While Other People Sleep

by Marcia Muller

  D’Silva must have been there. I might even have spoken briefly with her.

  The randomness of the circumstances put a chill on me in spite of the fire's warmth. What if D’Silva had been ill that night or scheduled to work? What if I'd been ill or never accepted the invitation to speak in the first place? Would she eventually have fixated on somebody else—or nobody at all? Or, given our individual makeups, was this whole mess destined to happen?

  It wasn't a question that had an answer, or one I was comfortable contemplating. Instead I turned my thoughts to D’Silva's present whereabouts.

  I'd had no message from Tamara Corbin, so D’Silva hadn't returned to her Mariposa Street flat. But she had another place in the city, where she'd taken the man she picked up at one of Russ Auerbach's clubs. Auerbach had said he'd contact me if the man put in an appearance, but would he? Nothing to do but wait and see.

  I hate to wait. Besides, the house's emptiness and the phone's silence had begun to play with my nerves. Better to get out of there, take action of one sort or another.

  I looked at my watch: a little after nine. If Auerbach followed the same schedule every night, he should now be at Napoli in North Beach. I called Information, got the number, called, and asked for the club owner.

  “Hey,” Auerbach said, “great minds think alike. I was about to get in touch with you. The guy you want to talk to about Lee just walked through the door. For the price of a drink he'll talk all you want; seems he's pissed at her because she didn't show up for their second date.”

  “I'll be there as fast as traffic allows.”

  Fast was what traffic didn't allow. Broadway was jammed between the tunnel and Columbus. I inched along till I came to a motel where, unknown to most people, public parking was available. There I made a quick turn into the underground garage, tossed the keys and outrageous fee to the attendant. A zigzagging course brought me to the block of Kearny where Napoli was located.

  A long line of hiply dressed clubgoers snaked down the sidewalk; in my jeans and flight jacket I skirted it and showed my ID to the carder. He motioned me through the door. “Mr. Auerbach's waiting for you at the bar.”

  Behind me a man said, “Hey, who the hell does she think she is?”

  The carder replied, “That's the mayor—he's in drag and whiteface tonight.”

  Behind me, the door closed on laughter. His Williness, as a local cartoonist had dubbed him, was always good for a chuckle.

  Napoli was very different from Club Turk: Italian-campy, with plaster of Paris busts and dusty wine bottles in niches in the brick walls; lots of red plush upholstery, and ornate gold frames around mirrors and dark oil portraits of guys who all looked like Lorenzo de’ Medici. The jazz combo ought to have been singing opera.

  I turned to my left into the bar area, spotted Auerbach through the smoky gloom; a man in a red silk shirt and a blond ponytail sat next to him. They rose as I came up, and Auerbach introduced his companion as Jim.

  “Just Jim,” the man said. “No last name; I'm married.”

  I nodded and shook his hand.

  Auerbach excused himself, and I slid onto the stool he'd vacated. “Drink?” Jim asked.

  I didn't really want one, but apparently he'd had several, and his manner told me he wouldn't be comfortable drinking alone. “Chardonnay, please,” I said, and remained silent while he ordered and the bartender poured.

  Jim raised his glass to me. “Cheers.”

  I touched mine to his. “So,” I said, “you know Lee D’Silva.”

  “Yeah. God, what a bitch. We made a date, I made excuses at home, she never showed.”

  “You saw her how many times?”

  “Just once. Hot number.”

  “She took you home?”

  “Yeah—terrible place. Woman must put all her money on her back.”

  “Russ says you can't remember where the apartment is.”

  Jim leaned closer, breathing a mixture of Scotch and garlic into my face. “That's what Lee told me to tell him. Russ wasn't supposed to know about the place.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged.

  “Will you take me there?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. We'll go in my car.”

  “No, I wanna drive—”

  “I need you to navigate.”

  He hesitated, glanced at the nearly full drink in his hand. “Okay, I'll take this with me.”

  I stood, put a bill on the bar. “What part of the city are we going to?”

  “Mission. Funny, old Russ doesn't know it, but his sometimes sweetie lives right across the street from one of his clubs.”

  And suddenly I knew in what building. Christ, she'd done it to me again!

  “Yeah, that's the one,” Jim said.

  The building in whose entryway I'd sheltered the night before. The building where I'd lived during my early years in the city.

  “Which unit?” I asked.

  “Don't know the number. Lobby floor, left rear.”

  My old studio.

  “Rotten little place,” he added. “Has a fridge looks like an old icebox, works off a compressor. Thought those went out with the Edsel. Or maybe the Model T.”

  Suddenly I felt a fierce protectiveness toward the apartment that—while not luxurious—had been my home and that now, apparently, had been invaded by D’Silva. A protectiveness that was augmented by my serious dislike of this man. “Look, Jim,” I said, “why don't you go over to Bohemia, have a few rounds on me?”

  “Wondered when you'd offer.”

  “Hey, enjoy yourself. The night's young. And when you want to go home, take a cab.” I thrust a couple of twenties into his hand. He stared at them as if he'd won the lottery, mumbled a few words that might have been thanks, and lurched off toward the crosswalk.

  With malice which, I like to think, is totally uncharacteristic of me, I wished he'd get run over by a signal jumper.

  Jim walked into the club, and I went to the corner, turned left, and walked along Twenty-second Street to the alley that ran behind the buildings. When you've lived in a place for a number of years, you know the points of ingress and egress; this apartment house had many, all insecure in my day. Time changes places, but if my old-fashioned fridge was still extant, some other things must have remained the same.

  The rear windows of the studio—located over the ground-floor garage—were dark, and the one that opened onto the fire escape was shut. I considered climbing up there to see if the window was latched, but decided against it; if D’Silva was home, I didn't want to alert her.

  The garage doors were lowered and locked. The building had room for only four cars, and those tenants who paid extra for the spaces guarded them jealously. The door to the narrow hallway that led to the manager's apartment next to the furnace room had always been a weak point, but now I saw it was blocked by an iron security gate. Well, there was still the fire escape to the roof. Tenants used to sun themselves and plant vegetables and flowers in containers up there; the roof door was seldom locked.

  I started climbing.

  The metal ladder shook perilously under my weight, the landings at the individual floors only slightly less. I wondered how recently it had passed the fire department's inspection. Probably not in years; the SFFD, like our other city agencies, was understaffed and overburdened, and they'd probably given this neighborhood low priority.

  On the roof now, not daring to use even my small flashlight. After a moment my eyes acclimated. Over to the right was the door to the stairs; the wooden platform where sunbathers and gardeners had congregated was gone. The deteriorating composition surface crunched under my feet; I accidentally kicked an aluminum can, heard it bounce off the concrete wall. Came to the door, but found it locked.

  What next?

  Skylight above the stairway. I peered toward it, saw the two-by-four that propped it open.

  I gripped the edges of the skylight's opening with my hands, lowered myself slowly. Swung my feet toward t
he window ledge that I knew to be halfway down the right-hand wall. And missed.

  I'm too old for gymnastics, dammit!

  I swung again, and my feet touched the sill. The trick now was to let go of the skylight's frame one hand at a time, easing my whole weight onto the sill and planting myself firmly, then drop the remaining distance to the floor. And I'd better do it soon, because my palms were sweating and my fingers were in danger of slipping.

  This afternoon I shot off that runway over a sheer drop-off and thought nothing of it. Why am I sweating this?

  Well, it helps to have the aid of wings and an internal combustion engine.

  I let go of the skylight's frame and transferred one hand to the window's. My fingers started to slip, then held.

  Here goes!

  I let go with the other hand, grasped the opposite side of the window frame. Crouched unsteadily there, pressing into the small space, breathing hard. Then I maneuvered into a semisitting position and pushed off, landing with a thud and staggering into the stair rail.

  I was in the upper-story hallway, two pairs of closed doors to either side. I listened, heard nothing, saw no light under them. Quickly I started down the stairs, hand resting on the .357 in my jacket pocket. The overhead fixture in the next hallway was half burned out; salsa music came from one of the front apartments. I hurried through the gloom to the flight of stairs leading to the lobby, one floor up from street level. Below me lights burned—also dim. I stopped on the bottom step and looked around. Down here nothing much had changed.

  The lobby floor was covered in something that resembled worn and stained AstroTurf; at its far side was a brick-edged bed of blue pebbles with plastic flowers stuck into it. During my tenancy, the flowers had been geraniums; now they were a peculiar mixture of tulips and poinsettias, with a few orchids thrown in for good measure. Probably this meant that Tim O’Riley still managed the building. He'd always had atrocious taste.

  The doors to the apartments on this floor had pebbled-glass insets—a security problem, and it was a wonder they hadn't been smashed by thieves years before. The one at the front glowed with soft light, but both at the rear were dark. I slipped into the space under the staircase and took a closer look at the door that had once been mine.

  It stood slightly ajar.

  A trap? Probably not. Another game? Most likely.

  I moved over there, nudged the door with my foot. Took out my gun as I slipped inside. To my left the bathroom doorway was outlined by the glow of a night-light; beyond that was the dark opening to the kitchen. I inched along the hallway against the opposite wall, noting the empty old-fashioned telephone niche that was about halfway to the main room.

  I stopped in its archway. Darkness beyond, and no sounds, not even the soft breathing of a sleeper. Nothing but that familiar nobody-lives-here-anymore atmosphere.

  After a moment I reached for the light switch. My fingers encountered it as if I'd moved away this morning instead of years ago.

  And that might very well have been the case. So little had changed.

  Directly ahead stood the two Salvation Army easy chairs and the coffee table that I'd abandoned when I moved; somebody had taken good care of them, removed stains that I'd assumed would never come out. A mattress, its sheets and comforter rumpled and twisted, stood in the window bay where my own bed had been. My old brick-and-board bookcases, empty now, leaned against the far wall.

  I went to the walk-in closet and looked inside. It was a deep one, containing a built-in chest of drawers. Nothing hung there, and the drawers were empty, but a red silk robe hung on a peg behind the door.

  My robe: I recognized it by the initials embroidered on one cuff. A gift from my sister Charlene, who is a connoisseur when it comes to pretty lingerie. D’Silva must have taken it from my house; I wore it so seldom that I hadn't missed it.

  I took the robe down, breathed in the scent of Dark Secrets. Replaced it on the peg.

  An alcove connected the main room with the kitchen. The small dining table and two chairs that had been there when I moved in still crowded the space. On the table sat a corkscrew and a wineglass. I moved into the kitchen, toward the old fridge mounted in the wall, knowing what I'd find.

  Deer Hill Chardonnay. By my standards, D’Silva was spending a fortune on wine that went undrunk. I regarded the chilled bottle with distaste, then remembered a line from an old country song—something about drinking the devil's beer for free but not giving in to him—and took the bottle.

  In spite of appearances, I knew I wasn't alone. D’Silva would have the place wired for sound. I went back to the main room, looked around again, spoke loudly and clearly.

  “Thanks for the wine, Lee. This time I'll accept it, but I don't find it amusing that you stole my robe and brought your men back to my old apartment. Let me ask you this: did you pay the rent with the money you embezzled from your father?”

  Tim O’Riley was not happy to see me. Not at this late hour.

  He wore a faded plaid bathrobe, a day's worth of stubble, and the scent of beer. His complexion was ruddier than I remembered it, and he'd lost most of his hair. When he saw me staring at his bald pate, he ran a hand over it as if to reassure himself that it wasn't unsightly, then growled, “What the hell d'you want?”

  “Nice greeting after all these years.” I moved past him into the small apartment. The once green cinder-block walls had been painted white, and his hideous paintings-on-velvet had been replaced by serapes and a huge gilded sombrero, but the furnishings were the same. I held out the bottle of Deer Hill to him, plunked myself on the shabby Naugahyde couch, and smiled.

  Tim regarded the bottle as if it were full of cod-liver oil and handed it back to me, then pulled his robe more tightly around his considerable girth. “Shit, you move away, don't keep in touch, and then you think you can barge in here in the middle of the night?”

  I kept smiling. He'd always scolded me for various and sundry misdeeds, but in his gruff way he'd also liked me.

  “Yeah, grin. You think you're big stuff now, I bet. I seen you on the TV, talking about your new agency.”

  “Then you know I haven't changed. That TV show was terrible, and besides, I'm still the same person who annoyed you by not bagging her garbage right.”

  “Still don't, huh?”

  “Nope.”

  “You don't want that swill.” He motioned at the wine bottle. “How's about a beer?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Coming up.”

  He went to the kitchen and came back with a couple of Buds, thrust one into my hand; turned a straight-backed chair around and straddled it. “So what'd you do—break in? All the locks've been changed about a dozen times since you left. Building's supposed to be secure now.”

  “You'd better check the skylight above the stairs tomorrow.”

  “Christ!” He swigged beer, dribbling some on his chin and wiping it off with his sleeve. I tried to remember when I'd seen Tim without a beer can in his hand, but couldn't. He was one of those steady drinkers who maintain the same level of high from morning to midnight and still manage to function.

  “Whyn't you ring the bell like a normal person?” he asked. “You could've broke a leg and sued the owners, and then it'd’ve been my ass on the line.”

  “I hardly think I'd sue over an accident that happened while I was making an illegal entry.”

  “Oh, yeah? Burglars sue all the time. It helps pay their lawyers’ fees.”

  On the surface, an absurd statement—rendered more absurd because it was true.

  Tim asked, “So what happened? You get a yen to visit your old stomping grounds?”

  I sipped a little of the beer. “Actually, I'm interested in the present tenant of my old apartment.”

  “Aha!” He smiled knowingly. “Somebody's caught on to Ms. Elizabeth and her cottage industry.”

  “Ms. Elizabeth?”

  “The tenant.”

  Elizabeth is my seldom-used middle name. “What cottage indu
stry?”

  “To put it delicately, the woman's a whore, and your old place is her crib. She's only there when she's got a john in tow.”

  “How often is that?”

  “Three, four times a week.”

  “Not a very successful whore, then.”

  “Okay, high-priced call girl whose johns aren't picky about their surroundings.”

  “How come you rented to her?”

  “I didn't know about her at first. She seemed respectable enough, but even if she hadn't … Shit, Shar, things've changed here. Ms. Elizabeth pays her rent in cash, on time. Doesn't do drugs, puke in the lobby, or have noisy fights in the middle of the night—which is more than I can say for most of the other tenants.”

  “How long has she had the studio?”

  He thought. “September? October? I'm not sure. For years after you moved, a nice Vietnamese couple rented it. Last April the wife got mugged walking from her car to the building, and they up and moved to be near some relatives in Modesto. After that the owner—new one, doesn't give a shit about the building or his tenants—he decided to raise the rent so high that there weren't any takers. Finally Ms. Elizabeth came along asking about it.”

  “She asked about that specific apartment?”

  “Well, sure. I had a sign on the front of the building—studio for rent. September, I'm pretty sure it was.”

  So this obsession had been building to an alarming level as long as six months ago. “What can you tell me about her?”

  Tim finished his beer, went to get another. “Okay, she brings guys here during the week, sometimes on the weekend. No sleazes, though. They look like professional people.”

  “Different men or repeats?”

  “Some repeats, but not many.”

  “You sound as if you've been watching her.”

  “Who wouldn't? She's not like other hookers.”

  “How?”

  He frowned in concentration, rolling his beer can between his palms. “Well, she's smart. You can see that in her eyes. Has got education. You can tell that from how she talks. But it's the way she acts that's got me. Sometimes it's like she's not really here. Like she's far away, in some dream world. Maybe like she's somebody else.”