Epitaphs

by Bill Pronzini

  The fourth Richard Morris I tried was the right one. A female voice—young, fifteen or sixteen—answered, and I asked if this was the number for Dick Morris of Jeffcoat Electric, and she said yes it was, but he wasn’t home. Did I want to talk to her mom? No, I didn’t, but could she tell me what time Dick was expected? Suppertime, probably, she said. Any message? No message, I said—and she hung up before I could say good-bye and without saying good-bye herself. Cold father, cold daughter.

  The address that went with the correct number was 5977 Woodland Avenue, San Anselmo. I looked it up on my Marin County map. Woodland Avenue climbed one of the hills off Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, not more than three miles from where I was. I pumped some gas into the car and drove on over there.

  Morris’s house was at the top of Woodland—a big old redwood-sided place guarded by trees and fronted by a lawnless garden that was one-third crushed rock and wood chips, one-third flowering shrubs, and one-third leaf mold. In the driveway sat a plain white station wagon into which a plump blond woman in jogging clothes was loading baseball equipment and three kids in Little League uniforms. There was no other car in sight. Evidently the cold daughter had been telling the truth about her father’s absence.

  I made a U-turn, drove back downhill to Sir Francis Drake. Now where? There didn’t seem to be much point in going back to the city, since I still had business over here. But it was only a little after two, and Morris wasn’t expected home until suppertime, whenever that was in his household. Another swing through Bolinas, see if anybody had showed up at the pink cottage? Or a ride out to the Petaluma-Marshall Road to reconnoiter the Valconazzi ranch?

  I tossed a mental coin. Bolinas lost.

  NOVATO, A DOZEN MILES north of San Rafael, used to be a sleepy little farm town. One of my cousins had had a ranch up there when I was a kid, half a mile outside the village; he’d sold it off in the late fifties, for what he considered a handsome price. If he’d hung on to his 120 acres for another couple of decades, his two sons would be millionaires today. Over the past twenty-odd years Novato has grown into a minicity of fifty thousand residents, with sprawling subdivisions and luxury countryside homes—the bedroom community of choice for large numbers of San Francisco cops, firemen, office workers, and professional people.

  Thousands of acres of Marin farmland have died as a result. Thousands more are doomed to the ever-rapacious developers, who have already consumed nearly a million acres of Bay Area croplands since 1950—forty percent of the total that year. All in the name of progress, yes sir. More and more folks coming into the state, more and more folks born in the state, we’ve got to have more and more housing, right? More and more cheap housing, right? Never mind how we’re going to feed all the new and old citizens if there’s no land left to plant crops on. Never mind all the agricultural jobs, thousands of them, that have already been lost and will continue to be lost. The buck’s the thing. The Big, Big Buck.

  So one of these days, sure as death and taxes, all of Hicks Valley Road will be lined with tracts—and most of the Petaluma-Marshall Road will be too. For the time being, though, once you reach the intersection of the two, you’re more or less back in unspoiled Marin. Rolling hills patchworked with summer-browned grass and stands of dark green trees; dry creeks and rocky meadows and long stretches of bottomland spotted with dairy cattle; ranches few and far between, their buildings nestled in hollows or pressed back against the hills. Not many cars or people. Quiet. A place to go when you’re tired of having your senses assaulted by your fellow man. A place without distractions; a place where you can afford to think and drive at the same time.

  The Petaluma-Marshall Road is even more sparsely populated. Narrow, twisty, it follows a slender valley with steep wooded hillsides to the left and rumpled meadowland to the right. Buckeye trees in full bloom grow thickly out here; Spanish moss beards the branches of dusty old oaks.

  After a couple of miles, low rounded hills closed in to compress the cattle graze. The land on that side took on a broken, eroded aspect, creased by shallow ravines and stream beds. At 2.5 miles by the odometer, the fencing that bordered the road appeared newer, sturdier. I had not passed any ranch buildings or access roads in more than a mile, and as the odometer reading neared 3.0 I began to look for one or the other. Even so, I didn’t spot the half-hidden intersection until I was almost parallel to it.

  The turning was screened by pepper and buckeye trees, and I had to brake sharply to make the swing. The pole sign mounted there was even less conspicuous: small, made of metal suspended on chains, dark red lettering on a crisp white background. VALCONAZZI, it said; and below that, HOLSTEIN-FRIESIAN CATTLE—MORGAN HORSES. The ranch road was unpaved, dusty, rutted. Ten yards in from the county road, it made a sharp right-hand loop and dipped down behind the trees, so you couldn’t see the gate blocking it until after you’d completed the turn.

  I had to brake sharply a second time and the car slid a little, sideways, in the dust. The gate was tall, of tubular metal, painted white like the sign; a thick chain and padlock secured it to an iron stanchion. Barbed-wire fencing ran off on both sides. Beyond, the serrated roadbed snaked down through a hollow, up over a rise, and out of sight. None of the ranch buildings was visible from this vantage point.

  For no good reason I got out of the car and walked up to the gate. The weather was better out here than it had been at Bolinas—no fog, the overcast torn apart in places by high-altitude winds. The wind blew strong at ground level too: cold, and this close to Tomales Bay, smelling faintly of salt. I stood with it billowing my hair and clothing, looking through the gate and along the empty road.

  An odd feeling of disconnection came over me. What am I doing here? I thought. John Valconazzi, Chet Valconazzi, Gianna Fornessi ... I didn’t know any of them, had laid eyes only on Chet and then for about two minutes. Ranches and cockfighters, a hooker with a probable heart of stone— and a fifty-eight-year-old detective who likely was not going to realize a dime from his involvement with any of them. All the probing and running around I’d been doing did not seem to have much point when you looked at it that way. Dead or alive, Gianna was a bad seed; dead or alive, her grandfather and the rest of her family were going to suffer if and when they found out the truth. What the hell was there for me in any of that? White knight on another crusade for truth, justice, and the American way? Bullshit. Small truth, tiny bit of justice, absolutely no effect on the American way. She was a hooker, for Christ’s sake.

  She was a human being, for Christ’s sake.

  Hookers sell their bodies; private eyes sell another kind of expertise. What’s the difference, really, when you get right down to it. DeKuiper last night: Everybody’s a whore, one way or another. The son of a bitch was right. Profoundly right. Everybody’s a whore, everybody sells something in order to survive. And survival is the key—every person’s inalienable right to survive.

  That was what I was doing here. The same thing I’d been doing most of my life, the only thing I know how to do, poor old whore that I am: selling myself on the side of what I believe is just, trying to protect people’s right to survive.

  The Valconazzis and the Biscontes of the world were playing God; so was I. The difference was, I was trying to play a better one.

  IT WAS FOUR O’CLOCK when I drove back up Woodland Avenue in San Anselmo. I’d figured I might as well give Morris another try, even though it was not suppertime yet by anybody’s reckoning. Bolinas was another long drive and San Anselmo was more or less on the way.

  Good choice: Parked in the driveway of 5977 now, in place of the station wagon, was a new dark blue Buick Electra. And sitting alone on the front porch, with his coat and tie shed and a drink in his hand, was Dick Morris.

  He got up in a hurry when he saw me park and step out of the car. He came down off the porch in long, stiff-legged strides. I stayed on the sidewalk, waiting for him. He had to be angry, upset, but none of that showed in his face or in those morgue-cold eyes. The iceman cometh.

&
nbsp; He stopped a pace away and thrust his bony snout to within three inches of mine. “How dare you,” he said.

  I don’t like people invading my space uninvited. I backed him off by squaring up my shoulders and crowding forward, fast and aggressive. “I’m doing a job,” I said, “and you’re not cooperating. Blame yourself, Morris. If you’d told me everything this morning, I wouldn’t have had to look you up again.”

  “For God’s sake keep your voice down. My daughter’s in the house.”

  “Sure,” I said. “If you don’t withhold any more facts.”

  “What do you think I withheld?”

  “The cockfighting, for one thing.”

  “How did you—” Surprise had opened his mouth; cold will closed it again.

  “I told you this morning—detectives have ways of finding out things. You claimed you don’t know anybody named Chet; John Valconazzi has a son named Chet. You claimed you didn’t know who the Old Cocksman could be. You didn’t tell me the truth about the ‘gatherings’ at the Valconazzi ranch. You also didn’t tell me that you’re mixed up in an illegal bloodsport. Do you just watch, Mr. Morris? Or do you bet on cocking mains too?”

  “All right,” he said.

  I waited.

  Slow inhale; slower exhale. He was caught and he knew it, but he wasn’t contrite. Or afraid. Or angry or upset, either; I’d mistaken that. He wasn’t anything. The man had about as much interior as an empty freezer. “I didn’t tell you about the cockfighting because it is an illegal sport,” he said. “Consorting with a prostitute is scandalous enough. If it should come out that I attend and gamble on cockfights, I could lose my job as well as my standing in the community.”

  Job first, standing in the community second. Family third —or fourth or fifth. Mr. Wonderful. I waited some more, not giving him an inch.

  “All right,” he said again. “You have more questions. Go ahead, ask them.”

  “Did Valconazzi hold a cocking event last weekend?”

  “Nearly every weekend during the summer.”

  “Friday, Saturday, Sunday?”

  “Saturday and Sunday.”

  “Did you go?”

  “Only on Saturday. I had other plans for Sunday.”

  “Was Gianna Fornessi there?”

  “Yes.”

  “All day?”

  “All day.”

  “Still there when you left?”

  “I think so. There was a big crowd.”

  “So the last time you saw her was sometime Saturday evening.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think happened to her?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You said John Valconazzi introduced you to her. Truth or another lie?”

  “The truth.”

  “Was she always with him at the ranch?”

  “I never saw her with anybody else.”

  “How about Chet? He ever buy her services?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Never said anything to you along those lines?”

  “No.”

  “But he does use hookers, same as his father?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Ashley Hansen?”

  “Once. I saw him with her once.”

  “At the ranch?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many other times did you see Ashley there?”

  “Just that once.”

  “But Gianna was a regular, right?”

  “I saw her out there four or five times.”

  “Enjoying herself? Into the cockfighting?”

  “Yes. Women like the sport—some women. All the blood. It gets them ... excited.”

  “You too, huh?”

  No reply.

  I said, “I hear Chet’s into S&M and D&S. That what you hear?”

  Shrug.

  “What about John? He like to hurt women too?”

  “I have no idea. Other men’s preferences are none of my business.”

  “You, then. What’s your sexual bag?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Morris said. Then he said, “Damn you.”

  His bearing and his voice were very stiff now. He didn’t like talking about sex, not with a stranger and probably not with anybody, including his wife. At the core of Richard Morris there was a little dry-ice ball of prudishness.

  I asked, “Lot of women attend Valconazzi’s cockfights?”

  “Not many. A few.”

  “Respectable women?”

  “Most of them.”

  “How many people altogether, on a typical day?”

  “Anywhere from fifty to a hundred and fifty.”

  “Mainly locals?”

  “Quite a few out-of-towners.”

  “Heavy betting?”

  “Yes.”

  “You bet heavily yourself?”

  “No,” he said.

  Eye flick. The hell he didn’t.

  “Things ever get out of hand? Fights? Weapons?”

  “Of course not. What do you think cocking enthusiasts are?”

  I didn’t tell him what I thought they were.

  “The only trouble we’ve ever had,” Morris said, “is with the damned animal rights activists. A band of them tried to break up a main last year and there were some scuffles. John had them arrested for trespassing.”

  “Uh-huh. What about hard drinking, drugs?”

  “Not that either. Cockfighting is a serious sport, a civilized sport. My God, we’re not pagans. Men have been breeding and fighting gamecocks for three thousand years—decent men, important men. George Washington and Thomas Jefferson were both cockers. Abe Lincoln was a referee in Illinois.”

  “That doesn’t make it morally right.”

  Icy zealot’s stare.

  “Let’s talk about Jack Bisconte,” I said.

  “What about him?”

  “You still deny that you know him?”

  “No. I’ve met the man.”

  “At Valconazzi’s?”

  “He’s been at some of the mains.”

  “Pimping for Gianna and Ashley?”

  “No. Gambling.”

  “But you do know he was their pimp.”

  “Yes, I know it.”

  “You buy your time with Gianna through him?”

  A car was grinding its way uphill. Morris turned his head abruptly to watch it come into sight; then he put his eyes on me again. He’d thought it might be his wife’s station wagon, but it wasn’t.

  He said, “What did you ask me?”

  “Bisconte. You make your arrangements for Gianna through him?”

  “Just the first time. I didn’t have anything to do with him after that.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “He ... I thought he was asking too much for Gianna’s favors.”

  Favors. Christ.

  “And you argued about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. I had no choice—I paid his price.”

  “Then what? You called Gianna direct whenever you wanted to see her?”

  “That was the arrangement, yes. The price had been fixed. There was no need to go through Bisconte again.”

  “Were they charging Valconazzi the same amount?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “You ever try to negotiate a lower price with her?”

  “No. She ... Gianna is worth the money. Every penny.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I don’t care what you think of me,” he said.

  “Morality is in the eye of the beholder, right?”

  Nothing from him.

  I said, “Is Valconazzi fighting cocks again this weekend?”

  “Mains scheduled for both days.”

  “Starting times?”

  “Tomorrow at two, Sunday at four.”

  “How late do they run, usually?”

  “Fairly late on Saturdays. Eleven or twelve. That’s the day for big mains—at lea
st a dozen hacks. You know what mains and hacks are?”

  “Suppose you enlighten me.”

  “Mains are tournament competition,” Morris said. “Usually the Valconazzis versus breeders from other parts of California or out of state. Hacks are individual contests, one cock owned by each breeder. Whichever breeder wins the most hacks wins the main.”

  “Uh-huh. And on Sundays?”

  “Smaller mains and grudge or special hacks. They seldom run later than about eight P.M.”

  “You planning to be there this weekend, both days?”

  “Just tomorrow.”

  “How does Valconazzi work things with his guests? Notify them by phone or what?”

  “Written invitation.”

  “So only people he knows personally get to attend?”

  “No, not necessarily.”

  “This written invitation—you have to show it at the gate to get onto his property?”

  “Yes.”

  “It have the guest’s name on it?”

  “No. It’s a plain card with dates and times.”

  “Sent through the mail?”

  “Yes.”

  “This weekend’s card,” I said. “You have it on you?”

  “In my car.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  Morris hesitated, couldn’t find a way to refuse, and moved off to the Buick in his stiff-legged gait. When he came back he handed me a blue rectangular card, like a library card, with rounded corners and tomorrow’s and Sunday’s dates and times typed on it with a red-inked ribbon.

  “So you drive up to the gate,” I said, “and show this card to the guards. Does it buy you automatic entrance? Or do they have to know you or your car license?”

  “The card is all that’s necessary.”

  “They don’t ask to see any ID?”

  “Just the card,” Morris said.

  I tapped it against my thumbnail. “Tell you what, Mr. Morris. Suppose you spend tomorrow with your family. Weather should be better than it is today; you could go on a picnic or something.”