Hardcase

by Bill Pronzini

  “Wrong?”

  He tapped his temple. “Up here.”

  “Retarded?”

  “Not that. Some problem . . . that’s all I ever heard.”

  “Where did these two sisters live? In town?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  “The kid who raped Jane or Judy—he also live there?”

  “In or near. Bad kid, in trouble before. They almost lynched him.”

  “Who did?”

  “Farmworkers. Girl identified him and they went after him and almost lynched him. Local law stopped it, but not before they beat him up worse than he beat her.”

  “His name?”

  Jenkins shook his head, took a last drag on his cigarette and pitched the butt out. “Gone. Just some damn crazy punk with a hard-on, that’s all.”

  Yeah, I thought, just some damn crazy punk with a hard-on. “Was he tried for the rape? Sent to prison?”

  “No. Sister wouldn’t let the girl press charges.”

  “Why not?” But I knew the answer before Jenkins confirmed it.

  “Didn’t want her to go through a trial, have to tell in court all the punk did to her.”

  “So they hushed the whole thing up. The family and the rest of the town for the sake of the family.”

  “As best they could. What they really hushed up was her being pregnant.”

  “How did Joe Badger’s girlfriend find out about it?”

  “That lawyer you mentioned—Cousins? He was the family’s lawyer and Elizabeth worked for him. Legal secretary.”

  “That made things convenient, didn’t it? So whose idea was it to match up Jane or Judy’s baby with the Aldriches—hers or Badger’s?”

  “Joe’s. He said if the girl was willing to give up the baby and the Aldriches wanted it, they might pay us a finder’s fee.”

  “And she turned out to be willing.”

  “No, she wanted to keep it. But the sister said no and it was the sister ruled the roost.”

  “Badger set things up with the sister and Cousins?”

  “After I felt out the Aldriches.”

  “How willing were they?”

  “Eager as hell from the get-go.”

  “Did you tell them how the baby was conceived?”

  “Christ, no. We were afraid it would queer the deal.”

  “Somebody told them. The sister?”

  “No. They never met the girl or the sister. That was the way the sister wanted it, no personal contact.”

  “Then how did they find out about the rape?”

  “Cousins told them. It was the only way he’d handle the adoption—if they knew the whole story.”

  “Good for him.”

  “Didn’t matter by then anyway,” Jenkins said. “The Aldriches were hooked. As long as the kid was born with two arms and two legs, they wanted it. So everything worked out just fine.”

  “Sure it did. How much did they pay you and Badger?”

  “That don’t matter now. Money’s long the hell gone.”

  “Tell me anyhow. How much?”

  “Two thousand. A grand apiece.”

  “Nice,” I said, “real nice. The two sisters keep on living in Marlin’s Ferry after the deal was done?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Never heard anything more about them? Never took the trouble to find out?”

  “Why should I? It was over and done with and everything worked out fine, like I said. Everybody was happy.”

  “Everybody except Jane or Judy. What happened to the kid who raped her?”

  Jenkins shrugged. “They kicked his ass out of town, told him to never come back. After that, who knows or cares?”

  “Joe Badger still live around here? Maybe he’s got a better memory for names than you do.”

  “He don’t have a memory, period,” Jenkins said wryly. “He dropped dead of a heart attack three years ago.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, without much feeling. “How’s your wife’s memory?”

  “Worse than mine. That’s gospel.”

  “Either of you still in touch with Elizabeth?”

  “Not since her and Joe busted up twenty years ago.”

  “So you don’t know if she’s still in Marlin’s Ferry.”

  “No idea.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “Man, that’s all there is,” he said, and reached into his shirt pocket for another weed.

  “Uh-uh, not in here.”

  “What?”

  “Out of the car, Jenkins. Pollute your own air. Our business is finished.”

  He scowled at me but he got out. I started the engine, and when I backed up he moved around to where he could look in at me through the open driver’s window.

  “I told you what you wanted to know,” he said. “You don’t have to treat me like shit now you got it.”

  I said, “You didn’t have to treat the Aldriches that way either,” and left him standing there with his middle finger upraised in the dim bulb’s answer to everything.

  I TOOK A ROOM at a Best Western downtown. It had been a long day and I was tired, and Jackson was a better place to spend the night than Marlin’s Ferry. The desk clerk told me where I could find the nearest tavern; I walked over to it and drank a couple of ice-cold beers. They did nothing to chase away the bad taste in my mouth.

  I could see myself sitting down with Melanie Ann a few days from now. Hear myself saying to her, “So here it is in a nutshell. Your mother was a teenage rape victim with some kind of mental or emotional problem and your father was a sadistic troublemaker who beat her as well as raped her and then got beaten up himself and almost lynched by some angry farmworkers. Paul and Claire bought you for five thousand dollars—three thousand to Lyle Cousins and two thousand to a pair of half-wits who set up the deal.” And then I could add whatever else I’d found out by then, names and more sordid details. Make her real happy, wouldn’t it? Make her hold her head up high, sleep better at night knowing who she was and how she’d come into this world.

  Sugarcoat it for her? There wasn’t enough sugar to hide the sour taste. And I wasn’t going to lie to her, was I? I’d already decided that. Professional ethics. Pay me to do a job, I do the job and give full value for money received, whether the client likes the results or not. Not up to me to be Melanie Ann’s protector, my sister’s keeper.

  Well, was it?

  Goddamn it, I thought, I hate this job sometimes.

  I returned to the motel and called Kerry’s condo, and fortunately she was home early from the advertising wars. Medicine for melancholy, hearing her voice. We talked for a while, and when I told her about Melanie’s origins and the quandary I was in she said, “Of course you’re not going to tell her.”

  “Oh, I’m not?”

  “No way. It would be cruel and you’re not cruel.”

  “She has a right to know.”

  “She also has a right not to know. Think about that.”

  I thought about it. “Maybe,” I said. “Depends on what I find out about the birth mother and father, what became of them. I have to have all the facts before I can make a decision either way.”

  “Still hoping something positive will turn up?”

  “You never know. All you can do is keep plugging away.”

  “An optimist in cynic’s clothing. That’s one of the things I love about you. You’d look for a silver lining in the eye of a hurricane.”

  “Hurricane eyes don’t have silver linings,” I said. “Clouds have silver linings.”

  “Mr. Literal. Hurricanes have clouds, don’t they? Hurricanes are clouds. Besides, I’m horny.”

  “... What?”

  “Got your attention, didn’t I? I said I’m horny. I wish you were here.”

  “I wish I was there too. What is it about being married that’s turned you into a sex maniac?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is, ever since you stepped on my foot and knocked down the judge’s diploma last Friday, I’ve
had an insatiable lust for your body. You know what I’d do if you were here right now?”

  “No, what would you do?”

  She told me. In steamy detail.

  “Kerry, come on, you’re embarrassing me. . . .”

  “Is that all I’m doing?” she said, and embarrassed me some more.

  When we ended the conversation my hands were damp and my mouth was dry and I was sitting there all alone with an erection. Almost sixty years old and damned if I hadn’t just had —or almost had—phone sex for the first time.

  Chapter Seven

  THE MARLIN’S FERRY OFFICES of Lyle M. Cousins, Attorney-at-Law, were located in a refurbished Victorian house a block off Highway 12. Picket fence, barbered lawn, a huge magnolia tree for shade, and a fresh paint job on the old dowager. It was a far cry from the country-lawyer stereotype of a dusty one-room walk-up office above a drugstore or lodge hall.

  Inside, it was like walking into a nursery. Ferns and a score of other plants grew out of tubs, pots, boxes, stands, and hanging baskets, all of them looking freshly watered. One of the nonlegal duties, probably, of the attractive middle-aged woman who occupied the reception area’s lone desk. There was a discreet nameplate on the desk, but the given name on it wasn’t Elizabeth; I would have been surprised if it was. Rose . . . Rose Turley.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said. “May I help you?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Is Mr. Cousins free?”

  “No, I’m afraid he’s out of the office today. Would you like to make an appointment for another day? Or to see his associate, Mr. Bagwell?”

  “Actually, you may be able to help me.” I handed her a card from my wallet. Not one of my own; one of the other business cards I carry with different names and occupations—all genuine and gathered from various sources. This one said I was Morton Hinkle, an auditor with the Sacramento office of the Internal Revenue Service. Cousins knew my name by now, that I’d been in town yesterday asking questions, and for all I knew he’d warned his staff not to speak to me if I showed up here.

  Ms. Turley looked at the card and then up at me again, smiling. The smile dripped curiosity. “If I can, Mr. Hinkle.”

  “Have you worked here long?”

  “Nine years.”

  “Do you or did you know a woman named Elizabeth who was once Mr. Cousins’s legal secretary?”

  “Elizabeth Durrell, yes. But she’s been gone . . . oh, six or seven years now.”

  “Gone?”

  “She remarried and moved to Nevada.”

  “Would you know where in Nevada?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Mr. Cousins might know. . . .”

  “Well, I need to talk to her as soon as possible about a tax matter.” I didn’t elaborate and she didn’t ask. People don’t ask the IRS for details, which was the reason I’d picked Morton Hinkle’s card. “I understand she was once close to two sisters who share a house here in town. One sister’s name is Jane or Judy—”

  “Jody,” Ms. Turley said immediately. “You must mean the Everson sisters, Jody and Carolyn.”

  “Prominent local family?”

  “Well, they were once. In the forties and fifties their father owned most of the apple and walnut orchards around here. He practically owned the town.”

  “Do the sisters still live here?”

  “Carolyn does. She’s the only Everson left.”

  “Oh? When did Jody die?”

  “It must be ... oh, fourteen or fifteen years.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, and I meant it. “She couldn’t have been very old at the time. Was it sudden?”

  “Not sudden, no. She was ill for some time.”

  “With what ailment?”

  “I ... really don’t know.” She knew, all right, but she didn’t care to share that particular piece of knowledge with a stranger, even one who allegedly represented the U.S. government. More secrets, more grim complications?

  “Can you tell me where Carolyn lives?”

  “Still in the old house on B Street.”

  “B Street.”

  “B and Fourth. Just a few blocks from here. It’s a big two-story place with an iron fence around it.” Ms. Turley’s thin face took on a disapproving expression. “She’s let it go rather badly, ever since she took up with . . . well, never mind about that. I shouldn’t be telling tales.”

  Yes, you should, I thought. “Is she married?”

  “She was once. Her husband left her.”

  “Oh?”

  “Before Jody died. She took back her maiden name then.”

  “But she doesn’t live alone.”

  “Not since her . . . friend moved in a few years ago.”

  “What friend is that?”

  “Well, I really shouldn’t tell tales, but—” The intercom on her desk buzzed and cut her off before she could tell this one. Summons from Mr. Bagwell; end of interview. Damn.

  Ms. Turley excused herself and vanished through an inner door, leaving Morton Hinkle’s card on her desk. I picked it up, stowed it back inside my wallet as I went out. Waste not, want not. Besides, you never know when the IRS might come in handy, and Morton was the only auditor in my collection.

  THE EVERSON HOUSE was of twenties vintage, a sprawling corner pile with cupolas and an abundance of sagging gingerbread. It hadn’t been painted since Lyndon Johnson occupied the Oval Office, and the gingerbread looked especially scabrous—like mold growing around the edges of a dried-out wedding cake. Weeds and high grass choked the front and side yards, and rust flecked the iron pickets that surrounded the property. It wasn’t quite Charles Addams territory, but another ten years of neglect and it would be.

  The front gate had a loose hinge that squealed when I pushed it open. Something rustled toward me through the grass, materialized just as I reached the porch—an orange tabby with a crooked tail and a cloudy right eye. Despite the cat’s piratical appearance, he followed me up the steps and rubbed against my legs, purring as I punched the bell.

  I leaned down to scratch the cat’s ears. The door opened while I was doing that, and when I straightened I was nose to nose with a tall, heavyset, fortyish woman dressed in Levi’s jeans and a blue chambray shirt. Her hair was the color of barley, cropped short, and her eyes were blue and as hard as enamel. The too-red lipstick she wore made her mouth look as if she’d just taken a bite out of somebody.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello. Nice cat.”

  “You think so? He’s yours for twenty bucks.”

  I smiled; she didn’t. “Carolyn Everson?”

  “No, I’m Netta.”

  “Is Ms. Everson home, Netta?”

  “What do you want with her?”

  “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, it’s a private matter . . .”

  “About what?”

  “I’d prefer to tell her, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind. About what?”

  Guardian angel. Terrific. “It’s about her sister, Jody.”

  “Jody? Jody’s dead.”

  “Yes, I know that. The reason I’m here—”

  “We don’t talk about the past in this house.”

  “Look, Netta, if you’ll just—”

  She shut the door in my face.

  I stood there for about five seconds. Then I rang the bell again, leaning on it. She hadn’t gone far; she yanked the door open, and said between her teeth, “Just who the hell are you, anyway?”

  I had a card ready for her, one of my own this time. “All I ask is that you give Ms. Everson a message. Will you do that? Please?”

  She stared at the card. “A detective? If you’re here to do Carolyn some harm—”

  “I’m not. I’m here on behalf of her niece.”

  “Her what?”

  “Niece. Jody’s child.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Tell her that and tell her I’d like five minutes of her time, no more.”


  Netta said, “I don’t like this.” Then she said, “Wait here,” and shut herself inside again.

  “I don’t like it either,” I said to the closed door. The orange tabby was still hanging around; he rubbed my leg, making a noise in his throat that was half purr and half meow. I scratched his ears again. “Cat,” I said, “it looks like you’ve had a rough life. But right now I think I’d be willing to swap places with you.”

  He said, “Mrr,” and sat down and began to lick his hind end.

  “On second thought, let’s just leave things the way they are.”

  I waited nearly ten minutes. When the door finally opened again, the woman who came out ahead of Netta was in her mid-forties, bonily thin, with frizzy auburn hair and pale eyes that had known a lot of pain. She had been pretty once, and I had the impression that she’d once been full of spirit; but things had happened to her, things had been done to her, and the sum of them had drained and dried and hardened her, until now she was like a thick-shelled husk with nothing much left inside. The pale eyes bore the imprint of pain, but the pain itself was gone. Strong emotion of all kind had been bled out of her. The look she gave me had no anger, no concern, not even a flicker of curiosity. It was just a flat, empty stare, like the stare of a corpse.

  “I’m Carolyn Everson. What’s this all about?”

  I told her, keeping it succinct. Nothing changed in her face or eyes; she didn’t even blink. Netta reacted, though: anger, and something else that I took to be a fierce protectiveness when she laid an arm around the other woman’s shoulders.

  “The girl was legally adopted by the Aldriches,” Carolyn Everson said. “She’s not an Everson. She’s not my niece.”

  Netta said, “If she tries to lay claim, we’ll make her wish she hadn’t.”

  “Claim to what?” I asked.

  “Carolyn’s property, what’s left of her father’s estate. That’s what this is leading up to, isn’t it?”

  “No,” I said. “Melanie doesn’t need or want anything from Ms. Everson. The Aldriches left her financially secure.”

  “So you say. She must want something.”