Fever: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels)

by Bill Pronzini

  “Thank you again.”

  “Your car in here?”

  “I can manage.”

  “I don’t mind. Heavy cans in this bag.”

  She hesitated, shrugged. “At the back wall.”

  He followed her to where one of those small, box-shaped Scions that look like recycled postal delivery vans was slanted. Chocolate-colored, which made it even uglier. She keyed open the trunk, set the one sack inside, waited while he put the other one beside it. When he straightened he was close to her, close to the uncovered side of her face. And what he saw in that one eye, clearly visible in the trunk light and floodlights, shocked him.

  He was looking at pain.

  He’d seen pain in another woman’s eyes not long ago, a woman who resembled Colleen, but it was nothing like this. This was raw and naked, the kind that goes marrow-deep, soul-deep. The kind that had stared back at him from his mirror throughout Colleen’s illness and in all the days since her death.

  “If you’re done staring,” she said, “I’d like to leave now.”

  “I’m sorry, I …”

  “Don’t be. I told you, I’m used to it.”

  She slammed the trunk lid, and without looking at him again she got into the car and backed it up and left him standing there alone, the glimpses he’d had of her face and her pain still sharp in his mind.

  4

  The kinds of things women will talk about to each other, casually, in public places and in front of men, never cease to amaze me. There doesn’t seem to be any subject matter too personal, too outrageous for discussion.

  Cosmetic surgery, for instance.

  Intimate cosmetic surgery.

  Nip and tuck the likes of which I couldn’t have dreamed up in my wildest fantasies.

  Friday night I found out far more than I ever wanted to know about this topic. And in the unlikeliest of places—over dinner in a moderately expensive, sedate Italian restaurant in Ghirardelli Square.

  The two women in question were Kerry and Tamara. Since my semiretirement, and even more since her struggles with breast cancer, Kerry and I had been spending a lot more time together. She was cancer-free again, after months of radiation therapy, but she was still taking medication and still working through the psychological effects, and she would need regular six-month checkups for the rest of her life because there was always the chance that cancerous cells could recur. Time had become a major factor in both our lives. A cancer scare coupled with advancing age makes you aware of how little time you may have left and how important it is to make every minute you have together count. So we did family things with Emily, and on at least one weekend day or night the two of us went to restaurants, movies, plays, the symphony at Davies Hall, the new de Young Museum, a 49ers game at the ’stick.

  It had been Kerry’s idea to invite Tamara to join us for dinner at Bella Mia. Tamara hadn’t been getting out much since her long-time, cello-playing boyfriend, Horace, who had moved east for a year’s gig with the Philadelphia Philharmonic, decided to play permanent bedroom music with another woman. There was nobody new in her life. By her admission and complaint, she hadn’t gotten laid since Horace left ten months ago—a tragedy of large proportions for a hormone-rich twenty-six-year-old. Added to all this was the fact that her best friend, Vonda, had turned up pregnant and was about to be married. She’d become a little reclusive away from the agency, and sometimes moody and mopey and grumbly at work. Kerry thought an evening with us might cheer her up, which I considered a dubious notion. I expected Tamara to decline the invitation, but she jumped at it. Good sign. Maybe it meant she was tired of the shell she’d crawled into and was ready to break out. Why else would she want to hang with a couple old enough to be her parents, if not her grandparents?

  So there we were at Bella Mia, in a corner booth, sharing a bottle of good Chianti and chatting along comfortably about general subjects while we tucked into steaming bowls of minestrone. And then Kerry made the mistake, in my opinion anyway, of asking Tamara about Vonda’s wedding plans. This led into the nip and tuck business.

  “You’ll never guess what Ben’s giving her for a wedding present,” Tamara said. “Gummy bears.”

  I said in my naïve way, “Candy? What kind of wedding present is that?”

  She laughed. “Not those kind of gummy bears.”

  “What other kind is there?”

  Kerry said, “That doesn’t say much for Ben.”

  “No, it wasn’t his idea, it was Vonda’s. He’s cool with her just the way she is, but she’s always hated being a C cup.”

  “Well, you know, pregnancy can sometimes increase size.”

  “Probably won’t in her case. Doctor says she can’t nurse.”

  “That’s too bad. Still, gummy bears haven’t been proven completely safe.”

  I said, “What are you talking about? What’re gummy bears?”

  “Breast implants,” Kerry said.

  “New kind of silicon material,” Tamara said, “supposed to look and feel like the candy. You know, soft and gooey.”

  I made a fast reach for my glass of wine.

  “Maybe I’m just being alarmist,” Kerry said, “but after what I’ve been through, I wouldn’t allow any kind of foreign matter in my breasts.”

  “Mine are saggy enough as it is. Wouldn’t want my nipples messed with, either.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “My booty lifted, now, I could go for that.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with your booty.”

  “Not what my mirror tells me when I get out of the shower.”

  “A woman I work with at Bates and Carpenter had an umbilicoplasty. Can you believe it?”

  “Belly button, right?”

  “Right. She had an inny and always wanted an outie.”

  “I can relate to that. How’d it turn out?”

  “She showed it off at the office. Looked fine, you couldn’t tell a thing.”

  “Girl I know had her nose done about a year ago. Really made a difference in her appearance.”

  “You see a lot of rhinoplasties these days.”

  “Rhinoplasty,” I said. “Sounds like a horn job on a zoo animal.”

  They ignored me. Tamara said, “That’s one thing I don’t need. Maybe a lipo, though, lose the fat roll around my middle.”

  “It wouldn’t be worth it,” Kerry said. “Having a tube stuck in you, being hooked up to a machine that sucks like a vacuum cleaner … no, thank you. Messy, painful, and there’s a long recuperative period.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Nasty.”

  “A face-lift is no picnic, either, I’m told.”

  “Lot of downtime, right?”

  “Yes, but you only look like an accident victim for the first few days. Anyhow, it’s not something you’ll need to consider for a lot of years yet.”

  “You either.”

  “Thanks, that’s a sweet lie. I should have my eyes done, at least.”

  “What’s the matter with your eyes?” I said.

  “Not the eyes themselves. The bags and hen’s feet.”

  “The what?”

  “Make you look and feel great, I’ll bet,” Tamara said.

  “I know it would.”

  We ate and drank a little in blessed silence. But not for long. “That labia surgery,” Tamara said, “you heard about that? Got to be pretty nasty, too. I wouldn’t want anybody cutting me up down there.”

  “Labiaplasty. My God, no.”

  Foolishly I asked, “What’s labiaplasty?”

  “You don’t really want to know.”

  “Sure I do. What is it?”

  “Okay,” Kerry said, “you asked for it. It’s cosmetic reconfiguration of the outer labia of the vagina.”

  I sat there for about ten seconds before I said, “You’re right, I didn’t really want to know.”

  “Supposed to be for beautification purposes,” Tamara said, “get rid of the droop.”

  Droop?Droop?

  �
�But why would you bother? I mean, nobody’s gonna be looking down there but you, and even if some guy did look, he wouldn’t know the difference.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  Tamara said dreamily, “One thing I can see myself getting talked into, that’s the hymen reattachment thing.”

  “You’re kidding. You wouldn’t, would you?”

  “Need all the help with my sex life I can get. Lot of guys love to think they’re getting a virgin.”

  “Don’t they, though.”

  I almost choked on a mouthful of wine over this exchange.

  Tamara was watching me. She smiled her Evil Tamara smile. “Women aren’t the only ones having stuff like this done. Guys, too.”

  “That’s right,” Kerry said. “There’s manscaping, for instance.”

  “There’s what?” I said.

  “Manscaping. Having body hair waxed or lasered off.”

  “The new seal look,” Tamara said. “Very cool.”

  My God.

  “Then there’s pectoral implants.”

  “And six-pack tummy tucks.”

  “And testicle tucks.”

  “And penis enhancement, for livin’ large.”

  “And male breast reduction.”

  “And uncircumcisions.”

  I put down my wineglass. Carefully. “You made that last one up.”

  “No,” Kerry said, “she didn’t.”

  “How the hell can a man have himself un circumsised?”

  “It’s called foreskin reconstruction. Very trendy among the younger set, I understand.”

  “Bull.”

  “Tamara?”

  “Fact,” she said. “Lot of dudes think it’s cool. Some even having their new foreskin tattooed.”

  What can you say to that? True or false, it absolutely defies comment.

  I just sat there, silent, looking back and forth from one to the other as they cheerfully chattered on about chemical peels and laser resurfacing and hyperpigmentation removal and buttock augmentation and hyperbaric oxygen therapy, and how twenty-five percent of all cosmetic surgeries were mother-daughter tandems, and how nose jobs and chin lifts were the hot new gifts for wealthy parents to give to their kids on high school and college graduation, and which Hollywood celebs were being sucked, tucked, lifted, reconstructed, and resurfaced by which Hollywood celeb surgeon—all the while eating minestrone and salad and garlic bread and drinking wine with plenty of appetite, the kind I’d had when I sat down in the booth with them and might never have again.

  Alone with Kerry on the way home, I said, “All that cosmetic surgery nonsense. The two of you were putting me on, right? At least about some of the more personal procedures?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I can’t believe people would have things like that done to themselves.”

  “You can say that after, what, forty years as a detective? People are capable of doing anything to themselves. And others.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “So those procedures really do exist? All of them?”

  “Every one.”

  “How come you and Tamara know so much about it?”

  “Word of mouth, for one thing.”

  “Women’s mouths.”

  “Don’t be sexist,” she said. “We also read newspapers and surf the Net, two things you don’t do. You’d be amazed at what you can find out if you take a ride on the information highway.”

  “Information highway,” I said. “Surf the Net.”

  “Stuck in the past. Living with blinders on.”

  “Okay, okay. But I still don’t get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “The whole cosmetic surgery bit. Women want to look younger, sure, I understand that. Vanity. But the rest of it … unnatural, demeaning, seems to me. Ways for some fat-cat surgeon to get rich.”

  “It’s not vanity. Not completely, anyway.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “A kind of celebration of life in general and our bodies in particular. Life is short and the body wears out fast—and the medical community is making huge advances in all areas, including cosmetic surgery. Why not preserve and resurface, if you can afford to, the parts only you or an intimate partner see as well as the parts everyone else sees?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about having yourself resurfaced?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  Oh, God. “What kind of procedure? Not a face-lift…”

  “Why not a face-lift?”

  “I like your face just fine the way it is.”

  “Well, I don’t. Maybe not a full lift, maybe just my eyes and Botox or collagen injections around my mouth and chin. Get rid of the hen’s feet and some of the wrinkles.”

  “What if something went wrong? You could end up scarred or disfigured …”

  “Oh, come on. Cosmetic surgery is completely safe.”

  “You said yourself it’s no picnic.”

  “Neither were the radiation treatments. If I could get through them, I can get through anything.”

  “I still don’t like the idea of it.”

  “You’re not going to give me any trouble if I decide to go ahead, are you?”

  “… No. Your body, your decision.”

  “Now that’s the most enlightened thing you’ve said all evening. If you really mean it, and if I do go ahead, I might include a little present in the package.”

  “Present? What present?”

  “Reattachment of a certain membrane, just for you.”

  JAKE RUNYON

  Tamara had e-mailed him some preliminary background information on Brian Youngblood; he looked it over on his laptop Friday night, after he got back to the apartment. First thing you always checked for when somebody was in trouble was a criminal record of any kind, adult or juvenile. Youngblood had neither one. Not even a misdemeanor driving infraction.

  One possible in his credit history. There was a state law prohibiting private detectives and other citizens from using credit-monitoring services like TRW for investigative purposes; but realtors could subscribe to these services, since they were in the buying and selling business, and the agency had an arrangement with one in their former office building on O’Farrell Street. Runyon didn’t know the nature of the arrangement. Not his business.

  According to Youngblood’s mother, Brian was very good at his profession and made a good salary. According to the credit report, he’d spent most of the past sixteen months mired in debt. Credit cards maxed to the limit, with not even the minimum paid. Two and three months in arrears on his rent; an eviction notice had been issued and then rescinded when he came up with the three-month balance. PG&E and telephone bills unpaid and service shut off twice by Pac Bell. The crisis point had been reached at the end of August. Might’ve been forced to declare bankruptcy if he hadn’t come into a windfall of at least ten thousand dollars. This allowed him to pay off everything he owed and to reestablish his credit.

  But the fix had been only temporary. In the ninety days since, he’d managed to shove himself right back into a money trap at an accelerated rate: credit cards nearly maxed out, rent and utility bills upaid. If he didn’t do something about the new crisis, he was bound to go under this time.

  Did his mother know where the ten thousand had come from? Probably not. Likely didn’t know anything about it at all or she’d’ve mentioned it. Something in that, maybe.

  Something, too, in what had put Youngblood in the credit crunch in the first place. Until sixteen months ago, he’d had a fairly stable credit rating. No clue in the rest of his personal history.

  There were two ways to handle a case like this. One was to talk to the subject first, worry him a little, and see if he could be made to own up to his problem. The other was to talk to his friends and neighbors and coworkers, find out what they knew, and try to build up a clear picture of the situation before you braced the subject. Runyon preferred the direct approach whenever possible, and that seemed
to be the best way to go here, particularly since he had no address yet for Youngblood’s friend Aaron Myers. No listing for Myers in the phone directory. Tamara could turn up his address and the name of his employer easily enough on Monday, but that was Monday and this was Friday night and the weekend stretched out ahead.

  No need for him to wait until Monday. He’d told Rose Youngblood he would start the investigation today and he was a man who kept his word. Saturday was just another workday. Just another twenty-four hours in the string of days that made up what was left of his life.

  Brian Youngblood lived on Duncan Street, on the downhill side of Diamond Heights just above Noe Valley. Elderly wood-and-stucco building that contained four good-sized flats, judging from its size; Youngblood’s was one of those on the upper floor, south side, which meant views of the southern curve of the city and the bay beyond. Doing fairly well for himself, all right. Rents in the city, in a neighborhood like this, didn’t come cheap.

  Runyon found a place to park and climbed the high front stoop. There were two doors, set at right angles, on either side of a narrow vestibule, each with its own bell button. The labels on the bank of mailboxes told him Youngblood’s flat number was 3; he leaned on the bell.

  It was a windy late fall day, clouds chasing one another across the sky to the east; Runyon pulled his coat collar up against the chill. Out on the bay a freighter from the Port of Oakland was moving slowly under the arch of the Bay

  Bridge, heading toward the Gate. He watched it while he waited. Colleen had always wanted to take a vacation cruise on a freighter, in the days when you could still book passage on one—down through the Panama Canal to the Caribbean. Another cruise she’d tried to talk him into was on one of the luxury ships that went up the Inside Passage to Ketchikan, Juneau, and other ports along the Alaskan coast.

  No answer. He pressed the bell again.

  But shipboard travel wasn’t his idea of a good time. Too confining, too regimented. He’d put her off, made excuses, steered her into other, landlocked vacations that allowed him freedom of movement. Selfish. She’d never said anything, she was never one to complain or wheedle or argue, but she must have been disappointed. Someday we’ll do it, he’d said. Only someday never came, not for either of them. Every time he thought about it, he felt like a shit for having denied her a simple pleasure that would have made her life, while she still had a life, a little happier.