Well, then, you’ve come to the wrong place. Jablonsky don’t work here.”

  “Friend of yours, though, isn’t he?”

  “Not me. My brother Clem.”

  Clem Vinson—Yellow Beard. The resemblance was plain enough. “Clem work here with you?”

  “Sometimes. Not today.”

  “Where would I find him?”

  “At his other job, probably. Golden Horseshoe in Glitter Gulch. Maintenance staff.”

  “I hear Bobby J. plays some poker at the Golden Horseshoe.”

  “Some poker? He’s a hound, man—always in a Texas Hold ’Em game, day or night. Clem, too, when he can afford it.” Vinson paused, as if he’d had a sudden thought. “Say, you wouldn’t be a bill collector?”

  “Not me. No way.”

  “Then how come you’re so interested in Bobby J.?”

  Fallon gave him the business proposition line, and Vinson laughed. “Well, if there’s money in it, Bobby J.’s your man. He’s open to just about anything that’ll support his poker habit.”