Mourners: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery)

by Bill Pronzini

  “In San Francisco?”

  “I hope so. I had the idea he’d met someone there.”

  “A woman, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask him if he had?”

  “I did,” she said, “but he just smiled and said he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.” Pause. “It couldn’t be the woman you’re looking for, could it?”

  Runyon said, “Maybe. Does the name Erin Dumont mean anything to you?”

  “Erin Dumont . . . no. Is that her name?”

  “You’re sure he never mentioned her?”

  “Positive. Sean’s never talked about any woman with me.”

  “When did you get the idea he’d met someone?”

  “Not long before he moved out. He was so happy—a new man, so totally different from the Sean I grew up with. A lot more . . . confident is the word, I guess. I could see it as soon as he came here from Sacramento.”

  “When was that?”

  “A year ago this past February.”

  “How long was he in Sacramento?”

  “Not long. Nine or ten months.”

  “So he moved up there right after he quit his job with SunGold Bakery.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know why he quit SunGold, left San Francisco?”

  “Not really. A wanderer, like I said.”

  “Where did he work in Sacramento?”

  “I don’t know. Some sort of driving job.”

  “Did he live with you the entire time he was in Santa Rosa?”

  “Lord, no,” she said. “My husband would never have stood for that, he made enough of a fuss having Sean around for a month. No, Sean had his own apartment over by the fairgrounds until the lease ran out. He tried to arrange to stay on for one more month, until he could move into his new place in the city, but the landlord wouldn’t agree to it. So I talked Gene, that’s my husband, into letting him stay with us.”

  “What was his job here?”

  “Avondale Electric. They manufacture solenoid valves—he worked in their warehouse and made deliveries.”

  “Avondale is located where?”

  “On Petaluma Hill Road, do you know where that is?”

  “Yes. Did Sean have any friends in Santa Rosa, somebody from work he hung around with?”

  “Not that I know about. He doesn’t make friends easily—he’s always been shy, doesn’t relate well to other people. Women especially.”

  “So he didn’t date much.”

  “Not at all when we were kids. He seemed almost afraid of girls after that time he was expelled from high school. If he did finally meet someone, I couldn’t be happier for him.”

  “Why was he expelled?”

  “For fighting. It wasn’t his fault, he’d worked up enough nerve to talk to a girl he liked and the little bitch laughed at him and some of the boys overheard and started taunting him. Sean is easygoing but when he’s pushed too far . . . well, he has a temper.”

  “Violent temper?”

  “Just a temper. I have one, too, when I’m picked on.” Her mouth made a lemony pucker. “The Ostracized Ostrows.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The Ostracized Ostrows. That’s what we called ourselves. Neither of us was popular growing up, Sean because he was so heavy and me because . . .” She broke off, nibbled flecks of dark red off her lower lip—embarrassed now. “I shouldn’t be talking like this, to a stranger. And I really should get out on the floor and do some rearranging and restocking. If the supervisor comes by and catches me wasting time . . .”

  “Just a couple more questions. Does your brother still drive a brown, eighty-eight Ford Taurus, license number 2UGK697?”

  “Still does. It’s old but he keeps it in good condition.”

  “Do you have a photograph of him I could borrow?”

  “A photograph? Well, not with me. And not a recent one.”

  “Even an old one might help.”

  “Well . . . I could look when I get home. But that won’t be until late—I’m on overtime tonight.”

  “I’d appreciate it. My cell phone number’s on the card I gave you. If you have a photo, I could come by tomorrow and pick it up.”

  “All the way from San Francisco again? On Sunday?”

  “I’m on overtime myself this weekend.”

  “All right,” she said. “If you’ll do me a favor when you find Sean.”

  “If I can.”

  “Ask him to call me? And let me know yourself if everything’s all right with him? I really am starting to worry.” She sighed heavily, and the lines of weary resignation in her face seemed deeper as she said, “Poor Sean, nothing ever seems to work out for him. I had so much hope this time . . . so much hope for one of us . . .”

  Avondale Electric was open on Saturday. Runyon talked to a woman in the office and a man in the warehouse; both had good things to say about Sean Ostrow’s job performance, but nothing at all to tell him about Ostrow’s present whereabouts or the new job in the city. If he’d used Avondale as a reference, his new employer hadn’t seen fit to follow up.

  The residential section where Ostrow had lived in Santa Rosa, between the county fairgrounds and Luther Burbank Park, was close by. Runyon drove over there, even though he knew it would be wasted effort. And it was. He spent an hour at the apartment building and in the neighborhood looking for somebody who’d known Ostrow, and couldn’t even find one person who remembered him.

  Half the day still lay ahead of him. He drove around Santa Rosa for a time, then took Highway 101 to the small towns that lay to the north. Windsor was a newish collection of tract houses and shopping malls, Healdsburg an old tourist-laden wine-country town built around a square, Geyserville a wine-country village without the tourists or the square. He didn’t stay long in any of them, just enough time to mark and memorize the territory. From Geyserville he went west through a long valley filled with vineyards, small wineries, and droves of early summer tourists, then up around Lake Sonoma, then south through a different part of Dry Creek Valley and back to Santa Rosa.

  Still only four o’clock. He could hang around up here and if Ostrow’s sister called and had a photograph, he could go pick it up. No. He’d had enough of the North Bay and its backroads for one day, and there was still Sunday to get through. He drove back down 101 to the city.

  When he came through the toll plaza on the bridge, he took Lincoln Boulevard down through the Presidio. Even before he reached Sea Cliff and Twenty-fifth Avenue, he knew where he was going without thinking about it.

  Risa Niland lived a block off Geary and another block from Washington High School. He turned up Thirtieth Avenue past the school’s athletic fields. In big letters strung across the front of the stadium entrance on that side were the words OF ALL VICTORIES THE FIRST AND GREATEST IS FOR MAN TO CONQUER HIMSELF—PLATO. Nice sentiment, but how many students paid attention to it, took it to heart? Safe bet that it wasn’t many. For that matter how many people could look back on their lives from any age and say honestly that they’d conquered themselves? Not him, for damn sure.

  The three-story building at the corner of Anza and Twenty-ninth was peach-colored stucco with a tile roof and an old-fashioned canopy over the entrance. Two apartments per floor, from the size of it. He saw all of that as he approached the corner; he didn’t see her until he braked at the stop sign.

  Even at a distance he recognized her—the resemblance to Colleen was like a beacon. She was standing just outside the canopy, dressed in jeans and a red pullover, her red-gold hair bound up in a roll, talking to a young, fair-haired, linebacker type in jogging sweats. The guy said something to her that made her reach out and touch his arm. Friends, maybe more than friends. Maybe even the ex-husband.

  Runyon might have stopped if she’d been alone. As it was, he made the turn and drove on by. Neither Risa nor the man glanced his way, and he didn’t look back at them in the rearview mirror. None of his business. Her personal life had nothing to do wit
h him.

  Automatic pilot again. Through the park, east on Lincoln to Stanyan, down Seventeenth to the Castro district and up to Hartford Street just off Twentieth, past the Stick Victorian where Joshua lived with his faithless boyfriend, Kenneth. Nobody on the sidewalk here, no sign of his son, and what if there had been? Four months since he’d seen or had any contact with him. Joshua had had plenty to say in March, when the pair of gay-bashers beat up Kenneth and put him in the hospital; he’d needed his father then, to help find the men responsible, and he’d permitted an uneasy truce. But once the need had been filled and the gay-bashers put out of commission—silence. The old hatreds instilled by his mother had rebuilt the wall between them thicker and higher than ever.

  So what was the sense coming here? Or in the drive-by at Risa Niland’s building? No sense. He got out of the Castro, backtracked over Twin Peaks and down to Nineteenth Avenue. Ate a tasteless dinner at a coffee shop—he had no appetite for Chinese food tonight. And went from there to his apartment, because it was nearly eight and he was tired and because he had nowhere else to go. And as soon as he walked into that cold, impersonal space a sudden wave of feeling came from somewhere inside him, so intense it made him catch his breath. It didn’t last long; he didn’t let it last long. But the memory of it lingered like a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Alone.

  And lonely.

  20

  TAMARA

  Saturday night she almost got laid.

  Almost: The Sad, Pathetic Story of Tamara Corbin’s Love Life.

  Almost messed up and almost pregnant by one of a succession of losers in high school. Almost permanent relationship with the almost love of her life. Almost sex with a man she almost hadn’t gone out with in the first place. And the reason for Saturday night’s almost—

  Lord!

  Man wasn’t a pickup, he was an actual date. First date she’d had with anybody except Horace since her first semester at S.F. State. Blind date, which was the reason she almost hadn’t gone out with him. Vonda was responsible. She got together with the girlfriend for a drink after work on Friday, poured out her tale of Horace woe, and the first thing Vonda said was, “Only way to forget a man is to find yourself another one quick.” Then she’d gone and done something about it, quick; Vonda never wasted any time when it came to men. By nine o’clock Friday night, the blind date was all arranged.

  His name was Clement Rawls, he was a stockbroker with the same company Vonda’s boyfriend, Ben Sherman, worked for. Ben was white—and Jewish, leave it to Vonda—and if Clement had been either or both of the same she would probably have said no. Not that she had anything in principle against dating white guys or Jewish guys, but she’d never done it and this wasn’t the time to start. But no, Clement was African-American. A hunk, Vonda said, and to her surprise he’d turned out to be just that. Few years older than her, nice smile, sexy eyes, the Denzel type. Cool, easy to talk to, funny, didn’t come on too strong. Only thing wrong with him—the only thing, anyway, until the kink he revealed to her when they were alone together—was that he was hung up on his appearance and pretty fond of himself. Metrosexuals didn’t appeal to her; Mr. Clement Rawls would’ve eventually tied her patience in a knot. But he was no more interested in a long-term relationship than she was, and for one night it didn’t really matter.

  He picked her up at her apartment—he drove a Beamer, what else?—and they went out to dinner and then club-crawling in SoMa with Vonda and Ben. About an hour with him was all it took to break down her resolve against any more casual sex. Love and respect and all that were fine, but when your hormones were running wild everything else took second place to scratching the itch. He was a terrific dancer and a terrific kisser, a combination that told her he’d be good in bed and got her even more hotted up. When he finally took her home she hadn’t had any last-minute hesitations about inviting him in.

  Should’ve figured he was too good to be true. Should’ve had a clue when he dragged his briefcase out of the backseat and brought it in with him, but she figured as self-confident as he was, he expected to spend the night and the briefcase contained his toothbrush and a change of underwear. Wrong. Wrong big time.

  Everything went along fine for a while. They drank some more wine and made out on the couch, both of them getting their temperatures raised—man really did know how to kiss. So then she said, “Come on in the bedroom, Clement,” and they got up and swapped some more spit and she started leading him into the other room.

  And then it all fell apart. He unlocked their lips and whispered in her ear, “Before we go to bed, there’s something I’d like you to do. Something, well, special to please me.”

  Uh-oh. “What kind of special?”

  “It’s nothing, really. You won’t mind.”

  “If you want to tie me up—”

  “No.”

  “Or lick Cool Whip off my—”

  “No, no.”

  “I’m not into games. Or pain, I draw the line at pain.”

  “Nothing like that, I promise.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  He let go of her, put his hands on that briefcase of his instead, and showed her. Whipped this thing out of there that for a couple of awful seconds looked like some kind of dead animal.

  ‘Yo, what is that?”

  He shook it out, extended it toward her. Long and blond and hairy—

  “A wig?” she said.

  “A wig,” he said.

  That was what it was, all right. About three feet of blond hair so pale it was almost platinum, straight except for some tangles and end flips. She stared at it hanging from his fingers like some kind of trophy scalp. He was staring at it, too, hot-eyed, his mouth hanging open a little as if he might start drooling on it.

  “What you want me to do with that?”

  “Wear it,” he said.

  “You don’t mean in bed while we—?”

  “Yes.”

  “Man, what for?”

  “It excites me.”

  “. . . Yeah, so I see.”

  He wiggled the wig. “Put it on,” he said.

  “No,” she said.

  “You won’t be sorry. It enhances my performance.”

  “Not gonna be any performance with that thing on my head.”

  “Come on, now, it’s just a harmless fantasy—”

  “I don’t do fantasies. I don’t do wigs.”

  “The sex will be fantastic, you’ll see. Best you’ve ever had.”

  “Oh, sure. Blondes have more fun, right?”

  “Don’t you want to find out?”

  “Uh-uh. No way.”

  “Tamara, it’s important to me that you wear it.”

  “Must be. What, you carry it with you everywhere you go, just in case you get lucky?”

  “I won’t dignify that question with an answer.”

  “Dignify? I don’t see much dignity in a black man hauling a Marilyn Monroe scalp around in his briefcase.”

  “It’s just a wig. You make it sound like something obscene.”

  “It is if you don’t wash it.”

  “What?”

  “Bet you never wash it. Expect me to put it on my head with all your other women’s cooties still in there.”

  “For God’s sake—”

  “Listen here. You want a white woman, why don’t you go find yourself one instead of messing with me?”

  “I don’t want a white woman. I don’t date white women.”

  “Black woman in a blond wig? That what boils your pot?”

  He blinked. His mouth thinned down tight. The wig wiggled. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Any black woman, right? Just so long as she’s wearing Marilyn’s hair.”

  “This isn’t Marilyn’s hair!”

  “Looks like it from where I’m standing.”

  “And you’re wrong, it’s you I want—”

  “You sure about that?”

  “What do
you mean, am I sure?”

  “Can’t help but wonder.”

  “Wonder what?”

  “If it’s a woman you really want. Or just that scalp.”

  He puffed up like a toad and made a couple of sputtering sounds.

  She was on a roll now. No longer horny, no longer interested in Mr. Clement Rawls, and with her claws out in frustration. She said, “You ask me, you’re in love with that thing. The way you hold it, look at it, practically drool on it. Wouldn’t surprise me if you pet it and hump it all by itself when there’s nobody else around.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that! You smart-ass bitch, who do you think you are!”

  That was when she threw him out.

  And that was the end of that.

  Sad and pathetic, all right. But the worst thing about this Saturday night almost, aside from the fact she hadn’t gotten laid, was that now her story had a new twist that made her feel sorry for herself in a different way. A cheating chump cellist wasn’t bad enough, oh no. Now the Man Upstairs had to go and throw in a scalp-sucking stockbroker fool and turn a tragedy into a Whoopi Goldberg farce.

  21

  I was driving down a dark, twisty road, going somewhere in a hurry. Trees, houses, fence posts materialized and dematerialized like wraiths in the stabbing headlight glare. There were other people crowded into the car with me, front seat and back; I couldn’t see their faces in the blackness, but I could feel them close around me, somebody’s fetid breath moist on the back of my neck. I was sweating from all the body heat. A disembodied voice kept saying, “Slow down, slow down, slow down,” and I kept driving fast, rustlings and whisperings all around me as the clutch of passengers shifted position.

  Up ahead something took on sudden definition in the headlights: railroad tracks, flashing red semaphore lights, a crossing arm that was just starting to come down across the road. One of the faceless people shouted, “Look out! Train coming!” Another one in the backseat threw an arm around my neck and yanked my head back. I struggled to loosen the grip so I could breathe. And then I could see the eye of the locomotive bearing down from the left, big and bright like a madman’s eye, growing larger and larger until it took away most of the dark. I hit the brakes, hard. The car slewed, skidded, came back on a point. Warning bells began to clang as I brought us to a grinding stop nose up to the crossing arm. The locomotive was a roaring giant now, its headlamp as painfully blinding as the sun at midday, and the bells kept clanging and jangling—