The Other Side of Silence

by Bill Pronzini

  Poker player, Jablonsky, but that didn’t mean he was good at reading bluffs. And even if he had been, he wouldn’t take the risk. He ran his will up against Fallon’s for less than a minute before backing down. He shrugged and said sullenly, trying to save face, “You’re calling the shots—for now.”

  Candy said, “What about me?”

  “You stay here,” Fallon said.

  “What, tied up, locked in a closet?”

  “Neither one. You could go to one of the neighbors and call the police, but if that was an option you’d’ve done it when I sent you for the flashlight. So you’ll just stay here.”

  “Why won’t I call the cops?”

  “Tell her why, Bobby J.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Jablonsky said to the woman. “Do what he says. I’ll take care of Slick here.”

  “Couple of macho jerks,” she said contemptuously. She wasn’t afraid for herself any longer, or for Bobby J. She didn’t even look at him as he went out into the cool night with Fallon behind him.

  “We’ll take your Mustang. You drive. Keep to the legal speed limit.”

  “Where the hell we going?”

  “Head over to West Charleston.”

  The Mustang was in good shape. Refurbished interior to match the original upholstery, engine tuned, clutch tight, four-speed transmission in perfect sync. Jablonsky handled it with a kind of fierce, angry pride, slamming through the gears but not popping the clutch to make the tires squeal.

  When they reached Charleston, Fallon told him to turn west and keep going. Bobby J. wanted to know how far. He didn’t get an answer.

  Neither of them had anything to say until they neared the outer rim of the city. From there, you could see distant black cut-out shapes jutting high and ragged across the clear night sky—the Spring Mountains. Between the mountains and the Vegas perimeter was open desert, the Mojave outback.

  “What the hell?” Bobby J. said.

  “Just keep on toward Red Rock Canyon.”

  “You can’t get in there this time of night—”

  “That’s not where we’re going.”

  When they’d gone a few miles into the outback, there was almost no traffic. They rolled past thick stands of Joshua trees backdropped by the sheer Spring Mountain walls. There was a three-quarter moon on the rise and in its pale light the misshapen trees had a grotesque, otherworldly aspect.

  Bobby J. said, “How much farther, for Chrissake?” For the first time there was an undertone of scare in his voice.

  “Not far. There’s an old mining road that angles off to the north.” Fallon remembered it from one of his hiking trips out here. “Take that when we get to it.”

  “What for? What’re you gonna do?”

  “Maybe the same thing you and Clem Vinson were planning at the slot machine repair place.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Wasn’t anybody there but me.”

  “You’re a lousy liar, Bobby. I was there, I followed you when you left in Vinson’s SUV. That’s how I found out where you live.”

  “Jesus.” Then, “We weren’t gonna do anything to you. Just talk, that’s all. Private talk.”

  “That’s what we’re going to have, a private talk.”

  “Didn’t have to come out in the desert for that.”

  “Sure we did.”

  “Why?”

  Fallon didn’t answer that.

  After a few seconds Jablonsky said, “Who the hell are you, Slick? What’s your connection with the Dunbar woman?”

  “What’s yours with Court Spicer?”

  “Spicer. Listen—”

  “There’s the road. Make the turn.”

  It was more of a rutted track than a road, barely discernible, snaking off toward the looming black mountains and the remains of a long-abandoned gold mine. The Mustang jounced and rattled, making the headlights dance eerily over the deformed shapes of the Joshuas and clusters of creosote bushes and crawls of cholla cactus that flanked both sides of the track. Bobby J. said once, “Car’s too low-slung for this kind of road. We’ll blow a tire, tear up the undercarriage.” Fallon said nothing, alternately watching Jablonsky and the terrain, waiting for the right spot.

  They’d gone between two and three miles when the track hooked sharply up over a sandhill and down into another dense Joshua thicket. Good a place as any. The Mustang’s headlights seemed smothered by the branches and their bayonet-shaped leaves; they weren’t likely to be seen by anyone passing on the Red Rock Canyon highway.

  “Stop here,” he said.

  Jablonsky muttered something unintelligible, but he did as he was told. The car settled and the beams held steady on the narrow ruts ahead.

  “Shut off the engine but leave the lights on. Then get out and stand in front of the car where I can see you.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “You heard me. Do it.”

  Bobby J. silenced the engine, but instead of getting out he eased around on the seat, both hands opening and closing around the steering wheel. Fallon could feel the shrewd measuring look, could almost hear the wheels turning inside the man’s head.

  He was on the verge of a warning when Jablonsky made his move. Hit the light switch, swaddling the Mustang in a blanket of darkness, and lunged sideways, clawing at the Ruger.

  Fallon did the opposite of what he’d been expected to do. He moved into the lunge instead of away from it, jabbing his bent and stiffened left arm upward, at the same time bringing the gun in under the groping hand. His elbow caught Bobby J. squarely in the middle of his face; the Ruger’s muzzle slammed into his body just below the breastbone. He heard cartilage break mushily, felt a thin spray of blood against the back of his hand. Jablonsky shrieked and jackknifed forward into the wheel, his chin cracking against the horn and unleashing a brief racket.

  Fallon said, “Try that again, you’re a dead man,” and jabbed harder with the gun barrel.

  “My nose!” Strangled voice, thick with pain. “You broke my fucking nose!”

  “Put the lights back on.”

  Bobby J. fumbled for the switch. Headlight beams cut through the darkness again, dashboard lights let Fallon see the blocky shape next to him. Jablonsky was still bent forward around the gun, his right hand splayed tight against his face. Blood gleamed black as oil in the dash glow.

  “Get out of the car. Now!”

  No argument, no hesitation. Bobby J. did some more fumbling, got the door open. He was halfway out when Fallon pulled the Ruger away from his midsection and shoved him, hard, with the other hand. Jablonsky staggered out, lost his balance and slid down on all fours. In less than five seconds, Fallon was out on the passenger side, leaning across the hood with the revolver extended.

  But there was no more fight in Bobby J. He kept on kneeling on the hardpan, supporting himself with his left hand, his right once more pressed tight against his fractured nose. The sound of his breathing was loud, ragged, punctuated by little whistling grunts.

  “Get up. Walk out on the road and stand in the headlights.”

  Jablonsky struggled to follow the order. It was ten seconds before he could lift himself upright; his steps were wobbly as he moved into the headlight glare.

  “That’s far enough. Face the car and stay put.”

  Watching him, Fallon leaned back into the car long enough to take the keys from the ignition and wipe the blood-spray from his hand on the seat-back. Then he moved ahead to stand next to the front bumper. The night was soundless now, that sweet desert stillness; the fast-cooling air smelled of sage, creosote, ancient earth and rock. Above, the sky was powdered with moonlight and flecked with stars bright as crystal. On the track ahead Bobby J. stood swaying, fingering his nose, his face drawn in, tight and blood-smeared, around his shielding hand.

  Fallon said, “Take off your clothes.”

  “. . . What?”

  “You heard me. Strip. Everything off.”

  “You’re crazy, man. You’re fucking nuts.�
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  He extended the Ruger in the radius of light from the headlamps. “You think a busted nose hurts? A shattered kneecap’s ten times worse.”

  Jablonsky lowered his hand; splotches of blood glistened on the tattoo as if it was the dragon that had been wounded. Angrily he ripped off his jacket and shirt, threw them down. Pants next. Boots, socks. Underwear. He stood glaring and whitely naked in the yellow-white cones.

  “Kick everything over this way except your undershirt. You can keep that for your nose.”

  “Goddamn faggot, huh? Like looking at a big hunk of meat?” The words were meant to be cutting and defiant; they came out sounding like a pathetic schoolyard taunt.

  “Do what you’re told. All right, now back up a few more steps.”

  “What’s the idea?” Jablonsky said, backing.

  The idea was simple. An old military tactic that had been used for centuries before Guantánamo and Abu Ghraib. Strip a prisoner naked in front of a fully dressed interrogator, make him feel defenseless and humiliated, and you gain a strong psychological advantage: a naked man doesn’t lie easily or well, particularly one with an injury that he’d brought on himself. Fallon didn’t believe in torture on principle, but these were special circumstances. And Bobby J. was a pig.

  “That’s far enough. Now we’ll have our talk.”

  “Talk? Like this?”

  “Why did you kill Court Spicer?”

  Jablonsky stopped mopping blood with the undershirt. “Why did I— Jesus Christ! Spicer’s dead ?”

  “You know he is.”

  “Like hell I do. When? What happened?”

  “Last night. Shot in his rented house in Bullhead City.”

  “And you think I did it?”

  “Pretty good bet.”

  “No way! I done a lot of things, but I never shot nobody. I don’t even own a gun.”

  “I’ll say it again, Jablonsky: you’re a lousy liar. I found the Saturday night special under your mattress.”

  “. . . Yeah, all right, but I never fired it, not one time.”

  “What about your other piece?”

  “I don’t have another piece.”

  “Small caliber, twenty-two or thirty-two.”

  “No. I never owned one of those.”

  Fallon said, “We’ll see about that. Don’t move.”

  He backed up around the open passenger door, slid into the bucket on one hip. The glove compartment was locked; the ignition key unlocked it. He shined the flashlight inside. Pint bottle of sloe gin. Unopened packet of condoms. Handful of papers that he held up one at a time for brief looks, keeping Bobby J. in sight with his other eye. Registration. Insurance card. Unpaid parking tickets.

  No gun. No drugs, either.

  Fallon lifted himself out again, shut the door, and backpedaled to the rear. He unlocked the trunk, aimed the flash beam in there. The trunk floor was covered with a rubber mat; nothing on it that could be dried blood, and no signs of recent cleaning. Spare tire. Jack. Toolbox. He opened the box, felt around inside. Just tools—no sidearm. The only other object in the trunk was a gray, rough-weave blanket. He pulled it out, shook it open, ran the light over it. Dirt, but no stains.

  He switched off the flash, tossed it into the trunk. Then, leaving the lid up, he went to stand again at the front fender.

  Bobby J. said, “I told you I got no other gun.”

  “That’s not all I was looking for.”

  “What the hell else?”

  “Evidence that Casey Dunbar and her son were in the car, alive or dead.”

  “Oh, man, you really are nuts. I haven’t seen her since . . .”

  “Since you raped her at the Rest-a-While.”

  “It wasn’t rape. She asked for it. And I never even laid eyes on that kid of hers.”

  “The boy was in the house when Spicer was shot. He’s missing now. So’s his mother. Whoever killed Spicer kidnapped one or both of them.”

  “It wasn’t me!”

  A thin, raw wind was blowing now, kicking up little whorls of sand that glinted mica-like in the headlights. You could see Bobby J. shiver when the wind gusted, but he didn’t wrap his arms around himself. To him, it would have been a sign of weakness. The blood had stopped running out of his nose, but there were streaks of it like Indian warpaint on his cheeks, his bare chest.

  “I’m being straight with you,” he said, “I swear to God. Let me put my clothes back on, all right? I’m freezing here.”

  “No. You weren’t home last night. Where were you?”

  “Losing three bills playing Texas Hold ’Em. Javelina Casino in Hender-son, from around five until after midnight.”

  “People there know you? Players, dealers?”

  Bobby J. jumped all over that. “Yeah, sure, they know me. Dealer’s name is Ruiz, Hector Ruiz. Ask him, he’ll tell you.”

  “Where’d you go after you quit playing poker?”

  “With a woman, to her place. Annie Harris, blackjack dealer at the Javelina.” Pain and cold had put a whine in the growly voice. “Ask her, she’ll tell you.”

  Fallon said, “Tell me about you and Spicer. How the two of you hooked up. What kind of deal you had with him.”

  “He put the word out he needed some new ID. I heard about it, got in touch. I got connections, I know people do that kind of work.”

  “When was that?”

  “Five, six months ago.”

  “Where’d you deliver the ID to him? Laughlin? His place in Bullhead City?”

  “No. Here in Vegas. I never saw him down there. Didn’t have no idea where he was living.”

  “What else you do for him? Help him work his blackmail scam?”

  “Blackmail? Christ, I don’t know nothing about blackmail. I didn’t see him again till ten days ago. He called me up, said he was going to a party at some rich guy’s place in Henderson. Said meet him there, he had a proposition for me.”

  “Beating up and raping his ex-wife.”

  “No. Knock her around a little, deliver a message to lay off trying to find him. The other thing . . . she asked for it, I told you that—”

  “Shut up,” Fallon said. “No more lies.”

  A long way off, a coyote bayed; the sudden sound made Bobby J. twitch and shiver again.

  “How much did Spicer pay you?”

  “A thousand. He said ask her for another two K, she’d bring it. You want it back? I still got most of it stashed away—”

  “He knew he’d been traced to Vegas. How?”

  “Private cop she hired asking questions. Some musician he knows told him about it.”

  “Did he know the private cop? Have any contact with him?”

  “Didn’t say nothing about that. Just deliver the message, that’s all.”

  “After you delivered it—then what? You see him again?”

  “No. Talked on the phone a couple of times.”

  “After I showed up using his name?”

  “Yeah. He thought you must be another private cop.”

  “Make you a proposition to take care of me too?”

  “No. That thing Sunday night . . . my idea. Just a talk, like I said. Find out who you were, convince you to lay off.”

  “Beat me up. Dump me somewhere. Then hit Spicer up for more money.”

  “No! I told you—”

  Fallon said, “Back up a few more paces.”

  “Why? What happens now?”

  “Back up.”

  Jablonsky obeyed haltingly. Fallon moved forward into the light, bent to scoop up the pile of clothing and boots.

  “You gonna let me get dressed?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, man, I told you everything I know. I got to get to a doctor . . .”

  “No.”

  “Hey, come on! I told you everything I know . . .”

  Fallon retreated to the trunk, threw the armload inside. Before he slammed the lid, he removed the dirty blanket. He went around to the driver’s side, tossed the blanket onto the sa
ndy ground. Then he opened the driver’s door.

  “Hey,” Jablonsky said, “hey, you ain’t gonna just leave me here with a busted nose and a lousy blanket? I’ll freeze to death out here!”

  No, he wouldn’t. The blanket and the long walk would keep him warm enough. Once he got to the highway, a police patrol or Good Samaritan would come along and he could make up a story about being robbed and stripped and beaten up and his car stolen at gunpoint.

  Fallon got into the Mustang, fired it up. Over the engine roar he heard Bobby J. yell, “Motherfucker! I’ll get you for this!”

  Like hell he would.

  He backed up until he came to a hardpan area at the foot of the sandhill where he could turn around. The last he saw of Bobby J., the last he ever wanted to see of him, Jablonsky had picked up the blanket and was swirling it around himself like a wounded albino bat with dirty gray wings.

  FIVE

  FRUSTRATION CHEWED ON FALLON again as he drove back into Vegas. Bobby Jablonsky was a liar, a pimp, a rapist, an all-around sleaze-bag, and there wasn’t much doubt that he had the capacity for cold-blooded murder under the right circumstances, but he hadn’t shot Court Spicer. Or taken Kevin. Or been responsible for Casey’s disappearance. He wasn’t bright enough to fake his surprise. He hadn’t been scared enough for a coward guilty of homicide. And he wouldn’t have thrown out all those alibi names so readily if he hadn’t been where he claimed he was last night. Another girlfriend might lie for him, but not a Texas Hold ’Em dealer or a roomful of poker players at a Henderson casino.

  Fallon retraced Bobby J.’s route back to Sandstone Street, nosed the Mustang to the curb around the corner behind where he’d parked the Jeep. Left it unlocked, with the keyring dangling from the ignition, Candy’s cell phone on the seat, and the Saturday night special cartridges strewn on the floor. As he drove away, he had an image of Jablonsky, wrapped in that blanket, hoofing it alone out there in the cold desert night. The image gave him no satisfaction. Bad night for Bobby J., but it was a lot less punishment than he deserved.

  Well, that could be remedied. Maybe there was nothing Fallon could do about David Rossi’s hit-and-run felony, but Jablonsky was a different story. When he found Casey and her son, and he was his own free man again, he’d put an anonymous flea in the ear of the Vegas cops: Bobby J., Max Arbogast, the teenage drug parties at the Rest-a-While. That way, his conscience wouldn’t bother him so much and he’d sleep better at night.