Джо Горес - Mostly Murder - A Short Story Collection

“She asks when you’re bringing the kids for cioppino again.”

Kearny indicated the littered desk. “I’m two weeks behind in my billing. Oh... this expense account, O’B.” Without warning his fist smashed down in sudden fury. “Dammit, if you think...”

O’Bannon remained strangely tranquil during the storm. When Kearny finally ran down, the red-headed man cleared his throat and spoke.

“Giants leading three-two, bottom of the third. Marichal—”

“What do you mean?” Kearny looked stunned. “What the—”

O’Bannon fished a tiny transistor radio from his pocket, then apologetically removed miniature speakers from both his ears. Kearny gaped.

“You mean — while I — you were listening to the ball game?”

O’Bannon nodded dolorously. Speechless with rage, Kearny jerked out the expense-account checkbook; but then his shoulders began shaking with silent laughter.

Same day: 9:30 p.m.

Larry Ballard parked on Upper Grant; above him, on Telegraph Hill, loomed the concrete cone of Coit Tower, like a giant artillery piece about to be fired. Edith Alley ran half a block downhill toward Stockton; Jocelyn Mayfield and her roommate, Victoria Goodrich, had the lower apartment in a two-story frame building.

The girl who answered the bell wore jeans and sweatshirt over a chunky figure; her short hair was tinted almost white. Wide cheekbones gave her a Slavic look.

“Is Jocelyn here?” Ballard asked.

“Are you a friend of hers?” Her voice was harshly attractive.

Ballard took a flyer. “I was in one of her Sociology classes.”

“At Stanford?” She stepped back. “Sorry if I sounded antisocial. Sometimes male clients get ideas, y’know?”

He followed her into the apartment. “You must be Vikki — Josie has mentioned you. You don’t act like a social worker.”

“‘Say something to me in psychology?’ Actually, I was a waitress down in North Beach before I started with Social Services.”

There were cheap shades at the windows of the rather barren living room, a grass mat on the floor, a wicker chair and a couch, and an ugly black coffee table. The walls were a depressing brown. It was not a room in keeping with monthly automobile payments of $200.

“We’re going to repaint eventually,” Vikki said. “I guess.”

Ballard nodded. “Has Josie mentioned selling the Continental?”

“The Continental?” She frowned. “That belongs to Hank — we both use my Triumph. I don’t think he wants to sell it; he just got it”

“Hank, huh? Say, what’s his name and address? I can—”

Just then a key grated in the front door. Damn! Two minutes more would have done it. Now the subject was in the room, talking breathlessly. “Did Hank call? He wasn’t at his apartment, and—”

“Here’s an old friend of yours,” Vikki cut in brightly.

Ballard was staring. Jocelyn Mayfield was the loveliest girl he had ever seen, her fawnlike beauty accented by shimmering jet hair. Her mouth was small but full-lipped, her brows slightly heavy for a girl, her brown liquid eyes full-lashed. She had one of those supple patrician figures maintained by tennis on chilly mornings.

“Old friend?” Her voice was low. “But I don’t even know him!”

That tore it. Ballard blurted, “I’m — uh — representing California Citizens Bank. We’ve been employed to investigate your six hundred dollar delinquency on the 1967 Continental. We—”

“You dirty—” The rest of Vikki’s remark was not that of a welfare worker. “I bet you practice lying to yourself in front of a mirror. I bet—”

“Vikki, hush.” Jocelyn was blushing, deeply embarrassed. Vikki stopped and her eyes popped open wide.

“You mean you did make the down payment on that car? It’s registered in your name? You fool! He couldn’t make a monthly payment on a free lunch, and you—” She stopped, turned on Ballard. “Okay, buster. Out.”

“Vikki, please.” Then Jocelyn said to Ballard, “I thought — I had no idea the payments — by Friday I can have all the money.”

“I said out, buster,” Vikki snapped. “You heard her — you’ll get your pound of flesh. And that’s all you’ll get — unless I tear Josie’s dress and run out into that alley yelling rape.”

Ballard retreated; he had no experience in handling a Vikki Goodrich. And there was something about Jocelyn Mayfield — private stock, O’Bannon would have called her. She’d been so obviously let down by this Hank character; and she had promised to pay by Friday.

Monday, May 29th: 3:30 p.m.

Jane Goldson winked and pointed toward the Office Manager’s half-closed door. “She’s in a proper pet, she is, Larry.”

He went in. Kathy Onoda waved him to a chair without removing the phone from her ear. She was an angular girl in her late twenties, with classical Japanese features. Speaking into the phone, her voice was hesitant, nearly unintelligible with sibilants.

“I jus’ rittre Joponee girr in your country verry littre time.” She winked at Ballard. “So sorry too, preese. I roose job I... ah... ah so. Sank you very much. Buddha shower bressings.”

She hung up and exclaimed jubilantly, “Why do those stupid s.o.b.’s always fall for that phony Buddha-head accent?” All trace of it had disappeared. “You, hotshot, you sleeping with this Mayfield chick? One report, dated last Tuesday, car in hands of a third party, three payments down — and you take a promise. Which isn’t kept.”

“Well, you see, Kathy, I thought—”

“You want me to come along and hold your hand?” Her black eyes glittered and her lips thinned with scorn. “Go to Welfare and hint that she’s sleeping around; tell her mother that our investigation is going to hit the society pages; get a line on this Hank no-goodnik.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Go gettem bears!”

Ballard fled, slightly dazed as always after a session with Kathy. Driving toward Twin Peaks, he wondered why Jocelyn had broken her promise. Just another deadbeat’ He hated to believe that; apart from the Mayfield case he was doing a good job. He still carried a light case load, but he knew that eventually he would be responsible for as many as 75 files simultaneously, with reports due every three days on each of them except skips, holds, and contingents.

The Mayfield home was on Darien Way in St. Francis Woods; it was a huge pseudo-colonial with square columns and a closely trimmed lawn like a gigantic golf green. Inside the double garage was a new Mercedes. A maid with iron-gray hair took his card, returned with Jocelyn’s mother — an erect, pleasant-faced woman in her fifties.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with Daniel Kearny Associates.”

“We represent California Citizens Bank,” said Ballard. “We’ve been engaged to investigate certain aspects of your daughter’s finances.”

“Jocelyn’s finances?” Her eyes were lighter than her daughter’s, with none of their melting quality. “Whatever in the world for?”

“She’s six hundred dollars delinquent on a 1967 Continental.”

“Indeed?” Her voice was frigid. “Perhaps you had better come in.”

The living room had a red brick fireplace and was made strangely tranquil by the measured ticking of an old-fashioned grandfather clock. There was a grand piano and a magnificent Oriental rug.

“Now. Why would my daughter supposedly do such a thing?”

“She bought it for a” — his voice gave the word emphasis — “man.”

She stiffened. “You cannot be intimating that my daughter’s personal life is anything but exemplary! When Mr. Mayfield hears this... this infamous gossip, he... he is most important in local financial circles.”