“Has Mrs. Hornback been told about all this?”
“Sure. Klein notified her.”
“And?”
“She’s happy as a clam. All she cares about is the money.”
“Did she say anything about me?”
“Not a word.”
“So now what happens? Officially, I mean?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I’m off today; so is the Chief. But I’ll tell you this: he’s not going to be happy about your involvement in that Ross fiasco yesterday. Or about the big media play this morning. They’re calling you Super-sleuth. One of the columnists even suggested the city hire you and fire all the rest of us. Who needs cops, he said, when we’ve got Sam Spade and Sherlock Holmes all wrapped up in one package, rushing around solving crimes’ in a ripped tuxedo with his ass hanging out.”
“Jesus,” I said. “Was that in the papers, too? About the tuxedo pants being ripped?”
“It was. They played it for laughs.”
I could feel an angry flush coming up out of my collar; I wanted to hit something. Instead I said, “That ought to put me in solid with everybody.”
“I warned you, hotshot.”
“Sure. You warned me.”
“Listen.” he said, “I’d invite you over for a beer, but I don’t think you’d be very good company. Neither would I, for that matter. Just hang in there, okay? I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear anything from the Chief’s office.”
After he rang off I called Kerry again. Still no answer. The TV was still blaring away; I went out and shut it off and then opened another beer, but I didn’t want that either. About the only activity that appealed to me was a long drive, so I took my car all the way out to the Point Reyes lighthouse, through gray mist and rugged terrain that matched my mood. It was after nine o’clock when I got back, tired and crabby and dull-witted. I tried Kerry once more, but she still wasn’t in. Which left nothing to do except to crawl into bed.
End of Sunday. Beginning of the end.
* * *
On Monday morning I took what was left of the rented tuxedo back to its owner. He refused to refund my deposit; the trousers were ruined, he said; he couldn’t mend them; it was people like me who made things difficult for everyone. There was no arguing with that on any level; I didn’t even try.
When I got to my office there were all sorts of messages on my answering machine, mostly from media people. I didn’t return any of the calls. And I left the machine on so I wouldn’t have to deal with any of the other calls that came in. I also went out and locked the outer door; I didn’t want to be bothered by visitors, either.
I made out a bill to Clyde Mollenhauer and put it into an envelope with a copy of the contract Hickox had signed as his agent and a short and not very polite note threatening to take him to small-claims court if he didn’t pay up. After which I did the same thing for Edna Hornback; no matter what she intended to do now, she owed me money and I was going to collect it one way or another.
Later in the morning I called Kayabalian. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” he said, “but I kept getting your answering machine.”
“I’m not taking calls this morning.”
“You’ve heard about the arrest of Carolyn Weeks?”
“I’ve heard.”
“Well, I’ve been in touch with Ralph Jordan, Mrs. Hornback’s attorney. They’re dropping their plans for a criminal-negligence suit.”
“That’s good news, I suppose.”
“Yes. I warned him we might go ahead with a slander and harassment suit against his client, but he said if we did that, they’d reactivate their suit. I think it would be best if we backed off, too.”
“Whatever you say.”
“As for your situation with the police … well, that robbery you were involved in on Saturday isn’t going to help you any.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I wish that hadn’t happened,” he said. “We’d be on much firmer ground if you’d stayed clear of any more trouble.”
I was tired of defending myself against that particular accusation; I didn’t say anything.
“I’ll plead your case again with the Chief of Police. There’s a chance I can get him to listen to reason in spite of all the publicity.”
“Sure. Do what you think is best.”
“Don’t give up hope,” he-said. “Call me again late this afternoon. I’ll be here until five.”
“All right.”
I went out for a few minutes to mail my letters. When I came back it was eleven-thirty and Kerry was sitting on one of the chairs in the anteroom; I had forgotten to relock the door. “I just got here,” she said. “Your door was open, so I thought I’d wait.”
“Come into my office. I’ll make us some coffee.”
“No, I can’t stay long. I’ve got a lunch at noon.”
Her eyes were dark and grave, and there was something in them and in her voice that made me look away from her. I said, “I guess you read about the big doings over in Ross.”
“Yes.” She stood up, started to touch my arm and then withdrew her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Me too.”
“Have you heard anything more from the police? About whether they’re going to let you keep your license?”
“Not yet. Maybe later today.”
“Do you think they will?”
“I don’t know. Kayabalian is going to plead my case to the Chief again. The Hornback woman is dropping her lawsuit; that’s one point in my favor.”
“Will you call me as soon as you hear?”
“If you want me to.”
We were silent—one of those awkward, pregnant silences with unspoken things hanging in the air as heavy and gray as the fog outside. I faced her again; emotions churned inside me like a half-raw meat stewing in the bottom of a pot.
I said, “You didn’t just come here to offer me sympathy, did you?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“You’ve made up your mind, right? And the answer is no.”
“I haven’t made up my mind. But I do think…” She broke off.
“What?”
“I know this is a bad time for you, but … I think it would be better if we didn’t see each other for a while.”
There was a thickness in my throat; I had to push words up through it. “How long a while?”
“A week or two.”
Or three or four or forever, I thought. I looked away from her again.
“I need time,” she said. “We both do. We’re not any good for each other the way things are now.”
I said nothing; I had nothing to say.
“It’ll take the pressure off both of us,” she said. “That way, we can both make a decision—how we feel, what we want.”
“I know what I feel and what I want.”
“I’m not so sure you do. And I know I don’t. I need freedom to make a decision as important as this.”
“Maybe you just need freedom,” I said.
The skin along her left cheekbone rippled in what might have been a wince. “Maybe,” she said. “And maybe not. I just don’t know yet.”
“Okay, then. We’ll do it your way—any way you want. We won’t see each other. I won’t call you.”
“You can call me if you need to talk about things.”
“Things other than us, you mean.”
“It’s best that way, believe me. For now.”
“Sure. For now.”
“I’d better go,” she said. “And please call when you hear about your license. Will you do that?”
“Yes.”
She stayed a moment longer, looking at me with her grave chameleon eyes. Then she smiled a small smile and said, “Take care of yourself, for heaven’s sake,” and I watched her turn and walk out through the anteroom, through the outer door—away, gone. I kept on standing there, staring at the empty spaces where she’d been, all the empty spaces where she’d been.
Good-bye, Ker
ry, I thought.
I called Kayabalian at four-thirty, from my flat; I’d gone home early because there was nothing to do at the office and nowhere else to go. And he said, “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,” in a voice as grave as Kerry’s had been.
I waited.
“The Chief of Police has decided to recommend suspension to the Sate Board of Licenses. I tried to get him to change his mind, but he’s in a snit over that Ross business and all the flap in the media; he won’t budge.”
“I see. An indefinite suspension?”
“Yes. There’s still a chance the Board will reject the recommendation. Not much of a one, I’ve got to be honest with you, but it could happen. They’ll probably schedule a hearing later in the week; I’ll go with you, and we’ll make one more try. If they do suspend your license, we can sue for reinstatement—but frankly, that’s a long and expensive process.”
“So there’s not much I can do, is there?” I said. “Just let them take away my livelihood and go out and get another job and chalk it all up to experience. Grin and bear it.”
“I’m sorry,” Kayabalian said. “I really am sorry.”
I thanked him for all he’d done and went out and stood in the bay window, watching the fog swirl and eddy and turn the whole world gray. Something had got into one of my eyes; I could feel wetness forming there. I brushed it away. So that’s that, I thought. Not with a bang but a whimper—that’s the way it ends. No business, no money, no Kerry, no prospects. Where do I go from here? Where the hell do I go from here?
The end.
Table of Contents
Scattershot
Bill Pronzini - Nameless Detective
Scattershot
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
Nameless 08 Scattershot Page 16