Double

by Bill Pronzini

I believed him. Nobody—especially Don—could make up a story like that. I started to laugh, and so did he. We must have laughed away a good half-minute of my parents’ long-distance money. Then I said, “Look, Don, I don’t care if you need somebody to clean for you—as long as it’s not me. If Laura’s n ; good, I’ll help you find somebody better when I get back.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. Maybe we can find somebody to work for both of us—cheap.”

  “Great. Terrific. But one thing ...”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you tell Laura she’s fired?”

  Still grinning at the memory of our conversation, I stepped over the broken-down fence of the canyon and crossed the yard toward the house. Halfway there, I turned and looked back. I’d never liked that canyon, ever since our black cat had disappeared into it, but if you looked at it right, with the birds hopping through the tree branches and the sunlight playing on the leaves, it wasn’t so bad after all.

  44 “WOLF”

  The McCone kitchen was bright and shiny and full of noonday sunshine. It was also full of the rich smell of crab cioppino, and of the cheerful humming of Sharon’s father, who was puttering around outside. It was also full of Mrs. McCone, which wasn’t quite as pleasant as the sunshine and the crab cioppino and Mr. McCone’s humming. Not that I disliked Mrs. McCone; she was a very nice lady. The problem was, she thought I was very nice, too, and not only because I had saved her daughter’s life. She kept smiling at me and giving me appraising and speculative looks. She kept asking me questions. And worst of all, she kept talking about how much Sharon needed a husband—“a nice mature man who’d take care of her, keep her out of trouble.”

  I was sitting at the table, where she’d told me to sit, and drinking the bottle of beer she’d put in my hand, and wishing I was outside puttering and humming with Mr. McCone. Or already on my way back to San Francisco and Kerry. Mrs. McCone made me uncomfortable. She reminded me of my own mother, which meant I couldn’t be rude to her because my mother had never tolerated rudeness and I had been raised to be obedient and respectful of motherhood. So I sat there and listened and drank and twitched.

  “Spending the night with a dead body,” Mrs. McCone was saying, “and a crucified body at that. Horrible. And then getting shot. Shot in the ... shot, for heaven’s sake. My little girl. Horrible.” She did something to the crab cioppino and then looked at me again. “Have you ever been shot?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You have? Then why are you still a detective?”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to have another job where your life wouldn’t be in danger all the time?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  She sighed. “I suppose that’s how Sharon feels too. I suppose she’ll keep right on being a detective.”

  “I suppose she will.”

  “It wouldn’t be so bad if she had a man around to watch out for her,” Mrs. McCone said again. “I wouldn’t worry so much if she was married.”

  I hid my tongue behind my teeth and kept it there.

  “An older man would be best for her. Not that young disc jockey she’s seeing now—Don; he’s not stable enough. A mature man is what she needs.” Pause. “I’ve never understood the objection to May-December romances, have you?”

  “Mm,” I said.

  “Sometimes they work out very nicely. It all depends on the man and woman involved.”

  “Mm,” I said.

  She did something else to the cioppino. “Sharon tells me you’re not married,” she said casually.

  “Uh, no, I’m not. But I—”

  “Ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not a confirmed bachelor, are you?”

  “Well, not exactly . . .”

  “That’s good. I don’t trust confirmed bachelors. They have quirks.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How long have you been a detective?” she asked.

  “Almost all of my adult life.”

  “Do you make a good living? Sharon doesn’t, you know.”

  “I get by all right.”

  “I’ll bet you’re very successful,” Mrs. McCone said, smiling. “I can always tell when a man is successful at what he does.”

  Outside, Mr. McCone’s humming had grown louder and more jaunty. Now he burst into snatches of song that came drifting in through the open kitchen window.

  Mrs. McCone said, “Are you Catholic?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Catholic. Most Italians are Catholic.”

  “Well, I was raised a Catholic, yes.”

  “Mr. McCone and I are Catholics,” she said. “Our children—well, they have minds of their own. Or pretend to. But Andy and I are very devout.”

  Outside, the devout Mr. McCone was singing in a reedy tenor:

  “Onan, son of Judah, was a melancholy kid;

  He’d jerk and jerk and jerk and jerk, and that

  was all he did.

  But the Lord got very angry, when Onan

  shunned his mate;

  So awfully hipped on self-abuse, he wouldn’t

  fornicate.”

  Mrs. McCone cocked an ear. Then she went to the back door, opened it, stuck her head out, and said to Mr. McCone, who had paused for breath, “Andy, I would appreciate it if you would confine your singing to the garage. We have a guest.” Then she shut the door and came back to where I was. As if she hadn’t moved at all, and Mr. McCone hadn’t been singing a song in the backyard about Onan the jerk, she said, “You’re fond of Sharon, aren’t you? I know she’s fond of you.”

  “Oh, sure. She’s like the daughter I never had.”

  “Daughter?”

  “I wish I’d gotten married a long time ago so I could have had a daughter just like her. But I guess it’s too late now. I mean, even if my fiancée and I get married next month and have a little girl next spring, I’d be eighty-nine and probably dead by the time she reached Sharon’s age. ”

  “Fiancée?”

  “We’re very much in love,” I said solemnly.

  Mrs. McCone looked disappointed. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”

  The telephone rang. She went over to the kitchen extension and said hello, paused, and then put the receiver down and announced that the call was for me.

  I stood up, thinking that it must be Tom Knowles. I had spent last night in Pacific Beach with Charley Valdene, at his invitation; and when I’d left this morning Valdene, who was taking the day off work, had volunteered to pass along word that I could be reached here at the McCones’ in the event either the sheriff’s department or the SDPD needed anything further from me.

  But it wasn’t Knowles or anybody else on the cops. It was Eberhardt. And damned if he didn’t sound drunk. “Hiya, paisan,” he said. “Hell of a P.I. I am, huh? Tracked you right down.”

  “What is it, Eb? Something come up?”

  “Something came up, all right,” he said, and snickered. “Listen, hang on, I got somebody here wants to say hello.”

  “Eb ...”

  Another voice, a shrill feminine voice that sounded even drunker than Eberhardt’s, said in my ear, “Hi! This is Wanda.”

  “Who?”

  “Wanda. You know, Ebbie told you ‘bout me. Told me ’bout you too. You muss be quite a guy. Can’t wait to meet you.”

  “Uh,” I said.

  “What a party it’s gonna be!” Wanda said. “Boy!”

  “Party?”

  “Here’s Ebbie. He’ll tell you.”

  “Me again, paisan,” Eberhardt’s voice said. “Ain’t she something? Wait’ll you meet her.”

  “Listen, Ebbie, what the hell is going on up there? You’re not at the office, are you?”

  “Nah. Taking the day off.”

  “You’re drunk. What’s the idea of calling me like this?”

  “Wanted you be the first to know the big news.”

  “What big news?”

&
nbsp; “Wanda and me—we’re getting married.”

  “What!”

  “Yeah. I popped the question little while ago and we been celebrating. Champagne, five bucks a bottle. Bet you’re surprised, huh?”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t have said anything if I’d wanted to.

  “We haven’t set the date yet, so don’t worry ’bout that,” Eberhardt said. “You’re gonna be my best man. Wouldn’t have anybody else.” Whispers and giggles in the background. “Got to go now, paisan. You tell Kerry, huh? Four of us’ll get together real soon. Want you both meet Wanda right away.”

  He hung up. I hung up too, and stood there trying to get my mouth closed. Eberhardt and Wanda-from-Macy’s. Married. Jesus Christ!

  Mrs. McCone was looking at me. “Did you have some bad news?” she asked solicitously.

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said, “but I think so.”

  Mr. McCone had begun singing again outside:

  laddies and listen to me,

  And I’ll tell you a tale that will fill you with

  glee;

  Of a pretty young maiden so fair and so tall,

  Who married a man who had no balls at all!”

  Yeah, I thought, and his name sure as hell isn’t Eberhardt.

  Mrs. McCone frowned and shut the window. Then she said, “Well, I’m sure everything will work out for you. I just hope it does for Sharon. She really does need a man to look after her. Marriage would settle her down—”

  “I heard that, Ma,” Sharon’s voice said from the doorway. She came waddling in on her cane; in spite of the gunk on her blistered face, she looked pretty good for a member of the walking wounded. “Why do you have to keep pushing marriage all the time? I’m not even sure I want to get married.”

  “Marriage is what God meant for all of us,” Mrs. McCone said. “Sooner or later.”

  Even Wanda the Footwear Queen, I thought gloomily.

  Sharon went to the refrigerator, poured herself a glass of white wine, then perched gingerly on a chair opposite me. “Has Ma been giving you a hard time, Wolf?” she asked.

  “I don’t give people a hard time,” Mrs. McCone said before I could think of an answer. “You’re the one who gives people a hard time. If it weren’t for this nice man I’d be getting ready for your funeral right now.”

  “Ma ...”

  “Why don’t you work together, you and him? Go into partnership, I mean. I’ll bet that would keep you out of trouble.”

  “Wolf already has a partner. Besides, a partnership is like a marriage, which I’ve already told you I’m not ready for.”

  “I still think you’d make a good team,” Mrs. McCone said stubbornly. “You solved all those murders together, didn’t you?”

  “More or less,” I said. “But neither of us made a dime out of it. In fact, we both lost money on a week’s worth of expenses.”

  “So you’ll never work together again?”

  McCone and I looked at each other. “Never,” I said, and she said, “Not a chance.” And then we both laughed and raised our drinks to each other.

  You never know what might happen. If we ever did work together again, one thing was certain: it would definitely be interesting....