Bill Pronzini - The Other Side Of Silence

It was a few minutes past seven, Sunday morning quiet, when Fallon found a place to park on the crowded block. He locked the Jeep with all his belongings inside, walked to where a cactus-bordered path led to the building’s entrance-a set of glass doors that were closed but not locked. When he passed through, he was in a tunnel-like foyer that opened into a central courtyard. He scanned the row of mailboxes until he came to the one marked 2-D. The name tag on it, Max Arbogast, removed all doubts about the phone book listing.

From the courtyard Fallon could see that the apartment entrances opened onto wide concrete walkways, motel fashion. Except for a central section of palm trees and low-maintenance ground cover around the pool area, the Desert View resembled the Rest-a-While. Man in a rut, Arbogast. Or maybe this type of structured environment was his comfort zone.

Apartment 2-D was in the near wing, second floor, with access by elevator or outside staircase. Fallon climbed the stairs, walking soft. Each unit was set off from its neighbor by short stucco walls that created a narrow little sitting area and gave the illusion of privacy. A curtain was drawn across the window alongside the door marked 2-D. Through the glass he could hear the hum of an air conditioner, even though the early morning was cool. The television was on in there, too, indicating that Arbogast was awake.

He put his thumb on the bell button and left it there until he heard footsteps approaching. There was a short silence-Arbogast looking through the peephole in the door-and then a muttered “Oh, Jesus!”

“Open up, Max.”

Arbogast said more clearly, “What’s the idea, what do you want?”

“Talk. Open the door.”

“No. Go away.”

“Talk to me or talk to the police.”

“… The police? Listen, you can’t-”

“Want me to say it louder, so your neighbors can hear? I can make a lot of noise before I call the cops.”

Nothing for a few seconds, while Arbogast wrestled with a decision. Then a chain rattled, the lock clicked, the door opened a few inches. Fallon pushed it inward, saw Arbogast backing away into the center of a cluttered room, went in and shut the door behind him. The apartment smelled of coffee, stale food, unwashed clothes. Your typical sparsely furnished bachelor’s quarters: dirty dishes, empty beer bottles, newspapers and clothing strewn over the floor, the TV set blaring away in one corner. The television was the only new, clean-looking item in the room-a 42-inch flat-screen job.

Arbogast was in his bathrobe, a coffee cup clutched in both hands against his chest as if he were afraid Fallon might try to take it away from him. Grayish beard stubble flecked his thin cheeks; what hair he had left was puffed out in little tufts around his head like a collection of dust mice.

“What’s the idea coming here this time of day, threatening me with the cops?”

“Turn off the TV.”

“… What?”

“The TV. It’s too damn loud. Turn it off.”

Arbogast stared at him a few seconds longer, finally went to where a remote control unit lay on an end table and used it to stop the noise. Then he sidestepped to a breakfast bar that separated the living area from a kitchenette, set the coffee cup down and leaned back against it.

“That’s better,” Fallon said. He moved forward until only a couple of feet separated them. “Now we can talk.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you. What you want? How’d you find out where I live?”

“Banning.”

“Who? Listen, I told you-”

“I know what you told me. Now you can tell me the truth.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything. I don’t know anything.”

“Like I said. Me or the police.”

“You can’t sic the cops on me, I haven’t committed any crime-”

“No? How about an illegal search, for starters?”

“A… what?”

“Illegal search. You searched my room last night after I left the motel.”

“I never did. That’s a damn lie-”

“Then there’s accessory to rape and aggravated assault.”

“What?” Arbogast’s hand spasmed; coffee slopped from the cup onto the sleeve of his robe.

“That’s what Banning was doing in room twenty last Wednesday. Raping and beating up Casey Dunbar. And you helped him do it.”

“No! I never did!”

“He told you she was coming in. He told you to give her room twenty and make sure the rooms near it were empty. He told you to destroy the registration card afterward.”

Arbogast shook his head. He looked as though he wanted to crawl down inside his robe and hide there, like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“I didn’t know,” he said in a cracked voice. “I didn’t know.”

“What didn’t you know?”

“A favor, that’s all. He gave me a hundred bucks. You think I can’t use a hundred bucks?”

“What’d he tell you was going on?”

“He wanted to talk to her, that’s all. Private, he said. Just talk to her. I swear to God-”

“But he didn’t just talk to her and you know it. Bloodstains on the bed, the bathroom towels. Right? The maid found them, or you did.”

“Maria. I had to give her some of the hundred so she wouldn’t… Ah, Jesus, listen, you got to believe me, I didn’t know…”

“When I checked in yesterday,” Fallon said, “you called Banning and told him I was there and asking questions. Then you called him again after you searched my room.”

“I had to. He said… I didn’t know why you were there, who you were, I still don’t know, I had to call him.”

“What’s his real name?”

“No, I can’t tell you that…”

Fallon stepped closer, caught a handful of the soiled robe in a hard fist. Arbogast made a squawking noise, flinching and cringing.

“What’s his name, Max?”

“I… oh shit, all right, all right. Bobby J.”

“J-a-y?”

“No, the initial. J.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t know his last name.”

“Come on, Max.”

“I swear I don’t know, I swear!”

Fallon let go of the robe. Arbogast moved away from him, running his hands over the fabric-drying them. Cool in there, almost cold from the air conditioner, but he was sweating visibly now.

“Where does Bobby J. live?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“You’ve got his phone number, but you don’t know his last name or where he lives. You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth, I swear to God.”

“How do you know him, then?”

“He… listen, you’re not gonna tell anybody about this, are you? It could, you know, it could do me some hurt.”

“How do you know him?”

Arbogast said, looking at Fallon’s ear the way he had at the Rest-a-While, “He brings women to the motel sometimes. For parties. And he don’t want anybody to bother him when he’s there.”

“What women?”

“You know. Hookers.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Max,” Fallon said. “Prostitution may be illegal in Vegas, but it still runs wide open. He doesn’t need to bring hookers to a place like the Rest-a-While, or you to watch out for him if he did.”

“Women, that’s all. Women he picks up…”

“Underage girls. That’s it, isn’t it? Runaways, jail bait.”

Arbogast made a sound in his throat.

“What is he, some kind of pimp?”

“No. I don’t know. He just likes to party with young girls…”

“Party. Drugs as well as sex, right?”

“I don’t know nothing about drugs.”

That was a flat-out lie. He knew, all right. He swiped his hands across the robe again.

“So this Bobby J. paid you to keep other guests away from the rooms he was using and warn him if anybody complained or the cops showed up.”