Spook

by Bill Pronzini

  I had him fill out and sign a form for the bonding company, so he could be added to the agency bond. Then I gave him one of the spare keys to the office. Tamara would have to decide if he should be granted access to her computer files; not my department.

  Downstairs, I asked if he wanted to ride over to Visuals, Inc. with me. He said no, politely, he’d follow me in his car, save me the trouble of having to bring him back. Half-truth, I thought. He didn’t care to ride with me because it would’ve meant small talk, establishing a connection in an enclosed space. Nothing personal against me; it was a loner thing, part of that reticence of his. Hard man to read, to talk to one on one. He preferred to deal with people, professionally and otherwise, in ways that were glancing, impersonal.

  I wondered if he’d been that way before the loss of his second wife. At least partly, I decided. He was the kind of man who let few individuals get close to him, who for the most part reserved his inner self for someone he loved, trusted, connected with on a deep private plane. He and the second wife must have made a very close, self-contained unit — two people moving through life as if in a thinly membraned bubble, venturing out separately for practical purposes but neither of them whole unless they were together. People who didn’t need many friends or outside activities, who found complete fulfillment in each other.

  I understood that kind of man, that kind of relationship. Essentially Kerry and I were like that, even more so before we let Emily inside our little bubble. If I lost her, as Runyon had lost his wife, would I be as he was now? Almost certainly. Half a unit — half a man. Existing for my work and little else, except for Emily in my case as Runyon’s estranged son was in his.

  Brothers under the yoke, all right. In more ways than one.

  Parking in the Franklin Square vicinity was as bad on Saturdays as it was during the week. I let Runyon have the first space I saw, then had to drive around for ten minutes before I found another spot a couple of blocks off Mariposa. Getting my exercise whenever I came here.

  Steve Taradash, contrary to his assurances, was absent from Visuals, Inc. Some sort of urgent business, the guy who admitted us said; he was due back at one o’clock. The guy pointed us toward Meg Lawton’s office with a mild warning to keep out of the way of the “shoot.” This translated to a film crew busily setting up cameras and equipment and wheeling sets and props around in the vicinity of the sound stage. All the hectic activity drew my attention as we walked to the offices, but not Runyon’s; he might have been alone in the building, eyes front all the way.

  Meg Lawton greeted us enthusiastically. She was a large, fiftyish bottle blonde with a nurturing smile belied by sad blue eyes: earth mother in turquoise polyester, a little careworn and disillusioned, but clearly still clinging to her own set of youthful ideals.

  “I’m so glad Steve called you,” she said. “What happened to that poor man... Spook, I mean... well, it’s awful. Just awful.”

  I said, “You do know we’re not investigating the homicide.”

  “Yes, I know, just trying to identify him. The police haven’t found out a thing so far. I don’t suppose they’ll ever find out who killed him in his doorway.”

  “His doorway?” Runyon said. “He always slept in the same spot?”

  “Yes, once he knew we — Steve, I should say — had no objections.”

  “Always alone?”

  “Oh, yes, always.”

  “You ever see him with anyone during the day?”

  “Other homeless people, you mean?”

  “Anyone at all.”

  “No. Except for his ghosts, of course... he was always talking to them.”

  I asked, “Do you know a homeless man, big, dark, wears a tatty red and green wool cap?”

  “Big Dog? I don’t know him, no, but I’ve seen him, heard the name.”

  “From Spook?”

  “No, from another homeless person. Spook wouldn’t have had anything to do with Big Dog, I’m sure.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “He just wouldn’t,” she said. “Spook was friendly, very polite... such a gentle soul. And Big Dog... well, he’s the exact opposite. An ugly personality, if you know what I mean.”

  “Not exactly, Mrs. Lawton.”

  “I don’t like to speak ill of the disadvantaged, but Big Dog... he’s an angry man. Very aggressive, foul-mouthed. I’ve only seen him twice and he was screaming obscenities at someone both times.”

  “Not Spook?”

  “No. He wasn’t around either time.”

  “Mr. Taradash mentioned seeing them together once, around Thanksgiving,” I said. “Sharing a bottle of cheap wine in a doorway.”

  “Really? Spook and Big Dog? Steve never told me that.”

  “So evidently they did know each other, spent some time together.”

  “I suppose so. Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. Spook spent some of the spare change we gave him on wine, there wasn’t anything to be done about that, and if Big Dog knew Spook had alcohol he’d demand a share. And Spook would’ve given it to him willingly, that’s the way he was.”

  “Violent, this Big Dog, would you say?” Runyon asked.

  “Oh. yes. But if you’re thinking he’s the one who shot poor Spook, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “A man like that wouldn’t have a gun.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “He’s an alcoholic,” Meg Lawton said. “Drunk both times I saw him. And his clothes are filthy, just rags. If a homeless man like that ever had a gun, he’d have pawned it for money to buy liquor.”

  “Unless he used it to get money another way.”

  “You mean... robbery?”

  “Armed robbery, that’s right.”

  “But that’s... no, I don’t believe that. Besides, what possible reason could he have for killing Spook? That poor man didn’t have anything worth stealing, no money or valuables. He spent whatever anyone gave him on... well, what were essentials to him.” Meaning wine and tobacco.

  “You’re sure of that, Mrs. Lawton?”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “If Spook owned anything of value, I’d have known it. We were friends. Really, I’m not just saying that. I was his friend and I think he felt the same about me.” She pushed her jaw out a little and said again, “I’d have known.”

  “If this Big Dog had some kind of grudge against him,” Runyon said, “would you have known that?”

  “I think so. I think he’d have said something. He was always talking to his ghosts about people on the street. Some of it didn’t make much sense — he was disoriented a lot of the time — but sometimes you could understand the gist of it. I never heard him say a bad word about anyone, or mention any trouble.”

  “Where does Big Dog hang out, do you know?”

  “Over in the Square, probably,” she said. “That’s where he was the two times I saw him.”

  “Franklin Square,” I explained to Runyon. “Park a couple of blocks from here — we passed it coming over.”

  He nodded. “The other street people Spook talked about, Mrs. Lawton — any names you can remember?”

  “... Delia, Mac something, Pinkeye. There were so many...”

  “Anything specific about any of them?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Nothing that made any sense.”

  “What about his life before he showed up here?” I asked. “He ever say anything about that?”

  “I’m not sure. Little things now and then...”

  “Names, places?”

  “The only one that sticks in my mind is Sweetwater Street. I think it might be where he lived once. He didn’t say so, but that was the impression I got.”

  “No such street in the city.”

  “I don’t have any idea where it might be,” she said. “It was one of his lost days when I heard him say it... you know, when he wasn’t tracking very well.”

  Runyon asked, “What can you tell us about those ghosts of his?”

&
nbsp; “Well, he had conversations with them. Long, strange conversations that didn’t make much sense.” She paused, frowning. “One time I heard him say ‘Are you still mad at me, Dot? I’m sorry for what I done, you know I’m sorry.’ And then he started to cry. That poor, sick man... he cried like a baby.”

  “ ‘Dot.’ That was one of the ghosts’ names?”

  “Yes. A woman, definitely. Another time it was ‘Dot honey.’ It seemed to hurt him somehow, whenever he said her name.”

  “As if there was a painful memory attached to it?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “What about the other ghost? Or were there more than two?”

  “Three, I think. I’m not sure.”

  “The one you are sure of, man or woman?”

  “Man. Luke, or it could have been Duke.”

  “And the third?”

  “Sometimes he’d say things like ‘No, no, Mr. Snow.’ And ‘Ain’t that so, Mr. Snow.’ Always rhyming it.”

  “Just Mr. Snow, no other name?”

  “Just Mr. Snow.”

  “Dot, Luke or Duke, Mr. Snow. Real people who died, you think, or just figments?”

  “Well... I’d say real people. Anyway they were to him.”

  “Assuming they were real,” I said, “ ‘Dot honey’ indicates someone close to him. Wife, girlfriend, sister.”

  “That was my impression, too.”

  “Did you get any idea of what he did to her or thought he did to her?”

  “No, none.”

  “Or of who either of the men were, what relationship he might have had with them?”

  Sad shake of her head. “I’m not being much help, am I?”

  “On the contrary, Mrs. Lawton. You’re doing fine.”

  We asked her a few more questions, none of which produced any potentially useful information. It was well past one o’clock when we were done and Steve Taradash still hadn’t put in an appearance. Most of the other employees were involved with the film shoot, so questioning them would have to wait. Runyon asked Meg Lawton to show us the doorway where Spook’s body had been found. She led us through a back door onto the loading dock, down concrete steps into a windblown, litter-strewn alley.

  “We try to keep the area back here clean,” she said apologetically, as if the alley’s state was some sort of social lapse, “but with so many homeless, and the careless way people throw things out of cars... it’s just an impossible job.”

  Neither Runyon nor I had anything to say to that. We were both taking visual impressions of the alley as we followed Mrs. Lawton along the warehouse wall. It was wide enough to allow room for a small truck to back into one of the dock’s two loading bays — almost wide enough to be called a street. Down at the far end, a raggedy homeless man was poking among the contents of an overflowing shopping cart; otherwise it was empty of people, if not of parked vehicles. The buildings on both sides made it into a canyon where the wind played swirl games with newspapers, food wrappers, the remains of a cardboard carton.

  “This was Spook’s doorway,” Meg Lawton said.

  It was about fifty feet east of the loading dock and fifty yards or so from the nearest cross street, Hampshire. Narrow space, not more than five feet wide, which would make it cramped sleeping quarters; but deep enough so that it afforded some shelter from the elements. On the rough pavement were dark stains that someone — Mrs. Lawton, maybe — had tried and failed to eradicate with a brush and an abrasive solvent.

  The door there was metal and appeared to be secure. Runyon asked, “What’s on the other side?”

  “A supply room. The only time the door is opened is when there’s a delivery.”

  “The person who found the body — is he working today?”

  “Verne Dolinsky, one of our warehousemen. No, he’s off today.”

  “Be here on Monday?”

  “Yes, but he’s a new man, only with us a short time. He didn’t know Spook as well as the rest of us.” She was hugging herself, staring down at the stained pavement. A little shudder went through her. “It’s freezing out here. If you’re done...”

  “Jake?” I said. “Anything else?”

  “Not right now.”

  Back inside, we found Taradash finally back from his urgent meeting. I introduced him to Runyon, told him Jake would be handling the field part of the investigation. Taradash had no objection once I assured him that our entire agency worked as a team, no additional charge.

  Runyon asked how long the filming would last, if it was all right if he stopped back later to talk to some of the other employees. Taradash said sure, any time, and requested that we leave by the loading dock door because of the shoot. On the way back there I said to Runyon, “Blue collar boys, that’s us. Tradesmen please use the rear door.”

  Feeble joke and he didn’t crack a smile. But then, the funniest man alive would have had trouble getting a smile out of Jake Runyon these days. We both remained silent until we were outside and on our way through the wind-chilled alley.

  “You want to take over from here, Jake?” I said then.

  “Counting on it. See if I can locate this Big Dog for starters.

  For no good reason I said, “ ‘And when the big dog comes home, he’ll tell you what the little dog’s done.’ ”

  “Come again?”

  “Line from an old jazz song. ‘St. Louis Blues.’ ”

  “You a jazz fan?”

  “Most of my life. But I don’t pay as much attention as I used to.”

  That was enough small talk for him. He pulled his collar up tight around his throat and said, “One question. You have contacts with the SFPD?”

  “I know a couple of guys on the Bureau of Inspectors.”

  “I’d like a look at the official report, just for background. Will one of them let me see it? Talk to me about their investigation?”

  “Answer your questions, at least.”

  “Let me have a look at the body?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Who do I ask for first?”

  “Jack Logan. Lieutenant. I’ve known him the longest — we used to play poker together. The other man is an inspector, Harry Craddock. If you need me to verify your employment, I’ll be home the rest of today.” I passed over one of the business cards with my home number on it. “Feel free to call yourself, any time, any reason.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think it’ll be necessary.”

  We parted on Hampshire Street. No more words, just a nod from Runyon before he moved away, walking fast and ram-rod-straight with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his overcoat.

  He was a hard man to like as well as a hard man to know, unless you were cut from similar cloth. I wasn’t sure I liked him much, at least not yet, but I was pretty sure I understood him and could work with him. Time would tell if Tamara, as young and high-strung as she was, felt the same.

  6

  Jake Runyon

  Back in his element.

  Little twitches of life in him again.

  Funny way to feel, walking among the homeless and the derelicts shivering in the gray cold of Franklin Square. But you couldn’t control something like that. He’d been numb for so long, ever since Colleen died. No, before... from when the chemotherapy hadn’t done any good and hope faded and he’d been forced to face the fact that he would lose her. So numb he could barely function, walking around like a zombie — days and nights of the living dead. So numb after she was gone he couldn’t even lift his .357 Magnum, much less shove it into his mouth and eat it. Three nights of that, three nights of sitting numb and sweat-soaked with the gun as heavy as a slab of granite on his lap before he’d faced another fact: he didn’t want to die yet. That had numbed him even more, because the desire to live seemed like a betrayal of Colleen, a mockery of her suffering.

  The decision to leave Seattle, the move to San Francisco, the attempts to contact Josh... all done numbly. Even the need for work, something to occupy his time and thoughts, had been a d
ull need motivated more by inactivity than desire. The job application and interview, the call saying he’d been hired, the second call putting him to work on this Spook business — none of it had made him feel any less empty. Numb this morning, numb at the agency office, numb at Visuals, Inc. It wasn’t until he’d left Bill and walked over here that he’d begun to regain some awareness, to feel again. For the first time he was smelling this city, the dank effluvium of its streets. Feeling the cold, tasting the salt in the wind. Just vagrant twitches of his senses, but sharp enough to cut through the numbness. Like when you woke up with your arm asleep and for a while you couldn’t lift it or move your fingers and then all at once the tingling started, little pinpricks of life returned.

  He knew this kind of urban environment, maybe that was part of it. The streets, the down-and-out who lived on them, the predators who hunted on them. Seattle or San Francisco or any city you could name, it didn’t make any real difference. The streets and the people were essentially the same. His element, no question. He was at his professional best out here on the squalid sidewalks, the needle- and bottle-strewn gutters. He’d been away from the streets too long, hadn’t really worked them since his days on the Seattle PD before the car smash that had killed Ron Cain. The Pike’s Market area downtown, before they cleaned it up; West Seattle and the railyards and the terminals along the East Waterway and the Duhamish Waterway. His beat. His dirty little world.

  The five years with Caldwell & Associates had made Colleen happy, but not him. White-collar work in better neighborhoods, among the middle-class and the gentry. Mostly safe, and mostly without either challenge or any real satisfaction. Much smaller agency here, operating out of far less opulent quarters than Caldwell’s, and just two people to answer to — a mismatched pair, if he’d ever seen one, but even so a business relationship that seemed to work. Maybe this Spook case was atypical of the kind of jobs that came their way; could be he’d end up handling the same type of mostly boring, by-rote investigations he’d been given at Caldwell. And maybe not. Bill had been in the game a long time, public and private both, and he’d had his share of dealings with rough trade; you could tell it by the questions he asked, the way he handled people, and you could see it in that craggy, beat-up face of his. Solid rep, and willing to take on a lowdown case like this one, the kind the bigger agencies like Caldwell wouldn’t have touched. Tamara Corbin was no amateur, either, despite her age. Sharp and sharp-tongued, streetwise and nail-tough under her deceptively soft exterior.