In an Evil Time

by Bill Pronzini

  6

  Friday Morning

  RAKUBIAN’S law offices were on Harrison Street in South Beach, a warehouse district off the Embarcadero when San Francisco was still a viable port city, now a gentrified mix of upscale restaurants and clubs, small businesses, professional offices, expensive condos and lofts. The old three-story structure had been born as a ship chandlery, spent decades of service as a storage warehouse, and in the early eighties been converted and face-lifted into an office building. The architects hadn’t done much of a job on the design; conventional was the kindest word for its facade. The same was true of many of the other buildings in the area, in Hollis’s professional opinion.

  His watch read eight minutes past nine when he turned onto Harrison. Commute traffic had been heavier than usual this morning, in the city as well as on the way down; the hopes he’d had of getting here before Rakubian, approaching him on the street instead of having to do his talking inside, were long gone. The bugger was obsessively punctual; he would already be at his desk, unless he had an early court appearance scheduled.

  At this hour there was still street parking in the vicinity. Hollis jockeyed the Lexus into a space, sat there for a time after he shut off the engine. He’d gone over what he would say to Rakubian a dozen times last night and this morning; he went over it yet again. Ticklish part of the plan. If he didn’t handle this just right, the rest of it was worthless.

  He wished there was a safer way to brace Rakubian. On the street would have been best; he cursed himself for not leaving home earlier than he had. Walking into those offices again, after his half-out-of-control tirade weeks ago, was a calculated risk. It might work in his favor if he made the right impression on the secretary and paralegal this time, but it would still call attention to himself.

  No other way now. Phoning him here or at home was a fool’s gambit; for all he knew Rakubian recorded every one of his incoming calls—it would be right in character—and he couldn’t afford to chance having anything he said preserved on tape. If he went to St. Francis Wood tonight, he had no guarantee Rakubian would be home; and he did not want to risk being seen in the neighborhood again if he could avoid it.

  Quit stalling, he told himself. There’s risk in everything you do from now on.

  Out of the car, dodge through traffic, enter the building. Elevator to the top floor. A couple of deep breaths at the door marked David Rakubian, Attorney-at-Law, then walk in with his shoulders a little rounded, his face carefully arranged to project both reluctance and restraint.

  The suite was small—anteroom, two offices, supply and copy room—and designed to reflect businesslike competence. Muted colors, minimum of furnishings and decoration, no frills of any kind. The anteroom was empty except for the attractive young secretary, Janet Yee, seated at her desk. The door to Rakubian’s office was closed; the other office door stood partway open, giving Hollis a glimpse of hawk-faced Valerie Burke at her desk as he came forward.

  The Chinese woman’s professional smile froze when she recognized him, then melted into an uneasy frown. “Oh,” she said. “Mr., um, Hollis.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not here to make another scene. I need to see Mr. Rakubian if he’s in.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, his calendar is full this morning—”

  “If he’s in, please tell him I’m here and that it’s important I talk to him. Very important.”

  “More accusations and threats, Mr. Hollis?”

  He turned his head. The paralegal was standing now in the doorway to her office—a thin, homely brunette in a mannish suit, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses radiating disapproval.

  “On the contrary,” he said. “What I have to say this time is something he’ll want to hear.”

  “And that is?”

  “Between him and me.” He looked at the secretary again. “Ms. Yee?”

  She glanced at Valerie Burke, as if for confirmation, and picked up her phone and punched a button. “Mr. Jack Hollis to see you, sir. He says it’s very important.” Pause. “No, sir, Mrs. Rakubian isn’t with him.”

  Mrs. Rakubian. Just the sound of it grated on Hollis.

  “No, sir, he’s not.” Pause. “Yes, sir.” Ms. Yee put down the phone and said stiffly to Hollis, “Mr. Rakubian will see you. Go right in, please.”

  The two women watched him cross the room; he could feel their eyes on his back. He didn’t blame them for their mistrust, after the fit he’d pitched on his last visit. If Rakubian had told them anything about the situation, it had been distorted to make himself out to be the injured party, Hollis the obstacle in the path of a reconciliation.

  He opened the door marked Private without knocking, went in, and closed it behind him.

  Rakubian’s office was almost as large as the anteroom, just as functional but with his dark stamp on it. One wall covered with law books, bank of windows providing an oblique view of the Ferry Building and the bay in the distance, a replica of one of Goya’s “black” paintings on another wall. And on a pedestal, squatting atop the helmeted head of the Greek goddess Pallas Athena, a foot-high black raven. It was a wonder he hadn’t hung a sign around the raven’s neck reading “Nevermore!”

  Rakubian stood behind his dark mahogany desk, stiff and straight, no discernible expression on his olive-toned face. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he gave the impression of height, of looking down on everyone and everything out of eyes as black as charred wood. His hair and brows were also black, as thick and wiry as animal fur. Square chin, aquiline nose, white smile when he felt like turning it on. Women found him handsome, but if you worked at penetrating the surface you could see what lay beneath, squirming and crawling like maggots. One long look at him standing there and Hollis felt the hate rise; he could taste it in the back of his throat, hot and metallic.

  “Why are you here, Hollis?” No preamble, no pretense. The deep voice was neutral except for the undercurrent of contempt that was always there, that had been there from the first moment they’d met. Homo superior talking down to homo inferior. “We have nothing more to say to each other.”

  “I wish that was true, but it’s not. I came here to tell you you’re going to get what you want.”

  “Yes?”

  “Angela’s given in. You wore her down to the point where she feels she has no other choice.”

  Nothing changed in Rakubian’s expression or demeanor. He was not surprised or pleased or relieved because he’d expected nothing less, sooner or later. He said, “Then why didn’t she come with you? Or alone or with Kenneth?”

  “She’s not ready yet.”

  “Meaning you’re not ready to permit it?”

  “She makes her own decisions,” Hollis said. “I think it’s a big mistake. I tried to talk her out of it, but she won’t listen to me anymore. But there are conditions before she’ll reconcile with you. Her conditions, not mine.”

  “And they are?”

  “A meeting with you first—not alone, with me present. To settle some things to her satisfaction. The main one is that you agree never to lay a hand on her again for any reason. Put it in writing, signed and witnessed.”

  “A document like that is not legally binding.”

  “She knows that and so do I. Are you willing to sign one anyway?”

  “I’ve never mistreated Angela,” Rakubian said. “Discipline is not mistreatment.”

  Hollis held his hands flat against his thighs to keep them from fisting. “Either you agree to no more physical discipline, in writing, or she won’t give you another chance. I won’t let her give you another chance. If your answer is no, say so right now and I’ll walk out of here.

  “You’ve made your point, Hollis.”

  “You’ll sign the agreement? Live up to it?”

  Rakubian shrugged. As if he found the notion ridiculous and of no particular import one way or the other. “I love Angela. I would do an
ything for her.”

  “As long as she does exactly what you want.”

  “I don’t understand your meaning.”

  “The park the other night. Remember what you said to her?”

  “Not offhand, no.”

  “You threatened her. And my grandson. You said you’d kill them both rather than give her up.”

  “A man says things in the heat of passion he doesn’t always mean.”

  “What about doing things in the heat of passion?”

  “I would never harm my wife or her son.”

  “Under any circumstances?”

  “Angela is my life, I love Kenneth as if he were my own. What do you think I am, Hollis?”

  A fucking monster.

  “She wants your promise, also in writing, never to threaten her or Kenny or anyone else in our family again.”

  A sigh this time. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, except that if you violate the agreement in any way, she’ll leave you immediately and you’ll never see her again. Guaranteed.”

  Rakubian came out from behind his desk, went to stand at one of the windows looking out. He had a feline way of moving, sinuous and gliding, like a predator on the stalk for prey. Watching him, Hollis tasted his hate again.

  Close to a minute passed before Rakubian swung around to face him. As if there had been no gap in the conversation he said, “In return I demand a signed document from you that you will leave Angela and me alone from now on. No interference of any sort in our relationship.”

  Hollis pretended to think this over. “All right, if that’s what it takes to get you to treat my daughter like a human being instead of a possession.”

  “A gross exaggeration, whether you believe it or not. I have never thought of Angela as a possession. I respect her feelings and her intelligence.”

  Bullshit. The only intelligence you respect is your own; the only feelings you care about are the ones you have for yourself.

  “Settled, then? You’ll meet with us?”

  “Yes, but I want to speak to Angela first. Privately.”

  “Why?”

  “To hear her tell me herself she has come to her senses. She can call me here or at home tonight—”

  “No,” Hollis said.

  “No?”

  “She won’t talk to you on the phone. In person only.”

  “Her terms or yours?”

  “Hers. She’ll confirm it when we meet.”

  No response. Those black eyes were as cold as death.

  “Well?”

  “Where and what time?”

  “Our cottage on Tomales Bay. Two P.M. tomorrow.”

  “Why not here? Or my home, or yours?”

  “The cottage is a neutral site. It also happens to be where she’s been since yesterday morning.”

  “Is that so? Alone?”

  “Not alone. And not with Kenny. So don’t go getting any ideas about driving out there before two o’clock tomorrow.”

  Rakubian turned back to the window. Thinking it over. Come on, damn you, it sounds good, it sounds like you’re getting exactly what you think you deserve, say yes—

  “I’d prefer to meet here,” Rakubian said.

  Shit! “Why?”

  “The agreements can be more easily drawn up here.”

  “They’re not legally binding, isn’t that what you said? What difference does it make where they’re written or what they’re written on? Bring along some of your stationery if you like. For Christ’s sake, Rakubian, we’re not preparing a brief or taking depositions. We’re trying to put your marriage back together.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “The cottage, then. Two o’clock. It’s what she wants, can’t you bend a little for once to get what you want?”

  Faint smile. Smug, condescending. Hollis could almost read his mind: I always get what I want.

  “Very well,” the son of a bitch said. “Two o’clock at Tomales Bay. How do I get to this cottage of yours?”

  In the car, on his way across the city to the Golden Gate Bridge, Hollis used his cell phone to call North Bay Transit in Santa Rosa. The woman who answered said yes, there was regular bus service on Sundays, San Francisco to Los Alegres. Leaving from the Transbay Terminal, Mission and First Streets, every half hour from noon until 7 P.M.

  Okay. One more arrangement to make, and he’d have the problem of what to do about Rakubian’s car solved.

  He took care of that arrangement as soon as he reached Mannix & Hollis. Gabe was out at a meeting, which made it easy to brace Gloria. Easy to weave another little web of lies around someone he cared about.

  “I hate to ask this,” he said, “but are you free for a couple of hours Sunday morning?”

  “What’s up on Sunday?”

  “I need a ride to Tomales Bay. Our cottage out there. The foundation’s shaky, needs shoring up, and I’m scheduled to meet a local contractor at noon. And now my car’s acting up.”

  “If it rains, it pours,” Gloria said sympathetically.

  “He’s got something going on in the morning, the contractor, I mean, so he can’t come in and pick me up. Cassie and Angela are both tied up, too. I suppose I could cancel out.…”

  “Hey, no problem. I’ll be glad to do it. We’re always home from church by ten-thirty and no plans after that. How long do you think it’ll take?”

  “No need for you to wait. Just drop me off. Contractor’ll drive me home when we’re done.”

  “You sure? I don’t mind waiting.…”

  “Running me out there is enough of an imposition.”

  “Imposition, my fat ass. Pick you up at your house at eleven?”

  Better if it was someplace other than the house, but he couldn’t think of a place or an excuse. “Eleven’s fine. Thanks, Gloria.”

  “De nada. What are friends for?”

  Late Friday Afternoon

  When he got home Cassie was already there, sitting in the living room with Fritz alert at her feet, one of their big spiral-bound photo albums open on her lap. Angela and Kenny were upstairs. The reason she was home early, Cassie told him, was that she’d agreed to work until two at the clinic tomorrow so one of the other vets could visit an ailing relative. He took the opportunity to mention that he’d be working tomorrow afternoon himself, some last-minute design changes at their Larkfield site. Her only comment was that it was too bad they wouldn’t be able to spend the entire day with the kids.

  He gestured at the photo album. “How come?”

  “No particular reason. Feeling nostalgic, I guess.”

  “Which one is it?”

  “Come sit and look. Yosemite,” he said, sitting beside her.

  “And Mono Lake and Virginia City. One of our best trips.”

  “I remember. Must’ve been … what, nearly twenty years ago?”

  “Eighteen. Angela was seven, Eric four.”

  “Time,” he said, and shook his head.

  They flipped pages, pointing out individual snapshots that triggered memories: El Capitan, the Ahwanee Hotel, Tuolumne Meadows, the tufa towers at Mono, the Bucket of Blood saloon in the old mining town. By the time she closed the album Hollis felt almost calm. A rush of tenderness filled him; he tilted her chin toward him and kissed her, deeply.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling, “what was that for?”

  “Twenty-six years of putting up with me.”

  “And counting.”

  “Yes, and counting. I love you, Cass.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Why? I mean, what did you ever see in me?”

  “You can’t imagine the number of times I’ve asked myself that question.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Well, for one thing you’re terrific in the sack.”

  “Seriously, Cass.”

  “All right. You’re gentle, sensitive, caring. A good man in all the ways that count. You’re also pigheaded, moody, and inclined to jump to conclusions, but hey, nobody’s perfect.�
��

  “You come pretty close.”

  “Uh-huh. My list of faults is longer than yours and you know it.”

  “I can’t imagine my life without you. Without the kids.”

  “Devoted family man. That’s another of your good points.”

  “I mean it,” he said.

  “I know you do. Don’t you think I feel the same way?”

  “Yes. I just wanted to say it.”

  “We’re a team, buddy,” she said. “And we’re going to keep on being a team for a lot more years.”

  “A lot more,” he agreed, and wondered if she believed it any more than he did.

  Friday Night

  Eric called from Colma, south of San Francisco, a little before six-thirty. He’d made better time through the San Jose commuter bottleneck than expected and he thought he’d be home before eight. They agreed to wait dinner. Cassie and Angela were both in upbeat moods—because Eric was coming and Rakubian had left them alone for the day, and on Angela’s part because her friend’s Utah relatives had agreed to act as short-term landlords and because she’d met with Pierce today and the meeting had gone well. At least Pierce was being understanding and supportive, a positive force in her life for a change.

  Eric arrived at ten of eight. On close inspection Hollis liked what he saw. His son was lean and fit and sun-browned: tennis, jogging, hiking. He seemed more self-confident, too, with a ripening sense of humor—both signs of maturity. He hadn’t completely lost the sudden broody lapses into silence, or the vaguely defensive, combative attitude when he was alone with Hollis, but these traits were less pronounced every time he came home. If the father-son closeness still wasn’t what it should be, the distance between them had narrowed so that they were within touching distance. Being out on his own had been good for Eric. At eighteen he’d been a difficult boy; at twenty-one he was developing into a man to be proud of.

  Dinner. All of them trying a little too hard to be cheerful, Eric teasing Kenny and making him the giggling, chattering center of attention. But the strain was there, a faint but tangible presence at the table even though they avoided mentioning Rakubian or Angela’s moving away. Still, it was good to see his kids laughing again, even if some of the laughter was forced. A foretaste of the way things would be once the David Rakubian threat had been neutralized.