Spook

by Bill Pronzini

  She highlighted the records, tapped the print key. Feeling a little better now, with nobody around to hassle her. Just her and Mac doing their thing to keep her mind off all the crap in her life—

  The door opened and somebody came in.

  She looked up. Oh, Lord, she thought.

  He came in slow and easy, the way he always entered a room, kind of gliding like a big old cat. Raindrops glistened on his coat and that out-of-shape gray hat with the moldy feather in the band. She hated that hat; everybody hated that hat except him. His lucky Fedora, he called it. Lucky it didn’t have a mess of lice crawling around inside it.

  “Morning, sweetness,” he said.

  That damn nickname. Made her sound like a female Walter Payton. Sometimes she didn’t mind it; other times, when she was feeling bad like now, it set her teeth on edge. Him and his pro football. Biggest disappointment of his life was hurting his knee his senior year at San Jose State and never getting a tryout at defensive back with one of the pro teams.

  She said, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice, “What’re you doing here, Pop?”

  “Had to come to the city on police business. So I thought I’d stop by, see how you’re doing.”

  Yeah, sure. “Doing fine,” she said.

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  “Claudia called you, right? Damn that girl! I told her—”

  “Don’t curse your sister. I haven’t talked to her in a week.”

  “Well, then, how—”

  “Horace. Last night.”

  “He called you? What, so you’d try to talk me around to his side?”

  “He loves you, Tamara.”

  “I know it. Doesn’t change anything.”

  Pop took off his hat, ran a hand over his knobby head. Hairline receded more every time she saw him, seemed like; bald about halfway back now. Maybe that was why he wore that hat all the time. The long bushy mustache, too — a kind of compensation. Always was vain about his looks.

  He’d been here before, once, to look the place over and meet the boss man. Made up an excuse for showing up that time, too; couldn’t just come out and admit he was checking up. But now he was looking around like it was his first visit.

  “This office is pretty low-end,” he said. “Fits the neighborhood.”

  “Rent’s cheap.”

  “Still. Might be a good idea to upgrade your image.”

  “Talk to the boss man about it, not me.”

  “He’s not the boss man anymore, is he? Equal partners?”

  “Not until next month. Still the boss man, anyway. I’ll be the boss woman.”

  “So talk to him about new office space.”

  “He’s the one built the agency, holds it together. He wants us to stay here, we’ll stay here. Knamean?”

  “Don’t use that tone with me, girl.”

  “What tone?”

  “Little kid snotty. You know I don’t like it.”

  “Just telling it like it is, Pop.”

  “Like you told Horace how it is?”

  She ground molars, swallowed a breath before she said, “Don’t be ragging on me, okay?”

  “You going to sit down with the man?”

  “Already sat down with him. It’s all talked out.”

  “He doesn’t think so.”

  “Not giving up my career for him.”

  “Some career for a young African American woman.”

  “Following in your footsteps.”

  “I’m a police officer, not a private detective. I never wanted you girls involved in any kind of law enforcement.”

  “And we done defied you. Claudia got her law degree and went to work for the D.A. instead of going into private practice and I turned into a private eye. Big disappointment for you and Ma.”

  “For God’s sake, we’re not disappointed. We’re proud of you both. I’m only saying

  “Please, Pop. I don’t want to hear anymore about my career or Horace and me. Decision’s mine, nobody else’s.”

  “You don’t have to move to Philadelphia to make your relationship work.”

  “Long distance romance? That’s honky movie stuff, not real life.”

  “Watch your mouth. We taught you better than that.”

  “I mean it,” she said. “I’m looking to build my life right here. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Building it alone, that’s what’s wrong with it.”

  “Marriage, kids? Been getting along fine without, so far.”

  “You wouldn’t be here if your mother and me thought that way.”

  That old song. She said, “It’s not for everybody, you know that.”

  He went over and laid a hip on the corner of Bill’s cluttered desk. Out came one of his sticks of spearmint gum. Always chewing that stuff since he quit smoking. “We had hopes you’d come around,” he said. “You and Horace make a handsome couple.”

  “Bull, Pop. You couldn’t stand him when I first brought him home.”

  “Wrong first impression,” he admitted. “What kind of man wants to play a cello for a living? But I came around. He’s strong, smart, and he’s been good to you. Seemed right that you’d get married eventually.”

  “No way,” Tamara said. Lie or truth? She didn’t know. If Horace had asked her under the right circumstances... Too late now anyway.

  “You keep saying that. How about if the three of us sit down, I help you try to come to an understanding?”

  “Dag, that’s a fine idea. Me and Horace, and Sergeant Dennis Corbin, Redwood City PD, handling the interrogation. That’d sure solve everything.”

  “Snotty again. Knock it off!”

  “I will, if you’ll please just stay out of my business.”

  “You are my business, girl. You and Claudia. Two healthy daughters, raised the best we knew how, and you—”

  The telephone cut him off. Tamara swooped down on it. Contact returning one of the boss man’s calls on the job for McCone Investigations. She took down his information, writing it in longhand rather than on the Mac to prolong the conversation. When she finally hung up, Pop was on his feet again — giving her that look of his, half glum and half evil-eye, like when she was a kid and she’d done something to piss him off.

  “Almost noon,” he said. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “Can’t today. Too much work.”

  “You have to eat.”

  “Catch a sandwich later.”

  He hesitated, sighed, started toward the door, stopped again. “You can’t just leave it like this with Horace,” he said.

  “So long, Pop. Thanks for coming by.”

  The look for a few more seconds. Then he slapped that sorry old hat back on his head, said, “We’ll talk again soon,” and went on out before she could say anything else.

  Men. Fathers. Lord have mercy.

  Phone rang again. Damn phone. She managed not to growl when she picked up.

  Jake Runyon. He said, “I’m at Visuals, Inc. Found something that might be useful, might not. Thought you’d want to know in any case.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Came from one of the equipment handlers, Pete Snyder. He was on vacation last week, didn’t know Spook was dead until this morning. He told me a woman from the Department of Human Services mentioned Spook a few days before the shooting.

  “Social worker?”

  “Homeless caseworker. But Spook wasn’t one of hers.”

  “What was her interest in him then?”

  “No interest. She took a call about him.”

  Tamara’s nerves twanged again. “Don’t drag it out, man, get to the point.”

  “The point,” Runyon said evenly, “is that the social worker took a call about Spook at her office. Somebody wanted to know where to find him.”

  “Who?”

  “She didn’t give Snyder a name.”

  “Caller say why he was looking for Spook?”

  “If he did, she didn’t pass it on.”

  “We
ll, what did she pass on?”

  “Just what I told you.”

  “Then why’d she come around to talk to him about it?”

  “Look, Tamara... Ms. Corbin... I don’t mind being growled at when I’ve done something to warrant it, but this isn’t one of those times. I’m just doing my job here. Suppose we keep things on a professional level until my ass deserves chewing on?”

  She bristled and framed a comeback, but the bristle went and the comeback didn’t get said. Man was right. She didn’t have any reason to rag on him; she was venting on Horace, on men in general. Get a grip, girl.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m usually not a bitch-slapper — just a bad time for me right now. Personal stuff.”

  “Okay. I’ve been there.”

  Yeah, he had. Still was. Place he was in right now was a lot worse than the one she was in. “The social worker... why’d she go talk to Snyder about Spook?”

  “She didn’t,” Runyon said. “He eats lunch in the same place every day, a restaurant over on Potrero. She goes there sometimes when she’s in the neighborhood. They were both there the day after she got the call, that’s when she mentioned it to Snyder.”

  “Few days before the shooting, you said?”

  “Friday before last.”

  “What’s the social worker’s name?”

  “Evelyn something. Snyder doesn’t know her last name. Young, Japanese. A stone fox, he says.”

  “Uh-huh. Meaning he hit on her and she blew him off.”

  “You want me to follow up or keep on Big Dog?”

  “Big Dog,” she said.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Homeless caseworker, Japanese, young, and a fox — shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Agency didn’t have any contacts in the Department of Human Services, and people in city office jobs could be uncooperative with strangers on the phone. Might as well give it a try, though, see what shook out. She had her hand on the receiver when the bell jangled again, making her jump. Damn phone!

  Boss man, this time. “Just checking in,” he said. “You going out for lunch or you want me to bring you something?”

  “Not hungry,” Tamara said. She passed along the message on the Patterson case, then Runyon’s info on the social worker.

  “You contact Human Services yet?”

  “Just about to.”

  “I’m down near City Hall,” he said. “I’ll stop over there, see if I can locate the woman. City workers tend to be more cooperative in person.”

  “Fact. Just now thinking the same thing.”

  “Great minds.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  Only problem with his was, it was inside a man’s head.

  10

  It took me all of thirty seconds at Human Services to find out the social worker’s full name: Evelyn Sukimoto. But it was a good three hours before I could get an audience with her.

  She was out of the office, the young starchy type I spoke to said, and wouldn’t be back until mid-afternoon. Yes, she had a cell phone, but he couldn’t give me the number without her permission. No, he couldn’t tell me where she was now.

  I said, “Mid-afternoon. That mean three o’clock?”

  He offered up one of those looks young people reserve for those of us past the age of forty, the kind that equates age with creeping senility. “Ms. Sukimoto,” he said firmly, “will be back at her desk mid-afternoon.”

  Young, frozen-faced, on the supercilious side, and knew just how to make an imprecise statement sound precise and authoritative. A perfect candidate for the mayor’s public relations team. Hizzoner was going to need more spin doctors once the Patterson scandal broke. I considered telling Frozen Face he ought to apply, but suppose he took me seriously and went ahead and did it? Sobering thought. I settled for a toothy grin and a broad wink, and left him sitting there to puzzle that one out.

  Rather than return to the office, I checked in with Tamara again on the car phone. I’d had enough today, up close and personal, of her blue funk. Two more messages, which she delivered in a terse growl. Any further word from Jake Runyon? No. Anything to discuss? No.

  One of the messages had to do with the investigation for the engineering firm; I returned that call first, but the guy was away from his desk. Telephone tag. The other message was from Ted Smalley, the office manager at McCone Investigations. I had no trouble getting him on the line.

  “Almost done here, Ted. One more thing to verify and I’ll have everything fully documented.”

  “How soon, do you think?”

  “Shouldn’t be long. Tomorrow, Wednesday at the latest.”

  “Can you get the complete file to us by midday Thursday? Sharon wants everything wrapped up by close of business Friday so we can all enjoy the party. She has a meeting scheduled with the deputy mayor and the D.A. on Monday morning.”

  “I don’t see any problem. They’re not fixing to break the story before Christmas, are they?”

  “No, not until after the holidays,” Ted said. “But the D.A. is eager to start preparing his indictments. Naturally. He has his eye on the state attorney general’s seat.”

  “Uh-huh. So I’ve heard.”

  “The party is the other reason I called — to make sure you and Kerry will be attending. Tamara, too, of course.”

  “Party?”

  “The pier’s Season of Sharing party. I mentioned it to you last week.”

  “Oh, right. Right.”

  “You will be coming?”

  “It’s on the calendar,” I said without enthusiasm.

  “Sharon will be very disappointed if you’re a no-show.”

  “We’ll be there, Ted. But I wouldn’t count on Tamara.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “Personal problems. Not too serious.” I hope, I added silently. “What time again? Seven?”

  “Six. Six to nine. Come early.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” I lied.

  The fact is, I don’t much enjoy parties of any kind. Large gatherings, no matter how festive or charitable, make me feel claustrophobic; I don’t mix well, I’m no good at small talk, even with people I know, and my mind inevitably goes blank and shrivels up like a moldy nut in a shell. Kerry keeps trying to socialize me and it keeps not working. The quiet of home and hearth is what I prefer, the more so during the Christmas season. The one other large holiday party I’d attended, at her insistence — the infamous Gala Family Christmas Charity Benefit years ago — had been an unmitigated disaster for several reasons, not the least of which was my having allowed myself to be stuffed into a Santa Claus suit and little kiddies to dent my knees while they shared their innermost toy lusts.

  The Season of Sharing affair wouldn’t be that bad. It too was an annual charity benefit, but on a much smaller scale, put on by McCone Investigations and the other businesses at Pier 24-½. I’d been to a couple of them — Sharon is one of the last persons I would ever willingly offend — and I had survived. I’d survive this one, too, if I approached it in the right spirit.

  And the right spirit started with not worrying about it days in advance. What I needed right now was a way to pass the time until mid-afternoon. The only one with any appeal had nothing to do with business. Well, so what? Might as well start getting rid of the workaholic mindset a couple of weeks ahead of schedule.

  I drove up to Pacific Heights, lucked into a parking space a block from the building that houses my flat. My soon-to-be-former flat. The decision to semiretire had come with a corollary: get rid of unnecessary possessions and consolidate my life. I’d had the rent-controlled flat almost as long as I’d been a freelance investigator, and for a time after Kerry and I were married I’d split my time between it and her Diamond Heights condo — an unconventional arrangement that had worked pretty well, giving both of us the space and privacy we needed after years of living alone. But gradually I’d found myself spending more and more time at the condo; it was home now, and had been even before Emily came into our lives. O
ver the past year I’d slept a total of two nights at the flat, both for business-related reasons. The place no longer felt the same to me. It was as if, walking in, I was entering a series of rooms that were only distantly familiar, like a house or apartment where you lived many years ago; as if I’d already moved out. A little more than two weeks, and it would cease to be mine. New year, new lease for somebody else. I wondered if I’d miss it any after I turned over the keys. Maybe a little, but not much.

  There were only a few things left here that I wanted to keep. One piece of furniture, an antique secretary desk. Some personal stuff. And the bulk of my collection of 6,000 pulp magazines. There was room at the condo for all of these, though we’d need to do some rearranging and buy several new bookcases.

  Cartons of pulps that I’d already packed were piled in the living room; only about two thousand were left on shelves. Several more cartons containing my long run of Black Mask and other valuable titles I’d already transported to the condo. I took off my coat and set to work filling the few remaining empty boxes, making another mental note to round up additional empties before my next visit. Maybe this time, with four or five such notes stored, I would remember to do it.

  Pulp-paper magazines, with their gaudy covers and brittle, untrimmed edges and melodramatic stories of a vanished era, were a pleasure to handle. Even tucked into protective Mylar bags, their faintly musty odor permeated a room in a heady sort of way. I’d started collecting them in my late teens, and at one time I’d been an active, even aggressive buyer, poring over sales catalogs and haunting used bookshops and flea markets in my spare time. But then I’d met Kerry, and there’d been other changes good and bad, capped by Emily’s arrival, and my interest in pulps had declined to the point where I seldom even looked at them anymore.

  Now, though, with more free time in the offing, my enthusiasm had rekindled. I’d started unbagging and reading stories at random, here and at the condo. I’d dug out my old want list of missing issues of Black Mask, Dime Detective, and half a dozen other titles and given it to Ted Smalley’s significant other, Neal Osborn, who was an antiquarian bookseller with worldwide contacts. Once I had the entire collection moved and reshelved, I would catalog it and then begin upgrading the tattier issues. The prospect was energizing. Who said work was the be-all and end-all of a man’s existence? Who said retirement was just a period of limbo between living and dying? Me, once, but not anymore.