Price stepped in front of him. "Stand where you are, Sergeant," he said in a voice that brooked no disobedience.
Quincannon went on, "Another piece of proof: Last night, if you recall, Gentry suggested taking the flying squad to find evidence of Little Pete's guilt in Scarlett's death—the bogus evidence he later planted himself. He also said, 'Evidence to point to the cold storage where old Bing's bones are stashed.' Yet for all any of us knew at that point, the body might have been burned, or buried, or weighted and cast into the Bay, or had any of a dozen other things done with it or to it. Why would he use the specific term 'cold storage' unless he knew that was what had been done with old Bing's remains?"
Gentry called him a name and tried once again to mount a charge. The lieutenant shoved him back, nonetoo gently.
"And if all that isn't sufficient validation of his duplicity," Quincannonconcluded, "there is Mrs. Scarlett. She had a good look at the man who followed her yesterday and can easily identify him." A bald lie, this, but an effective capper nonetheless. "Gentry had no official reason to be following the woman, did he, Lieutenant?"
"No," Price said darkly, "he didn't."
The chief stalked around his desk and fixed Gentry with a gimlet eye. "A damned highbinder no better than Little Pete or Mock Quan—is that what you are, Gentry?"
"No! No, I swear—"
"Because if so I'll see your mangy hide strung from the highest flagpole in the city."
Gentry shook his head, his eyes rolling, sweat shining on his forehead and cheeks. He was still wagging his head as Quincannon judiciously slipped out and went to find a quiet corner where he could smoke his pipe and enjoy his vindication.
"Gentry's shell was no harder to crack than a Dungeness crab's," he told Sabina a while later. "It took Crowley and Price less than fifteen minutes to break him wide open."
"No doubt with the aid of some gentle persuasion."
"Have you ever known the blue shadows to use another kind?"
She laughed. "What was his motive? Power and greed, the same as Mock Quan's?"
"Those, and severe gambling losses. Which was why he sold himself to the Hip Sing in the first place. It seems the sergeant has a fondness for roulette and fan-tan, and little skill at any game of chance."
"Well, I must say you've plenty of skill at your particular game."
"I have, haven't I?"
"Exceeded only by your modesty," Sabina said. "Still, it's thanks to you that the crisis in Chinatown has been averted."
"For the time being. Until another, smarter Mock Quan emerges or something or someone else lights the fuse. Mark my words—one of these days, the whole Quarter will go up in flames."
"You may be right. In any event, this is one case it will be a relief, if not a pleasure, to mark closed. We'll waive Mrs. Scarlett's fee, of course. I'll post a letter to her tomorrow—Why are you looking at me that way?"
Quincannon was aghast. He said, "Waive her fee?"
"It's the least we can do for the poor woman."
"Sabina, have you forgotten that I was shot at twice and almost killed? As well as made to trek through low Chinatown alleys, prowl opium dens, and invade an undertaking parlor in search of a snatched corpse?"
"I haven't forgotten."
"Well, then? All of that, not to mention a near tarnish on our fine reputation as detectives, for not so much as a copper cent?"
"I'm afraid so, my erstwhile Scot. It's the proper thing to do and you know it."
"Bah. I know nothing of the kind."
Her expression softened. After a silence during which she seemed to be doing a bit of weighing and balancing, she said, "I suppose you should have one small reward, at least."
"Yes? And what would that be?"
"An evening out with me, if you like. Dinner at the Palace, then a performance of Gilbert and Sullivan's new opera at the Tivoli Theater. I've been wanting to see Patience since it opened."
Quincannon's momentary gloom evaporated as swiftly as an ice cube in a furnace. Smiling jauntily, he said, "And after the performance?"
"You may escort me to my flat."
"And after that?"
Sabina sighed. "You never give up, do you, John Quincannon?"
"Never. For my intentions are honorable, my passions sweet and pure. No, never, as long as a breath remains in my body."
The word Sabina uttered in response to that was heartfelt and decidedly unladylike.
Wishful Thinking
When I got home from work, a little after six as usual, Jerry Macklin was sitting slumped on his front porch. Head down, long arms hanging loose between his knees. Uh-oh, I thought. I put the car in the garage and walked back down the driveway and across the lawn strip onto the Macklins' property.
"Hi there, Jerry."
He looked up. "Oh, hello, Frank."
"Hot enough for you?"
"Hot," he said. "Yes, it's hot."
"Only June and already in the nineties every day. Looks like we're in for another blistering summer."
"I guess we are."
"How about coming over for a beer before supper?"
He waggled his head. He's long and loose, Jerry, with about twice as much neck as anybody else. When he shakes his big head, it's like watching a bulbous flower bob at the end of a stalk. As always these days, his expression was morose. He used to smile a lot, but not much since his accident. About a year ago he fell off a roof while on his job as a building inspector, damaged some nerves and vertebrae in his back, and was now on permanent disability.
"I killed Verna a little while ago," he said.
"Is that right?"
"She's in the kitchen. Dead on the kitchen floor."
"Uh-huh," I said.
"We had another big fight and I went and got my old service pistol out of the attic. She didn't even notice when I came back down with it, just started in ragging on me again. I shot her right after she called me a useless bum for about the thousandth time."
"Well," I said. Then I said, "A gun's a good way to do it, I guess."
"The best way," Jerry said. "All the other ways, they're too uncertain or too bloody. A pistol really is the best."
"Well, I ought to be getting on home."
"I wonder if I should call the police."
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Jerry."
"No?"
"Wouldn't be a good idea."
"Hot day like this, maybe I—"
"Jerry!" Verna's voice, from inside the house. Loud and demanding, but with a whiny note underneath. "How many times do I have to ask you to come in here and help me with supper? The potatoes need peeling."
"Damn," Jerry said.
Sweat had begun to run on me; I mopped my face with my handkerchief. "If you feel like it," I said, "we can have that beer later on."
"Sure, okay."
"I'll be in the yard after supper. Come over anytime."
His head wobbled again, up and down this time. Then he stood, wincing on account of his back, and shuffled into his house, and I walked back across and into mine. Mary Ellen was in the kitchen, cutting up something small and green by the sink. Cilantro, from the smell of it.
"I saw you through the window," she said. "What were you talking to Jerry about?"
"Three guesses."
"Oh, Lord. I suppose he killed Verna again."
"Yep."
"Where and how this time?"
"In the kitchen. With his service pistol."
"That man. Three times now, or is it four?"
"Four."
"Other people have nice normal neighbors. We have to have a crazy person living next door."
"Jerry's harmless, you know that. He was as normal as anybody before he fell off that roof."
"Harmless," Mary Ellen said. "Famous last words."
I went over and kissed her neck. Damp, but it still tasted pretty good. "What're you making there?"
"Ceviche."
"What's ceviche?"
"Cold fish soup. M
exican style."
"Sounds awful."
"It isn't. You've had it before."
"Did I like it?"
"You loved it."
"Sounds wonderful, then. I'm going to have a beer. You want one?"
"I don't think so." Pretty soon she said, "He really ought to see somebody."
"Who?"
"Jerry."
"See who? You mean a head doctor?"
"Yes. Before he really does do something to Verna."
"Come on, honey. Jerry can't even bring himself to step on a bug. And Verna's enough to drive any man a little crazy. Either she's mired in one of her funks or on a rampage about something or other. And she's always telling him how worthless and lazy she thinks he is."
"She has a point," Mary Ellen said. "All he does all day is sit around drinking beer and staring at the tube."
"Well, with his back the way it is—"
"His back doesn't seem to bother him when he decides to work in his garden."
"Hey, I thought you liked Jerry."
"I do like Jerry. It's just that I can see Verna's side, the woman's side. He was no ball of fire before the accident, and he's never let her have children—"
"That's her story. He says he's sterile."
"Well, whatever. I still say she has some justification for being moody and short-tempered, especially in this heat."
"I suppose."
"Anyhow," Mary Ellen said, "her moods don't give Jerry the right to keep pretending he's killed her. And I don't care how harmless he seems to be, he could snap someday. People who have violent fantasies often do. Every day you read about something like that in the papers or see it on the TV news."
"'Violent fantasies' is too strong a term in Jerry's case."
"What else would you call them?"
"He doesn't sit around all day thinking about killing Verna. I got that much out of him after he scared the hell out of me the first time. They have a fight and he goes out on the porch and sulks and that's when he imagines her dead. And only once in a while. It's more like . . . wishful thinking."
"Even so, it's not healthy and it's potentially dangerous. I wonder if Verna knows."
"Probably not, or she'd be making his life even more miserable. We can hear most of what she yells at him all the way over here as it is."
"Somebody ought to tell her."
"You're not thinking of doing it? You don't even like the woman." Which was true. Jerry and I were friendly enough, to the point of going fishing together a few times, but the four of us had never done couples things. Verna wasn't interested.
Didn't seem to want much to do with Mary Ellen or me. Or anyone else, for that matter, except a couple of old woman friends.
"I might go over and talk to her," Mary Ellen said. "Express concern about Jerry's behavior, if nothing more."
"I think it'd be a mistake."
"Do you? Well, you're probably right."
"So you're going to do it anyway."
"Not necessarily. I'll have to think about it."
Mary Ellen went over to talk to Verna two days later. It was a Saturday and Jerry'd gone off somewhere in their car. I was on the front porch fixing a loose shutter when she left, and still there and still fixing when she came back less than ten minutes later.
"That was fast," I said.
"She didn't want to talk to me." Mary Ellen looked and sounded miffed. "She was barely even civil."
"Did you tell her about Jerry's wishful thinking?"
"No. I didn't have a chance."
"What did you say to her?"
"Hardly anything except that we were concerned about Jerry."
"We," I said. "As in me too."
"Yes, we. She shut me off right there. As much as told me to mind my own business."
"Well?" I said gently.
"Oh, all right, maybe we should. It's her life, after all. And it'll be as much her fault as Jerry's if he suddenly decides to make his wish come true."
Jerry killed Verna three more times in July. Kitchen again, their bedroom, the backyard. Tenderizing mallet, clock radio, manual strangulation—so I guess he'd decided a gun wasn't the best way after all. He seemed to grow more and more morose as the summer wore on, while Verna grew more and more sullen and contentious. The heat wave we were suffering through didn't help matters any. The temperatures were up around one hundred degrees half the days that month and everybody was bothered in one way or another.
Jerry came over one evening in early August while Mary Ellen and I were having fruit salad under the big elm in our yard. He had a six-pack under one arm and a look on his face that was half hunted, half depressed.
"Verna's on another rampage," he said. "I had to get out of there. Okay if I sit with you folks for a while?"
"Pull up a chair," I said. At least he wasn't going to tell us he'd killed her again.
Mary Ellen asked him if he'd like some fruit salad, and he said no, he guessed fruit and yogurt wouldn't mix with beer. He opened a can and drank half of it at a gulp. It wasn't his first of the day by any means.
"I don't know how much more of that woman I can take," he said.
"That bad, huh?"
"That bad. Morning, noon, and night—she never gives me a minute's peace anymore."
Mary Ellen said, "Well, there's a simple solution, Jerry."
"Divorce? She won't give me one. Says she'll fight it if I file, take me for everything she can if it goes through."
"Some women hate the idea of living alone."
Jerry's head waggled on its neck-stalk. "It isn't that," he said. "Verna doesn't believe in divorce. Never has, never will. Till death do us part—that's what she believes in."
"So what're you going to do?" I asked him.
"Man, I just don't know. I'm at my wits' end." He drank the rest of his beer in broody silence. Then he unfolded, wincing, to his feet. "Think I'll go back home now. Have a look in the attic."
"The attic?"
"See if I can find my old service pistol. A gun really is the best way to do it, you know."
After he was gone Mary Ellen said, "I don't like this, Frank. He's getting crazier all the time."
"Oh, come on."
"He'll go through with it one of these days. You mark my words."
"If that's the way you feel," I said, "why don't you try talking to Verna again? Warn her."
"I would if I thought she'd listen. But I know she won't."
"What else is there to do, then?"
"You could try talking to Jerry. Try to convince him to see a doctor."
"It wouldn't do any good. He doesn't think he needs help, any more than Verna does."
"At least try. Please, Frank."
"All right, I'll try. Tomorrow night, after work."
When I came home the next sweltering evening, one of the Macklins was sitting slumped on the front porch. But it wasn't Jerry, it was Verna. Head down, hands hanging between her knees. It surprised me so much I nearly swerved the car off onto our lawn. Verna almost never sat out on their front porch, alone or otherwise. She preferred the glassed-in back porch because it was air-conditioned.
The day had been another hundred-plus scorcher, and I was tired and soggy and I wanted a shower and a beer in the worst way. But I'd promised Mary Ellen I'd talk to Jerry—and it puzzled me about Verna sitting on the porch that way.
So I went straight over there from the garage.
Verna looked up when I said hello. Her round, plain face was red with prickly heat and her colorless hair hung limp and sweat-plastered to her skin. There was a funny look in her eyes and around her mouth, a look that made me feel uneasy.
"Frank," she said. "Lord, it's hot, isn't it?"
"And no relief in sight. Where's Jerry?"
"In the house."
"Busy? I'd like to talk to him."
"You can't."
"No? How come?"
"He's dead."
"What?"
"Dead," she said. "I killed him."
&n
bsp; I wasn't hot anymore; it was as if I'd been doused with ice water. "Killed him? Jesus, Verna—"
"We had a fight and I went and got his service pistol and shot him in the back of the head while he was watching TV."
"When?" It was all I could think of to say.
"Little while ago."
"The police . . . have you called the police?"
"No.
"Then I'd better—"
The screen door popped open with a sudden creaking sound. I jerked my gaze that way, and Jerry was standing there big as life. "Hey, Frank," he said.
I gaped at him with my mouth hanging open.
"Look like you could use a cold one. You too, Verna."
Neither of us said anything.
Jerry said, "I'll get one for each of us," and the screen door banged shut.
I looked at Verna again. She was still sitting in the same posture, head down, staring at the steps with that funny look on her face.
"I know about him killing me all the time," she said. "Did you think I didn't know, didn't hear him saying it?"
There were no words in my head. I closed my mouth.
"I wanted to see how it felt to kill him the same way," Verna said. "And you know what? It felt good."
I backed down the steps, started to turn away. But I was still looking at her and I saw her head come up, I saw the odd little smile that changed the shape of her mouth.
"Good," she said, "but not good enough."
I went home. Mary Ellen was upstairs, taking a shower. When she came out I told her what had just happened.
"My God, Frank. The heat's made her as crazy as he is. They're two of a kind."
"No," I said, "they're not. They're not the same at all."
"What do you mean?"
I didn't tell her what I meant. I didn't have to, because just then in the hot, dead stillness we both heard the crack of the pistol shot from next door.
Shade Work
Johnny Shade blew into San Francisco on the first day of summer. He went there every year, when he had the finances; it was a good place to find action on account of the heavy convention business. Usually he went a little later in the summer, around mid-July, when there were fifteen or twenty thousand conventioneers wandering around, a high percentage of them with money in their pockets and a willingness to lay some of it down on a poker table. You could take your time then, weed out the deadheads and the short-money scratchers. Pick your vic.
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