Bill Pronzini - The Other Side Of Silence

“Are you Candy Barr?”

“Goddamn salesman,” she said, and started to close the door.

He jammed his shoulder and leg against it, shoved hard enough to send her backpedaling. She caught herself as he stepped inside and threw the door shut behind him. He said, “Don’t scream. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He could have saved his breath; she wasn’t the screaming type. A fighter. She came rushing back toward him, her eyes flashing. Her fingernails were long and painted blood-red and she’d have gone straight for his face and eyes if he hadn’t shown her the Ruger, drawn the hammer back with an audible click.

It stopped her cold. Her mouth opened, snapped shut. She began to breathe heavily through her nose, staring at the gun.

“What do you want?” The words came out scratchy but with more anger than fear.

“Bobby J.”

“Yeah,” she said, “that figures. He’s not here.”

“Where he is?”

“How should I know? I’m not his keeper.”

“Anybody else in the house besides you?”

“Nobody else lives here.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“No. Just me.”

“Let’s go make sure.”

He moved forward, gesturing with the Ruger. She backed up, finally turned as he came close, and walked away slowly with her head tilted around so she could watch him. The room they were in, the living room, was shabbily furnished but kept neater than he would have expected. The kitchen, a dining alcove, two bedrooms, a bathroom, a utility room, a tiny back porch-all empty. The only one that had a disordered look was the last, the bedroom she shared with Jablonsky: unmade bed, her skimpy costume laid out on it, and a vanity table cluttered with tubes and bottles of makeup.

She said, “You satisfied now?”

“Bobby J. bring anybody here last night?”

“Like who?”

“A woman and a young boy.”

“A kid? Bobby J.?” Her laugh was bleak, humorless. “He hates kids.”

“I’ll bet he does. Answer the question.”

“No. The answer is no.”

Fallon took a long look at her. Typical Vegas showgirl with the requisite attributes. Midtwenties. Dyed red hair, long and pinned up now for her French can-can routine. The kind of round face and round, topheavy body that was attractive now but that would run to fat by the time she was forty. The hazel eyes were hard and cynical. Same with the wide mouth. She’d seen a lot and done a lot in her twenty-five years, and not much of it had made her happy. Plaything for users and abusers like Bobby J.

The front of her robe had gaped open, exposing most of one heavy, freckled breast; she made no effort to close it. She saw him looking and misinterpreted his appraisal. “Go ahead and stare, asshole. You try doing anything more, I’ll yank your balls out by the roots, gun or no gun.”

“Bobby J.’s the rapist, not me.”

“… What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Casey Dunbar.”

The name bounced right off of her. “Who?”

“So he didn’t tell you about his deal with Spicer.”

Another bounce. “Who the hell is Spicer?”

“Come on, Candy. Court Spicer-Bobby J. must have mentioned him.”

“Bobby J. doesn’t tell me his business.”

“Unless it has to do with teenage runaways and the Rest-a-While Motel.”

“… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Fallon said, “Where was he last night around five o’clock?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“He wasn’t here, was he.”

“Who knows? I was working last night. Who are you, man? What do you want with Bobby J.?”

“I want to know where he was last night.”

“I told you, I don’t know. Playing poker. Out trolling for pussy with one of his buddies. Jerking off in the Bellagio lobby. I don’t know!”

“Last time you saw him-when?”

“I don’t remember. He comes, he goes, I don’t keep track.”

She wasn’t afraid of Fallon, but the Ruger was a hefty piece of artillery and it made her nervous. She kept alternating her gaze between it and him. Deliberately he lowered the hammer, then cocked it again. “When, Candy?”

“Oh, shit, all right. Yesterday around noon.”

“He call you any time after that?”

“No.”

“Where were you all day?”

“Out eating-I don’t cook. Shopping. Getting my hair done. Hanging out with a girlfriend. You think I just sit around here and wait for Bobby J.?”

Fallon said, “There a weapon in the house?”

“Weapon? You mean a gun?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me, Candy. If there’s one here, you’d better tell me. Don’t make me lock you in a closet and ransack the place to find it.”

Her tongue ran a wet circuit of her lips while she made up her mind. “Under the mattress, right side-his side.”

The piece was tucked in between the mattress and box springs. Saturday night special, rounds in every chamber. Fallon sniffed the barrel. Not fired recently. Or cleaned recently; there was no odor of gun oil. He emptied the cartridges onto the rumpled top sheet, put the gun back where he’d found it and the loads into his jacket pocket.

“That the only one?”

“One’s all you need for protection.”

“Sure. Protection. Bobby J. keep another piece in that Mustang of his?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“Never sure of anything with him.”

Fallon asked, “Where’s your phone?”

“We don’t have a phone.”

“Not a land line, maybe. Cell phone.”

“Yeah, well, whatever.”

“Where do you keep it?”

“Purse. On the vanity.”

He moved over there, opened the purse with his free hand, rummaged around inside until he found her cell phone. Then he gestured again with the Ruger and they went back into the living room, where he tossed the phone onto an ugly plaid couch.

“Sit down there,” he said, “and call Bobby J. And don’t try to tell me he doesn’t have a cell. I know he does.”

“Call him and say what?”

“Tell him to come home right away. Tell him you just got here and there was a break-in while you were out and the house has been trashed.”

“That won’t get him here. He doesn’t give a shit about this place.”

“Then tell him something that will get him here.”

“Like what? I can’t think of anything.”

“I can,” Fallon said. “You’ve got a hot new teenage runaway on the hook and he’d better come quick before she wiggles off. You brought her home and she’s here waiting.”

“He won’t believe that. I don’t have anything to do with that part of his life. A party once in a while, sure, but that’s all.”

Now she was lying. “Everybody in Vegas is into one scam or another, and you’re no exception. Call him, Candy, and make it sound right.”

“What if he doesn’t answer?”

“Leave a short message, tell him to call back ASAP. Either way, don’t say anything to warn him.”

“Or else what?”

“You don’t want to find out.”

“What’re you gonna do to him? Beat him up? Kill him?”

He looked at her without answering.

“What’d he do to you, anyway?”

He didn’t answer that, either.

She said, “What about me? What’re you gonna do to me?”

“Nothing, if you cooperate.”

He watched her think it over. Then, “Fuck it. You know what? I don’t really care what you do to him. He treats me like crap most of the time. Maybe he deserves a taste of what it’s like.”

“Go ahead, make the call.”

She made it. Bobby J. didn’t answer; the call went to his voice mail. She left the message he’d told her to, brief and terse.