Spook

by Bill Pronzini

  The mutter of voices stopped. She finished the cheese, stepped to the counter to finish the milk. Pretty quiet out there now. Both of them gone? Might as well find out.

  Claudia was missing, but not Horace. Standing over in front of the fire, warming his chubby behind. All hangdog, like a big package somebody ordered and forgot to pick up. Whup, mixed metaphor. Language po-lice gonna get her sure.

  God, she felt awful.

  And not just from all the crap she’d eaten, either.

  Horace was looking at her with those big eyes of his, fierce and sorrowful at the same time. Kick his sorry butt out the door. Ignore him. Go off on him again. But she couldn’t make herself do any of those things. About all she could do was walk slow to the sofa and sink down on it.

  Pretty soon he came over and lowered his bulk next to her. Better not get too close, better not touch her.

  He didn’t. He said in a choky voice, “Tamara.”

  “That’s my name.”

  “You as miserable as I am?”

  “Who says I’m miserable?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. As usual.”

  “I know misery when I see it.”

  “Take a look in the mirror.”

  “In the mirror, and right here next to me.

  “So what if I am? None of your business anymore.”

  “You’ll always be my business.”

  “Sweet talkin’ b.s.”

  “I couldn’t stand it if I lost you, baby. I swear to God.”

  She closed her eyes. Leave it to him to say the one thing, in that choky voice, those brown eyes dripping sad, that could melt steel in her.

  “I mean it,” he said. “You know I love you.”

  “I hear you saying it.”

  “And you love me. Neither of us ever loved anybody else the way we love each other. You know that’s the truth too.”

  “Sometimes love’s not enough.”

  He laid his hand, gentle, on hers. “We belong together.”

  “Don’t touch me.”

  He didn’t move his hand. Move it for him, she thought... but she didn’t.

  “We belong together,” he said again.

  “I’m not going east with you.”

  “All right.”

  “Not gonna marry you either.”

  “All right.”

  “So what else is there?”

  “There’s now,” he said.

  “Now doesn’t last very long. Then what?”

  “Then we’ll have tomorrow. Christmas. New Year’s. One day at a time.”

  “That old song.”

  “Old song, true lyrics.”

  “Until there aren’t any more days left.”

  “Everything ends, everybody’s days run out. Better a little more time together than none at all, both of us alone and miserable.”

  “Horace, the philosopher.”

  “Horace, the man who loves you.”

  He slid nearer, tentatively. She didn’t move. He put his arm around her, drew her against him, held her tight. She didn’t pull away. Couldn’t have if she’d tried. Big as a tree, warm, tender. Hers. And no denying she was his, like it or not. For the first time in a week she felt like bawling.

  Damn man.

  She lay with her head on his thick-furred chest, all limp and sweaty, her skin still tingling. Shouldn’t’ve done that, she thought. Sex doesn’t solve anything. But her body said different. Her body said she’d needed it as much as she ever had. Stress relief, misery relief. One thing you could say for Horace, he knew how to love a woman. Lord, did he know! But it was more than that. She knew it, even if she hated having to admit it to herself. He was what she really needed. All of him, every part, the good and the bad, in bed and out.

  “Baby?” he said. “What’re you thinking?”

  “Not,” she said.

  “Liar. Thinking how good we are together, same as I was.”

  “In bed, maybe.”

  “In bed and every other way.”

  “I still won’t change my mind.”

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  Liar, she thought. Not Horace — you, girl. Liar. Fool.

  “There’s only one thing I will ask,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t give up on me. Don’t give up on us.”

  She didn’t have to think about her answer. There was only one answer, and no use trying to deny it or fight it any longer. No more fool for the fool. Even if it meant giving up everything else she cared about — only one answer.

  “I won’t,” she said.

  15

  Big Dog

  The storage shed was a good place for a stash, good place to hole up. Yeah, but not for long. Cold, damp. Full of old toilets, old sinks, all kinds of other plumbing crap. Full of spiders and bugs, give you the fuggin’ willies crawling over you in the dark. Nobody around when he slipped in last night, nobody come in during the day. Heard their trucks and them banging around out in the yard until quitting time, but the door stayed shut.

  Plumbers didn’t have no idea about the corner of the back fence that peeled away from the building wall. Or that you could pop the storeroom lock in about two seconds flat. Spook, he’d been crazy but still smarter than them plumbers. How’d he find the place? Fuggin’ radar or something. Followed him that one night, couldn’t hardly believe it when old Spook peeled the fence back, slipped into this here shed, come out again couple minutes later. Figured it had to be where his stash was. Took, what, five minutes to find it inside the busted crapper? Cloth sack full of junk except for the newspaper article and the business card. Yeah, that’d been his lucky day.

  Only now his luck had squeezed down on him again. Never did last, none of his lucky times. Always something come along to screw it up. Like that cop yesterday, walked into Pablo’s taco joint right outta nowhere. How’d he find out? Fuggin’ cops. No more jail time for Big Dog. No way, man. Too many stinking cells in his life, too many faggots, moochers, assholes. Jump off a bridge before he’d go back behind bars.

  Raining again. Beating on the shed roof, blowing in under the door. He rocked back and forth, shivering. Man, it was cold in here. Wasn’t for the wool-lined rain slicker he’d picked up at Goodwill, and his new shoes, he’d of froze to death by now. Christ, he needed a drink. Hadn’t been for that cop car cruising by this afternoon, on his way back from making the phone call, he’d of bought a jug. Should’ve risked it anyway. Should’ve swiped two bottles from that liquor store last night, not just one. One thing about booze, it kept you warm. Warm last night, freezin’ his nuts off ever since the jug died early this A.M. He needed a drink bad, all right. Slide out early tonight, pick up a new supply before he met the money man? Nah, better not. Better keep a clear head until he got his hands on the cash.

  Five thousand this time. What he should’ve asked for the first time. A lousy five hundred, what the hell was the matter with him? Too drunk to think straight that time. Five thousand bucks, yeah, that was the ticket. His ticket out of the rain, the fog, the cold, this fuggin’ city. Someplace warm. Yeah, maybe down to Dago again. Good town, Dago. He’d had a ball there when he was in the navy. Before he smacked that smartass Chief Petty and they stuck him in the brig. Another piece of lousy luck. Well, he’d made some new luck today and this time it was gonna last. He’d be goin’ back to Dago in style. Five thousand bucks, cash. Jesus, he’d never had that much green in his life. Never once in his whole fuggin’ miserable life. Before that five hundred, only time he’d ever had more’n three loose bills in his kick was the pay he had coming when the in one fuggin’ weekend across the border in T-town.

  When was it he’d scored the three bills? Oh, yeah, in Reno, back when he was still driving truck, before all the bastards kept getting in his way, bugging him while he was on a toot, back before he started smashing their faces and the cops kept haulin’ his ass off to jail. No more of that, man, no more jail. Yeah, that time in Reno. Three hundred buck
s on a blackjack run. Nothing but the best booze. Only he’d sucked down too much and that bitch whore, she’d rolled him in her crib while he was sleeping it off. Well, he’d fixed her. Real good. Another time the lousy cop bastards threw his ass in jail.

  Five thousand. Man! Like a Christmas present. Almost Christmas, wasn’t it? Yeah, the best Christmas present he’d ever had. Only present in so long he couldn’t remember the last one. Five large. Oh, baby, all the things he could do with that much green. Good booze, better than Jack, hundred-and-one-proof Wild Turkey. And some young meat. Maybe a kid like in Pablo’s pictures, he’d never had one of them. All the things. Five large. Just thinking about his Christmas present put a glow in him like two of three slugs of sour mash, took away some of the cold.

  Time yet? Almost. Few more minutes. He didn’t have no watch, but he didn’t need no watch. Never had, never would. He had this thing in him, this whatyoucallit... internal clock. Yeah. Always knew what time it was, down to within five-ten minutes of clock time. Born with it inside, nobody could figure it out. A fuggin’ medical marvel, that was him. Nobody’d believed it, he’d lay bets and collect every time. That one time, when he was in the navy and those five gobs bet him ten bucks each they could shut him up in a dark room and leave him there and when they let him out again he couldn’t tell them how long he’d been locked up, what time it was. He showed them bastards, all right. Told ’em how long, told ’em what time it was within five minutes. They paid up, too. He made sure they paid up. Another of his lucky times. Only that one hadn’t lasted neither because some son of a bitch swiped the fifty while he was asleep. One of them five sailors, sure, but he couldn’t never find out which one it was.

  Shit, the things you remember. Good luck, bad luck, one or the other his whole fuggin’ life. Hall of a lot more bad than good until he followed that crazy Spook and found his stash. Pretty good for a week, crappy yesterday, good again tonight. Good for good, this time. Five large. Oh, man, good for good!

  He sat there thinking about the money, warming himself on it, planning all the things he was gonna do with that cash. Wasn’t too long before that old internal clock went off. Time to meet the man. Time to meet the five thousand in person. Hello, baby. Hello, you big green Christmas present, come to papa.

  Up on his feet. He worked some of the kinks out, limbered up his bones, before he went over and cracked the door. Rain had let up a little. More good luck. He eased out. Nobody in the alley. He squeezed through the peel in the fence, walked careful toward Army Street. Two blocks to the park down there. Didn’t see no cops on the way. Yeah, his luck had turned good for sure.

  He set up in a doorway across from the park, right where he had the last time. And here come the car, right on time. Pulled over to the curb and the man leaned over to shove the door open.

  “Get in,” he said.

  “Nah. Just gimme my Christmas present.”

  “Your what?”

  “My money. Gimme my five large.”

  “Not here. Get in.”

  “You give it to me here last time.”

  “There’s a lot more this time. And it’s in the trunk. Come on, come on, I saw a couple of patrol cars when I came off the freeway. You want to risk getting picked up? I sure as hell don’t.”

  Big old car’s heater was on. Big Dog could feel the warm air coming out at him, and the cold wind shoving at his back. He got into the car. Yeah, real warm in there. Felt good on his face, his hands.

  Man said shut the door and he shut it. Car jumped ahead, out onto Army. Slid into a U-turn next block, come back toward the freeway.

  “Where we goin’?”

  “Someplace private, safe.”

  “You better have my fuggin’ money.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Better have, man. Told you I got everything wrote down, buddy takes it straight to the cops if I don’t come back with the cash.”

  “Don’t worry. What happens after you get it?”

  “Told you that too. You never hear from me no more.”

  “That’s what you said when we paid you the five hundred.”

  “Yeah, well, I mean it this time.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “I’m splittin’ from Frisco. Goin’ where it’s warm.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Maybe. Yeah, maybe tonight.”

  “Bus? You want a ride to the bus depot after we’re done?”

  “Nah. You just bring me back where you picked me up.”

  They were on the freeway now. Big Dog settled back, stretched his feet close to the heater vents. Nice and warm in here, gonna be nice and warm in Dago. Goin’ back in style. He grinned to himself. And when the five thousand was gone he’d hit the man up for another five. And another five and another after that. This here Sandy Claus knew what was good for him, he’d keep his bag full of presents for the Big Dog.

  On a freeway exit now. He leaned his head up, blinking. Dark street, looked like some kind of industrial area.

  “Almost there,” Sandy Claus said.

  “Where? Where we at?”

  “Where you get paid off.”

  Sharp left turn. Big old warehouse, no lights, asphalt lot behind it all dark and wet. Car stopped, headlights went down dim.

  “All right, get out.”

  “What for?”

  “You want what’s coming to you, don’t you?”

  “You go get it, man. Warm in here, cold outside.”

  “Get out of the car.”

  Different voice, all hot and pissed. Big Dog looked at him. Then his mouth dropped open and he sat up all the way, staring. The man had a gun in his hand, a goddamn big mother pistol.

  “Hey,” he said, “hey, what’s the idea?”

  “The idea is you get out like I told you to.”

  “Nah. You can’t—”

  “Get out of the car! Or I swear I’ll blow your head off right where you sit!”

  Big Dog felt sick all of a sudden, couldn’t think straight no more. He got out. Rain and cold again. Bad luck again. Shit, he never did have no good luck that lasted. Just jerking himself around, thinking he had. Always turned bad, like he was cursed or something. He wished to Christ he had a drink. He needed one worse than ever.

  The man come around behind the car, stood a few feet away from him. Taillights lit him up all red, him and his gun. Red glow, black gun, black shadows.

  “You can’t do nothin’ to me,” Big Dog said. “I got it all wrote down. I give it to a buddy of mine—”

  “You don’t have any buddies. Not garbage like you.”

  “I got it all wrote down—”

  “Bullshit. I don’t believe you. Even if I did, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve had all I can take, I can’t swallow anymore. All you bloodsuckers, all you garbage, squeezing a man, hurting people I care about, ruining their lives, ruining my life. Grinding me down, trampling me. I took it all these years but no more, no more. Now it’s my turn.”

  “You’re fuggin’ crazy.”

  “If I am, it’s bastards like you made me that way. I don’t care. I don’t care what happens anymore.”

  Big Dog didn’t care no more neither. He felt sick, he couldn’t think straight, he needed a drink bad. And he was starting to get pissed off himself. His head hurt like somebody was sticking it with nails and wires. Fug this guy. Fug him! He started forward.

  “That’s it,” the guy said, “that’s right, come and get your Christmas present.”

  Big Dog kept on moving, but not for long. “Christmas present” was the last thing he ever heard.

  16

  Kerry said, “The pier looks nice this year. Really festive.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Festive.”

  “Look at all the displays, how inventive they are.”

  I looked. “At least they don’t have some poor schnook dressed up in a Santa Claus suit.”

  “I suppose that’s a reference to the Gala Christmas Benefit. You’re never going to let me
forget that, are you?”

  “Ho, ho, ho.”

  She poked me in the ribs. “Don’t be grumpy.”

  “I’m not grumpy.”

  “If you’re going to be grumpy...”

  I said again, grumpily, that I wasn’t grumpy. It was the truth, more or less. Ill at ease was the proper term. She knew how large parties affected me; we’d been together long enough for her to know me inside out. Why call me grumpy?

  The crowd was much lager, it seemed to me, than the last Season of Sharing party I’d attended. The huge open space where Pier 24-½’s inhabitants usually parked their cars was packed with milling, chattering, laughing, bibulous, face-stuffing humanity: grouped thickly around a buffet table and bar toward the far end; swirling around the decorative displays, the pedestaled loving cup that would be awarded to the best display at the close of festivities, the red, white and blue donation barrels spotted here and there. The raising of funds and goods for charity was the point of these gatherings — a different charity each year, with one of the pier’s firms handling the collection and disbursement on a rotating basis. The party atmosphere may have left me cold, but I was all for its purpose. I even had a certain personal involvement in this year’s cause, because of the Spook investigation. Ted Smalley had told me that a group called Home for the Holidays, dedicated to housing and feeding the homeless during the season, would be the current recipient.

  Kerry prodded me into the midst of the noisy throng. I had to admit that the displays were pretty clever, all right. McCone Investigations’ offices were of the upstairs catwalk to the left; garlands were woven all along the railing in front and a lot of silver stars, moons, planets, and crystal beads hung down from them. The architects on the opposite catwalk, Chandler & Santos, had fashioned a cityscape of colored lights and neon tubing; their neighbors, a group of CPAs, had suspended cardboard cutouts of people of all races holding hands. Down here I saw a couple that Emily might have liked: a miniature Santa’s Village, complete with electric tram, courtesy of the firm of marketing consultants; and a forest of small fir trees dusted in realistic-looking snow, where replicas of various endangered animals seemed to be hiding (ecological nonprofit outfit). There was also a Model T Ford with a life-size St. Nick at the wheel and presents in the rumbleseat (car leasing agency). One of these would win the loving cup and pier bragging rights for the coming year.