Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery)

by Bill Pronzini

  “Don’t fight me, don’t make any noise. You do and I’ll hurt you like you never been hurt before.”

  10

  When I left the office, I drove out to Monterey Heights to pick up Emily. Some days after school she went straight home on the bus; most days, like this one, she spent two or three hours at the home of her best friend, Carla Simpson, and either Kerry or I fetched her after work. My turn today, and I was glad of it. Glad, too, that it was one of Kerry’s late days at Bates and Carpenter. Otherwise, she’d have wanted to go with me to see her mother, and been even more annoyed at me when I refused. As it was I’d probably take additional flak for not calling and letting her know Russ Dancer was gone. Lose-lose situation no matter what I did. So I’d just go ahead and handle it the way I’d been asked to.

  Still, I didn’t particularly relish driving over to Marin County and facing Cybil alone. I liked Cybil, she was one of my favorite people, but delivering bad news along with Dancer’s legacy was bound to be a little strained. What I needed was a buffer.

  In the car I said to the buffer, “Emily, how’d you like to go visit Grandma Cybil before we go home?”

  “Sure! But how come?”

  “Well, I have to talk to her.”

  “What about?”

  “Something private. It won’t take long.”

  Emily didn’t try to probe. She was as inquisitive as any eleven-year-old, but also accepting of the fact that there were adults-only issues not meant for her ears and that private meant private. One of her many sterling qualities.

  So we crawled out Nineteenth Avenue to the Golden Gate Bridge, Emily chattering the whole way about her schoolwork. She was writing an essay on Firebell Lillie Coit, the woman whose fascination with firefighting had led to the construction of one of the city’s landmarks, Coit Tower, and she regaled me with all sorts of obscure facts she’d dug up in her Internet and book research. Amazing how she’d blossomed psychologically and socially in the past year and a half. When I’d first met her, during the course of a case involving her now-deceased birth mother, she’d been shy, vulnerable, lonely, and deeply withdrawn. Some of the shyness remained, but she was no longer the scared little introvert. She’d learned to trust people, trust herself and her feelings. Kerry’s and my doing, in part—plenty of the love and encouragement her selfish parents hadn’t provided—and a source of pride to both of us.

  She’d begun to blossom physically as well. Almost twelve now, and the too-slender little girl had grown three inches and filled out into an attractive young lady approaching puberty. Already in it, for all I knew. If she wasn’t wearing a bra yet—I hadn’t asked Kerry because I didn’t want to know—it was all too obvious she’d have to start pretty soon. Her mother had been a beauty—flawless compexion, perfect features, great luminous eyes, dark silken hair, and a long-legged, high-breasted figure—and Emily looked just like her, with the additional attributes of character and intelligence. She was going to be a knockout by the time she was fifteen or sixteen. Boys were sure to swarm around her, and that worried me already. When she started dating, I was going to have a lot of sleepless nights and a lot more gray hairs. Served me right for becoming a father at my age, with my jumbled code of contemporary and neo-Victorian ethics.

  Traffic wasn’t too bad after we got past the toll plaza; we were in the quiet little town of Larkspur before six o’clock. Redwood Village, the seniors’ complex where Cybil had lived the past few years, was tucked back against a grove of ancient redwoods—five acres of duplex cottages, plus a rec room, dining hall, swimming pool, and putting green set among rolling lawns and other greenery. Pretty nice place for those who could afford it. And Kerry’s father, Ivan, who’d made a lot of money writing radio and TV scripts and books on occult and magic themes—and who’d been something of a jerk—had left her well fixed after his death a few years ago. Not even the shaky state of the economy had harmed her finances much; Ivan’s stock portfolio had been extensive and conservative, built and nurtured to weather just about any economic downturn.

  She’d been in a bad way for a while after his death. Depressed, lonely, obsessed with a feeling that her own life was all but over. Kerry had talked her into selling her L.A. home and moving in with her—this was before our marriage—but that hadn’t worked out too well for any of us logistically, or improved Cybil’s mental health. Enforced dependence for a woman who had been independent-minded for seventy-some years was not the answer. The answer was for her to take control of her life again, and the move to Redwood Village had accomplished that. In a way it was like a rebirth. She’d flourished in the new environment; she was past eighty now and still going strong.

  In the forties and early fifties she’d been almost as prolific a contributor to the detective pulps as Russ Dancer; her Samuel Leatherman byline had appeared on dozens of stories, the bulk of them about a tough L.A. detective named Max Ruffe. When paperback novels and the emergence of television killed off the pulp markets, she’d decided to abandon fiction writing altogether rather than make the transition to full-length novels. Writing had been an avocation with her; Ivan’s success meant she didn’t need to make a living and she’d preferred to devote her time to her family and other pursuits. So Kerry and I were both amazed when Cybil announced one day, six months or so after taking up residency in Redwood Village, that she was writing again. Her first novel, no less. And she hadn’t just dabbled at it; she’d worked as intensely as she had in the old days and produced a finished manuscript in seven months. Eroded skills after a forty-year layoff? Not Cybil’s. The novel, Dead Eye, set in the fifties and embroiling Max Ruffe in the Communist witch hunts in the Hollywood film industry, was pretty good; it had sold on its fourth submission, to a small New York publisher. Strong reviews and decent sales had brought her a contract for a sequel, Glass Eye, which she’d finished in November and which was scheduled for publication this coming fall.

  Quite a woman, Cybil Wade. She had my admiration and gratitude, not only for her accomplishments but for producing her one and only offspring. Kerry was her mother’s daughter, thank Christ. If there’d been more than a hint of Ivan the Terrible in her makeup, I might’ve had second thoughts about marrying her.

  I revised that thought a little when we reached Cybil’s cottage: there was some of her father’s contentiousness in Kerry after all. When Cybil opened the door she may have been surprised to see Emily, but she wasn’t surprised to see me. There isn’t much guile in her; she doesn’t try to hide her feelings. One look into those tawny eyes of hers—beautiful eyes; Dancer’s “Sweeteyes” tag was right on—and I knew Kerry had called her today after all.

  Cybil fussed over Emily for a time; the two of them got along famously. Then she gave the kid a Coke and shooed her out to do her homework on the back patio, out of earshot. I got a bottle of beer, a seat on the couch, and a long somber look from Max Ruffe’s creator.

  “I know why you’re here,” she said.

  “I figured. Kerry called you, even though I asked her not to.”

  “Don’t be angry with her. She felt I’d want to know as soon as possible and she was right.”

  Sometimes I get the feeling there is a secret network of communication, understanding, and perspective among women that not only excludes men but that men wouldn’t quite fathom even if they were privy to it. Situations like this make me sure of it. But I went ahead and beat my head against it anyway.

  “Why?” I asked her. “You wouldn’t have wanted to see him in the hospital, would you?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  “I knew the man for more than fifty years.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “What time did he die?” she asked.

  “. . . What time? Does it matter?”

  “I’d like to know.”

  “One fifty-seven this afternoon.”

  She repeated it. Then, “What did he say about me when you saw him?”

  “He said he’d read Dead Eye
and it was damn good, you could still write rings around him.”

  “What else?”

  “Remember D-Day.”

  No response; deadpan expression. Kerry told her about that, too, I thought.

  “Amazing grace.”

  And about that. Same deadpan nonresponse.

  “He said you’d understand. Do you?”

  “If I do, it’s private.”

  “Sure. But you can’t blame Kerry and me for wondering. You didn’t tell her what happened on D-Day either, I take it.”

  “Nothing happened on D-Day that involved Russ Dancer. I have no idea where he was that day. I happen to have been in Washington visiting my husband.”

  “Okay. What about amazing grace? That ring any bells?”

  “If that’s a pun, it’s in poor taste.”

  “Come on, Cybil, you’re being evasive. Secrets?”

  She ignored the question. “You did bring the envelope?”

  It was in my briefcase; I hauled it out, handed it over. She held it for a few seconds, moving it up and down slightly as if she were estimating its weight. Then she put it down on the glass-topped table in front of her.

  “Manuscript of some kind,” I said.

  Sharp look. “You didn’t open the envelope?”

  “You know me better than that. Besides, you can see that it’s still sealed.”

  “. . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . oh, shit, I hate this!”

  Cybil almost never cusses. She didn’t even seem to realize she’d used a four-letter word. Which showed how upset she was under the calm facade she had on.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Talk about what? I’m not going to open the envelope in front of you, if that’s what you’re angling for.”

  “It’s not.”

  “I may not even tell you later what’s in it. You or Kerry.”

  “Your prerogative,” I said. “Look, Cybil, I’m only trying to be helpful here, lend a sympathetic ear.”

  “There’s no need for it. You think I’m mourning Russ Dancer?”

  “I don’t think anything.”

  “Well, I’m not,” she said. “I despised the man.”

  “He loved you.”

  “Damn his brand of love! I’m not sorry he’s dead, I wish our paths had never crossed. He left me in peace the past twenty years, why couldn’t he keep on that way instead of trying to come at me from the grave?”

  “Come at you? How?”

  She shook her head almost violently. The outburst had put flame in her thin cheeks, like a boozer’s flush. It made me remember that Cybil had been a hard drinker back in the forties, and that she’d taken at least one walk on the wild side with another member of the Pulpeteers—facts that were hard for me to imagine because of her grace and wholesome qualities. Her and Dancer, too? No, that couldn’t be what this was all about. The idea of her taking him up on one of his crude advances, drunk or sober, was ludicrous.

  I watched the flush fade as she tightened the reins on her emotions. Pretty soon she said, “Finish your beer. It’s time you took Emily home and gave the child her dinner. She doesn’t eat enough as it is, she’s too thin.”

  Emily’s appetite was fine; so was her weight. But I didn’t argue. Cybil had had enough of us. She wanted to be alone with that envelope and whatever was in it—alone with whatever private little demons Dancer’s life and Dancer’s death had stirred up inside her.

  Kerry was home when Emily and I came in. The first thing he said when we were alone was, “I’m not going to apologize for calling her.”

  “I didn’t ask you to. I don’t want to fight about this anymore.”

  “Good. Neither do I.”

  “I’d just like to know what’s going on here. What’s got Cybil so riled up.”

  “She’ll tell us if she wants us to know.”

  “Don’t you want to know? Or maybe you already know, or at least have some idea.”

  “I don’t,” she said grimly, “I don’t have a clue.”

  And that worried me, too. Cybil almost never cussed and Kerry almost never lied, and now both of them were acting out of character. Kerry knew or suspected, all right. And it must be pretty disturbing for her to hide it behind a flat-out lie.

  11

  JAKE RUNYON

  He hated hospitals.

  Six months of them while Colleen was dying, the last six months of her life. Short stays for tests and radiation treatments, longer stays when the cancer worsened, then that last terrible month when they both knew there was no more hope and she kept growing weaker and weaker, becoming a small wasted pitiful thing lying there among all that antiseptic white and gleaming metal. The medicine smells, sick smells, death smells. The pain, the rage he’d felt. The fight to keep a smile on his face and his voice upbeat, and the constant fear that he wouldn’t be able to get through another visit, that he’d break down right there in front of her. At least she hadn’t died in that place. The last few days at home, with him and a hospice nurse at her bedside, had been bad enough. In the hospital, the waiting and the slow slipping away would have been unbearable. He’d’ve broken down for sure.

  As soon as he walked into San Francisco General, the sights and smells brought the hate spiraling up into his throat. Irrational, almost pathological—so be it. Before he’d let anybody shut him up in a place like this, stick tubes and needles in him, hook him up to machines, he’d do what he’d thought about doing in those first couple of days after Colleen was gone. He’d put the muzzle of his .357 Magnum between his teeth and this time there’d be no sweating hesitation, no waffling; this time he’d eat it.

  He crossed the lobby fast to the elevators. Fourth floor, Joshua had said. He punched 4 on the panel, and while the elevator took him up there he finished shutting himself down inside, focusing his mind to basics—the only way he could deal with a place like this. Do what he’d come here to do. Get through it. Walk out and away as quickly as possible.

  Kenneth Hitchcock was in Ward 6. The floor duty nurse told him where it was. Six beds, three on a side, each one outfitted with privacy curtains. The curtain was partially open at the one on the left, nearest the door; inside, Joshua sat in a chair drawn up close to the bed, holding the hand of the man who lay there. He clung to it even more tightly when he saw Runyon; his face shaped into one of his defiant looks. Runyon acknowledged him with a nod, shifted his gaze to Kenneth Hitchcock.

  Well set up, dark, long hair, and a brushy mustache. Handsome, ordinarily, in an actorish way, but not now. Left arm in a sling, upper body swathed in bandages to hold his cracked ribs in place, right side of his face bandaged, the other side tallowish and raddled with lemon- and raspberry-hued bruises. He was awake, his eyes open and reflecting pain. Joshua had said on the phone that his condition had been upgraded to fair, that he’d be all right barring infection or a resumption of internal bleeding.

  “Kenny,” Joshua said, “this is Jake Runyon.” Not “my father,” just the name. As if he were introducing a stranger.

  “Hello.” Weak voice, ghost of a smile. “Pardon me if I don’t shake hands.”

  “My son tells me you’re feeling better.”

  “Might live. Wasn’t so sure there for a while.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Joshua said. Then again, as though trying to convince himself, “You’ll be fine.”

  Runyon said to him, “I’d like to talk to Kenneth alone.”

  “Alone? Why?”

  “Indulge me. It won’t take long.”

  “I don’t know . . . Kenny?”

  “It’s okay. See if you can get me some bottled water, will you? I’m thirsty, and the tap water here tastes like piss.”

  “All right, love.”

  The term of endearment was for Runyon’s benefit—looking right at him as he said it. Another attempt at defiance. Runyon ignored it. How long before Joshua learned, if he ever learned, that his sexual orientation meant nothing to his father? Family mattered, blood mattered
. Gay didn’t matter at all.

  Joshua went away without looking at him. Runyon pulled the chair back a foot or so, sat down. Midnight-blue eyes, dull with pain, watched and measured him. What Kenneth thought of him, if anything, didn’t register on his battered face.

  “I can’t tell you much,” he said. “Don’t remember much. Doctors say that’s typical in trauma cases.”

  Runyon said, “Two men, young, in a pickup truck. One a chunky redhead with freckles, wearing some kind of cap, the other tall and slender wearing a jacket with a hood.”

  “That’s more than I remember. Where did you—?”

  “First two victims. Gene Zalesky, Larry Exeter.”

  “They were luckier. Those bastards almost killed me.”

  “You recognize either of them?”

  “No. I told you, I don’t—”

  “Never saw either of them before? Hanging around The Dark Spot?”

  “That type of breeder? No way.”

  “Zalesky saw one of them, the tall one, outside The Dark Spot one night. Talking to Troy.”

  Kenneth blinked at the name. The tip of his tongue flicked over dry, cracked lips. Belatedly, “Who?”

  “Troy. Young, blond kid with an angelic face. Hangs out at The Dark Spot.”

  “Lots of guys hang out there. Busy every night.”

  “He likes to sit at the bar. Likes company, likes to flirt.”

  “That fits half our customers.”

  “So you don’t know him?”

  “No.”

  “I think you’re lying, Kenneth.”

  “Lying? Why would I lie to you?”

  “Because I’m Joshua’s old man. Because you don’t want him to find out that you’re not as faithful as he thinks you are.”

  Unwavering eye contact. “Bullshit.”

  “What’s Troy’s last name? Where does he live?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Tell me the truth, I’ll keep it to myself. Joshua doesn’t have to find out.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  Runyon said evenly, “Lots of people slip now and then, cheat on a spouse or a lover. I can understand that—it’s human nature. Forgivable. One thing I can’t forgive is cover-your-ass lying. I don’t like liars, Kenneth.”