Bindlestiff (The Nameless Detective)

by Bill Pronzini

  He’d been on foot, and as far as I knew he wasn’t familiar with the layout of Oroville. If he’d been heading for some place here in town, as his study of the directories seemed to indicate, he might not have realized until after he’d rushed out that he needed directions to wherever it was. And he might have stopped somewhere else to ask how to get there.

  I went to see if I could get there myself.

  Chapter 9

  I made an arbitrary decision and turned west out of the library parking lot, toward the downtown area. There were a bunch of industrial establishments, and a couple of restaurants along Lincoln Boulevard in that direction; I wasted forty minutes asking questions and showing the newspaper photo to a dozen people. Nobody had seen Bradford on Tuesday or on any other day. Nobody seemed to give much of a damn about hoboes either.

  So I turned around finally and drove back toward Oro Dam Boulevard, past the library to the east. A middle-aged attendant at a service station on the main drag allowed as how he might have seen a guy who looked like Bradford walking by on Tuesday afternoon; he always noticed tramps, he said, because sometimes they came in and tried to mooch a handout. But he’d been busy at the time and he couldn’t be sure it was the same guy in the photograph.

  There was another service station across the street; I drove in there and talked to a fat kid with pimples who said he’d also been on the job on Tuesday afternoon. “I think I seen him,” the kid said. “He started in here like he wanted to ask me something, but I was waiting on a customer. So he went on out again.”

  “Do you remember which direction he headed?”

  “North. Yeah, toward the dam.”

  In the next block there were a couple of fast-food places, an auto supply store, a music store, and a combination grocery and liquor retailer. I drew a blank at all of them. But on the corner of the next block after that, I came on a place called the Green Garden Café—a small lunchroom with a lot of potted plants in the window and a bunch more decorating the long, narrow room inside.

  There was nobody in the café when I entered except for a fairly good-looking bleached-blond waitress in her twenties and a burly guy about the same age wearing the uniform of a deliveryman, with his shirt sleeves rolled up so you could see that his arms were covered with tattoos. The two of them were down at the other end of the counter, facing each other across it. The waitress was grinning all over her face and watching the burly guy expectantly. Neither of them seemed to notice I had come in.

  “Here’s another one,” the guy was saying. “You’ll love this one, Lynn. How come the Italians don’t have a national fish?”

  “How come?”

  “They did,” he said, “but it drowned.”

  The blonde let out a hoot like a goosed owl and leaned against the counter, giggling. When she got her breath back she cracked him on the arm and said, “God, Bernie, you’re so funny!”

  “Yeah,” Bernie said. “Ain’t that a pisser?”

  “You make my sides hurt.”

  “Yeah,” Bernie said. “So did you hear about the two old ladies walking along the beach one day? They think it’s deserted, see, they’re just out for a little air; but they come around this rock, there’s a guy lying there on a blanket and he’s naked.”

  “Naked,” the waitress said, nodding. She had started to giggle again in anticipation.

  “Yeah. One of them nudists, you know? So the two old broads stop and one of them points. The guy’s lying on his back so you know what she’s pointing at, right?”

  “Right.” More giggles. “Oh, sure.”

  “Well, she points and she says to the other old lady, ‘You know,’ she says, ‘life sure is funny. When I was ten I didn’t know that thing existed. When I was twenty I was curious about it. When I was thirty I was enjoying it. When I was forty I was asking for it. When I was fifty I was begging for it. When I was sixty I was paying for it. And now that I’m seventy—’”

  “Right, now that she’s seventy . . .”

  “‘Now that I’m seventy,’ she says, ‘when my life is almost over, there it is growing wild.’”

  The waitress thought that was the funniest one yet; she let out two hoots this time and convulsed into gales of laughter. Tears rolled down her cheeks. As far as she was concerned, old Bernie was Johnny Carson and Bob Hope and Bob Newhart all rolled up into one.

  “Ain’t that a pisser?” Bernie said.

  I was leaning against the counter by this time, not ten feet away, but they still didn’t seem to know I was there. I waited until the blonde got herself under control again and then rapped on the formica to get her attention. She looked at me, hiccupped, said, “Just a second, okay?” and went right on giggling.

  Bernie had turned on his stool and was grinning at me. “You hear that one?” he said. “Wasn’t that a pisser?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “If it was any more of a pisser I’d have wet my pants.”

  He didn’t like that; his grin disappeared. Which was all right with me. I don’t like stupid jokes, especially stupid Italian jokes, and I don’t like the kind of people who tell them. Bernie was a jerk. And if he wanted me to, I was more than willing to tell him so.

  But it didn’t come to that. Whatever else Bernie was, he wasn’t the belligerent type. All he did was pick up the glass of cola in front of him and mutter, “Some guys got no sense of humor.”

  The waitress said, “Bernie, I swear to God, you ought to go on TV. I really mean it.” Then she wiped her face, let him have one more giggle, and came down to where I was. “What’ll it be, mister?”

  “Cup of coffee.”

  She turned to the hotplate on the back counter and poured the coffee. I had the newspaper photo out, and when she set the cup in front of me I laid the clipping beside it and tapped Charles Bradford’s image with my forefinger. “Did this man happen to come in here on Tuesday afternoon between five and six o’clock?”

  She bent close to squint at the photo. Then she frowned and said, “A tramp, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, a tramp did come in here on Tuesday afternoon,” she said. “I think it was this one. It sure looks like him.”

  “What did he want?”

  “A cup of coffee, same as you. I thought he was panhandling—they come in here and try to get a freebie sometimes—and I told him I had to see his money first. He had it in change, just barely. I made him pay me before I gave him the coffee.”

  “Did he want anything else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Information, maybe?”

  “Well, yeah, he did ask directions. How come you’re so interested in this tramp, anyway?”

  “I’m trying to find him for his daughter,” I said. “What did he want to know?”

  “Where Firth Road was.”

  “Firth Road.”

  She nodded. “So I told him, and he drank his coffee and left. That’s all.”

  “He didn’t say what he wanted on Firth Road?”

  “No. He didn’t say anything else.”

  “What sort of street is it? A side road, a main thoroughfare, what?”

  “It’s only a couple of blocks long,” she said. “A dead-end street.”

  “What’s on it? Houses, businesses?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Hey, Bernie, what’s on Firth Road?”

  Bernie turned on his stool again. He still seemed a little hurt that I hadn’t properly appreciated his jokes. “Not much on it,” he said in a grudging way. “PG and E substation, couple of business places, and the railroad museum.”

  “Railroad museum?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Guy named Dallmeyer runs it. It’s a freaking tourist trap.”

  “How long has it been there?”

  “Who knows? Ten years, maybe.”

  “What’re the business places?”

  “Electrical outfit—Jorgensen’s,” he said. “And a fruit packing plant.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Ain�
��t that enough?”

  “How long have those two been operating?”

  “How should I know? Do I look like I work for the goddamn Chamber of Commerce?”

  The waitress giggled again. Even when he wasn’t telling dumb jokes, Bernie was so funny.

  I said, “How do I get to Firth Road?”

  “It’s a couple of miles north of here,” the blonde said, “out toward the dam. It branches off the main drag.”

  “Oro Dam Boulevard, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I drank some of my coffee; it wasn’t very good, but at least it was hot. I fished two quarters out of my pocket, set them on the counter, drank a little more coffee, and got up from my stool.

  “Hey, Lynn,” Bernie said abruptly. “I got another one for you.”

  The waitress said, “Oh God,” and winked at me, and went down to where he was. “Well?”

  “So Smokey the Bear gets married,” he said, “but he and his wife never have any sex. You know why?” But he was looking at me as he spoke, not her, and there was a determined expression on his face, as if his reputation as a comedian was on the line and he had to tell one that would make me laugh or lose points.

  “No,” the blonde said, “why do Smokey the Bear and his wife never have any sex?”

  “Because every time she gets hot, he throws dirt on her and beats her with a shovel.”

  That was a one-hooter for the blonde. She said, “Nobody better try’n throw dirt on me when I get hot,” and broke up again.

  I just looked at Bernie. Then I turned and started for the door.

  “You know how many Polacks it takes to pull off a kidnapping?” he said, a little desperately.

  “No,” the waitress said, “how many?”

  “Six. One to grab the victim and five to write the ransom note.”

  She hooted—and I walked out into the good, clean air and shut the door quietly behind me.

  Chapter 10

  The two-block length of Firth Road was flanked by shade trees and looked as deserted as most of the rest of Oroville. The electrical outfit, Jorgensen Electric, and the Orchard-Sweet fruit packing plant were situated across from each other in the first block; the strong, pungent smell of cooked apples and plums came out of the big warehouse there. On the second block the Pacific Gas & Electric substation and the railroad museum were also set opposite each other, with the museum on the north side. Beyond the dead-end of the street, and some dense shrubbery and scrub pine, I could see the raised right-of-way of a main line of rail tracks.

  I decided to start with the substation. But if there was anyone on duty inside, I couldn’t raise him. I gave it up after a time and crossed to the museum.

  It was a good-sized complex set behind a wire-mesh fence: a big, high-domed roundhouse, a smaller outbuilding that looked to be some kind of storage shed, two old passenger coaches and a caboose arranged in front of and alongside the roundhouse for touring purposes, and the remains of a spur track at the rear that had probably once connected with the rail lines beyond. A sign on the front gate said the same thing as one I’d passed out on Oro Dam Boulevard: ROUNDHOUSE RAILROAD MUSEUM. Another sign below it read: RELICS OF THE FABULOUS AGE OF STEAM RAILROADING. ADMISSION $1.00. But the gate was closed and locked, and so was the ticket booth just inside, and there was a third sign on the booth that said: CLOSED.

  On the east side of the complex, outside the fence and shaded by live oaks, was a small cottage that probably belonged to the man who ran the museum—Dallmeyer, Bernie the comic said his name was. Parked near it on a diagonal was a van with the museum’s name painted on the side. I started back there, following a rutted gravel drive that skirted the edge of the fence. As I did I noticed that there were puffs of white vapor coming up from behind the roundhouse. At first I thought it was smoke; then I saw how quickly it evaporated and realized it was steam.

  When I got to within thirty yards of the cottage I could see that the rear engine doors of the roundhouse were open; the steam was billowing out from inside. Ahead, a side gate appeared in the fence. I stopped when I got to it, because its fork latch was in place but its padlock was hooked open through the wire to one side. I hesitated, glancing at the cottage. Nobody came out of it. After ten seconds or so I shrugged, lifted the fork latch, and went through the gate and across toward the open engine doors.

  As I neared them I could hear the sharp hiss of escaping steam and other sounds that meant a steam locomotive’s boiler had been fired: the stuttering clamor of valves, the staccato beat of the exhaust. The locomotive, I saw a moment later, was an old Baldwin that had to have been built during the twenties; it was sitting on a turntable a dozen yards inside the roundhouse. Overhead lights blazed, giving me a clear look at the rest of the cavernous interior: whitewashed walls, swept floors, trusses, gleaming engine pits; and along the walls, tool bins and racks and workbenches, plus a number of glass-fronted cases containing historical photographs, small equipment such as reflector lanterns and switch keys, and posters, timetables, uniform caps and badges, and other memorabilia.

  Through the locomotive’s narrow, oblong, front glass panel, I could see a man working inside the cab. He didn’t seem to see me, though; he was intent on what he was doing. I waited another ten seconds, then walked over to where I could look up through the gangway to the deck inside.

  The guy up there was stoking the firebox—using a fireman’s shovel to scoop coal out of the tender, then pivoting and driving one foot against a floor pedal to open the butterfly doors and feed the coal to the blaze within. He was fiftyish, thick through the shoulders and hips, with a mop of gray-flecked hair, shaggy brows, and a full beard; the rest of his face was heat-reddened and sweaty. He wore a long leather fireman’s apron to protect his clothing from coal dust and cinders.

  “Hello!” I called to him. “Hello in the cab!”

  He heard me above the thrumming of the boiler and the throb of the valves, and whirled toward the gangway with the shovel cocked in front of his body. He stared at me for a couple of seconds. Then his surprise gave way to anger and he said, “Christ! You scared hell out of me. How did you get in here?”

  “Through the side gate. It was unlocked. I’m sorry if I—”

  “You’re trespassing, you know that?”

  “Yes, and I apologize. Are you Mr. Dallmeyer?”

  “That’s right. What do you want?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” I said. “I’m trying to find a man named Bradford, Charles Bradford. A hobo who dropped off a freight in the WP yards two days ago.”

  He gawped at me again out of bright gray eyes. “Why’re you looking for a hobo? You a policeman?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. A couple of San Francisco reporters were up here doing a feature story on modern hoboes. Bradford got his picture taken, and his daughter saw it when it appeared in the paper. I’m trying to locate him for her.”

  “Well, what makes you think he’d have come out here?”

  “I’ve traced him as far as Firth Road,” I said. “At least, it seems this is where he came on Tuesday afternoon.”

  “What time on Tuesday afternoon?”

  “Sometime between five and six.”

  “I wasn’t here then,” Dallmeyer said. “I closed up at four-thirty; I had to drive down to Yuba City to pick up some Southern Pacific dining-car relics for the museum.”

  “What time did you get back, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “It was almost midnight.”

  I nodded. “Would you mind taking a look at Bradford’s photograph, just for the record?”

  “I suppose not. But I haven’t seen any tramps hanging around here, I can tell you that right now. I’d have run them off if I had. They’re bad for my business.”

  “Sure, I understand.”

  He propped the shovel against the side bulkhead, wiped his hands on a rag from the engineer’s seat, and then swung down of
f the running board. His face was still red and damp with perspiration. I gave him the Examiner photo, pointing out which of the men was Bradford. He looked at it, shook his head, and said, “No, I never saw him before. I never saw any of these men before.”

  I took the clipping back and put it into my shirt pocket.

  “Can’t imagine what a hobo would be doing way out here,” Dallmeyer said. “They all hop the freights over by the WP yards; hardly ever this far out. How’d you trace this Bradford to Firth Road, anyhow?”

  “It was a pretty complicated procedure, Mr. Dallmeyer,” I said. “And I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’d better be on my way.”

  “Well, I’ll walk out to the gate with you. I must have forgotten to lock it and I don’t like to leave it open like that.”

  We left the roundhouse and went across the yard to the gate, where I apologized again for the trespass. He said, “No problem. I hope you find that hobo you’re looking for.” Then he let me out and padlocked the gate latch. He was already back inside the roundhouse by the time I reached the end of the gravel drive.

  I walked up to the next block and entered Jorgensen Electric. The owner, Eric Jorgensen, was a fat jowly man in his late fifties who looked like a Boston bull terrier. “Nope,” he said when I asked him about Bradford. “Didn’t see any tramps while I was here on Tuesday. I’d have sure noticed one, too. But I left about half past four; he could have come after that.”

  “You closed up for the day at four-thirty, you mean?”

  “Nope. Tris did that at half past five, like always.”

  “Who would Tris be?”

  “Girl who answers the phone and waits on customers and does my books for me. Tris Wilson, my brother’s girl.”

  Jorgensen was the only person in evidence at the moment. I asked, “Is she here now?”

  “Yep. Using the can. Tris spends more time in the can than a bad burglar with a bladder problem.” He thought that was funny and laughed to prove it. I let him have a small smile, which was more than I’d done for Bernie; Jorgensen, at least, was not a jerk.