Bill Pronzini - The Other Side Of Silence

“Eddie. Eddie Sparrow.”

The little man focused on him, ran liquidy brown eyes over him. “You Rick?” he asked in a surprisingly husky voice.

Noise and people swirled around them. Fallon had to stand close and lean down to hear and be heard. “That’s me. You blow a mean trumpet, Mr. Sparrow.”

“Thirty years of lip, man. Jazz your business, too?”

“Not like it’s yours. Buy you a drink?”

“Never use it. Come on, we’ll talk out front. Too crowded in here.”

Fallon followed him out and a short distance away from the entrance. When Sparrow stopped, he said, “Five minutes, that’s all I got for you.”

“Five’s plenty.”

“So why the note? What’s worth my while?”

“Court Spicer. I’m trying to find him.”

“You’re not the only one.”

“I heard the two of you were friends, so I thought maybe-”

“Friends, hell,” Sparrow said. “That dude don’t have any friends. You’re not one any more than I am. What you want with him?”

“Personal business.”

“Money business?”

“Among other things. I’ll pay cash for his current address.”

Sparrow laughed, showing three or four gold teeth. “If I knew it, you could have it for free.”

“So you don’t know if he’s living in Vegas now?”

“Not a clue.”

“Or if he is, where he might be playing?”

Shrug. “Bound to be a joint, solo or with some crappy trio. Spicer’s strictly second-rate.”

“You ever play a gig with him here?”

“Never. Once, in San Diego, when I needed some quick cash. Once was enough.”

“He played Vegas about three years ago. You wouldn’t have been here then, by any chance?”

“Three years ago? Uh-uh. I was with the Jazzbos in L.A.”

“Something went down around that time, something that brought Spicer some heavy cash. Any idea what it was?”

“You mean a gambling score?”

“Any kind of score.”

“Not that I heard about. That cat’s mojo is strictly bad.”

Fallon let it go. “I understand you saw him not too long ago.”

“Yeah, I saw him. Jam over in Henderson last Sunday.”

“Talk to him?”

“No, man. He was leaving when I got there,” Sparrow said. “Did a fast fade when he saw me.”

“Like he was trying to avoid you?”

Shrug. “We never did have much to say to each other. And him and the dude he was with seemed to be in a hurry.”

“What dude? You know him?”

“Never saw him before.”

“What’d he look like?”

“Mean-looking, that’s all I remember.”

“Dragon tattoo on his right wrist?”

“Tattoo… yeah. Dragon breathing fire.”

Banning.

“You said this gig was in Henderson. Where, exactly?”

“Some rich cat’s hacienda in the desert. He’s a buff. Throws regular jazz parties, pays high and handsome for the best improv talent. Must’ve been a hundred people at this one.”

“What’s his name?”

“Rossi. Big wheel in one of the chemical outfits over there.”

“You remember the address?”

“No. Benny made the arrangements.”

“Maybe you could ask him? It’s worth a hundred to me.”

“Forget it, man. He knew I was out here talking to you, he wouldn’t like it. Besides, you don’t need an address. That hacienda’s all by itself on a hill, mesa, whatever they call ’em out here. Biggest place around, you can see it a mile off when it’s lit up at night.”

“What part of the desert?”

“East. Far enough out you can see the lake from up there.”

“Lake Mead?”

Sparrow shrugged, then glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. “Five minutes are up.”

“Pay you something for your time?”

“Oh, five skins’ll do it.”

“… Five hundred dollars?”

“You said worth my while, right?” Sparrow laughed again, gave Fallon a broad wink. “Jerking your chain, man. You planning on giving Spicer a hard time when you find him?”

“Yes. A hard time.”

“Then you don’t owe me a thing.”

Late-night quiet at the Rest-a-While. Neon sign, office lights, scattered nightlights; everything else was shadows. Fallon shut off the Jeep’s lights as he rolled past the office; pale desert moonlight guided him into a space two doors down from number twenty. He lifted the pack off the floor where he’d stowed it, swung it onto his shoulder as he stepped out. He walked soft to the room door, paused to listen, then slid his hand down along the jamb below the lock.

The piece of toilet paper was gone.

He keyed the door open and shoved it inward, standing back to one side. Nothing happened. A thin trail of moonlight penetrated the darkness within, showing him a portion of the carpet and one corner of the rumpled bed. He stayed where he was for a minute, listening to unbroken stillness. Finally he moved forward, reached around the jamb, found the light switch and flicked it on.

Empty. Come and gone, whoever the intruder was. Went away frustrated, likely, because Fallon hadn’t left anything of himself in the room.

He dumped the pack on the bed and went right back out again, locking the door behind him. The office lights were on, but so was the night latch. A different clerk, in his sixties and gray-bearded, sat reading a paperback behind the desk. Fallon rang the night bell. The clerk stood up like a soldier coming to attention. He took his time walking over, peering warily at Fallon through the glass.

“Help you, sir?”

“I’m one of your guests.” Fallon waggled his room key to prove it. “Talk to you for a minute?”

The clerk relaxed, shrugged, went back behind the counter and buzzed him in. “Problem with your room?”

Fallon said, “No. Just wondering what time the day clerk comes on. Charley, isn’t it?”

“No, his name’s Max.”

“Now where did I get Charley from? Max, you said? Max what?”

Brief hesitation before the clerk said, “Arbogast. You have some sort of problem with him?”

“Not that type, is he? Hard to get along with?”

“Everybody’s hard to get along with sometimes,” the night man said. His expression and the pitch of his voice indicated that he didn’t much like Max Arbogast.

“Complaints about him from other guests?”

“You want to make one, Mr.-?”

“Spicer. Court Spicer.” The clerk didn’t react to the name. “No,” Fallon said, “I just need to talk to him about a friend of his, comes to the Rest-a-While sometimes-midthirties, heavyset, tattoo on the back of his right wrist, wears a cat’s-eye ring. You know him?”

Again, no reaction. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

“Max wouldn’t happen to live here, would he?”

“Would you live here if you didn’t have to?”

“When’ll he be in in the morning?”

“He won’t. Tomorrow’s Sunday. One of his days off.”

“Maybe I can catch him at home then. You know where he lives?”

“Couldn’t tell you if I did. Rules.”

“Sure. Rules.”

There was one Arbogast listed in the phone directory. M. Arbogast, 1189 Ocotillo Street, North Las Vegas. The right one? He’d find out in the morning.

The room had a cramped, airless feel and he slept restlessly. He was awake for a good hour before dawn, up and dressed and on his way just as the pink-and-gold sunrise colors began to seep through the sky.

OCOTILLO STREET: SEVERAL BLOCKS of lower middle-class, lowrise apartment buildings stretched out between two thoroughfares. Number 1189 was two stories of one- and two-bedroom units, built of stucco and wood and arranged in a squared-off horseshoe with the closed end facing the street. A sign above the entrance read: DESERT VIEW APARTMENTS. Sure. Right. If you took a ladder and a pair of binoculars up onto the roof, maybe. From the apartments, all you’d be able to see were urban glimpses that might have been of any city in the country.