Bill Pronzini: Scattershot

“Nerts to you, big boy,” I said aloud. Then I sat down again and thought that it didn’t matter whether I liked Hickox or his employer; what did matter was that I liked two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses, for what sounded like a nice easy job. The odds were long against any unsavory types getting wind of a cache of wedding presents and trying to rip them off. So I could just sit on my ample duff, as Kerry had put it yesterday, and indulge Mr. Clyde Mollenhauer’s precautionary whim and make myself a nice fee for not much effort at all.

Jobs like that, and like the one Adam Blister had given me earlier, were not going to make me rich. But then, who wanted to be rich? Not me. Being rich meant owning an estate in Ross and hiring pompous male secretaries and worrying about thieves, — being rich meant drinking too much and driving recklessly in an expensive Porsche and getting sued by greedy-eyed lawyers.

Clyde Mollenhauer and Lauren Speers could have their lives, and welcome. Me, I liked being a poor private investigator with sixty-five hundred pulp magazines, a yen for a pretty lady, and a penchant for blue funks. I liked my life just fine, thank you, the way it was.

I spent another hour with the Speers file and the telephone, without much success. I did find reference in one of the recent social clippings to Speers having hired a personal secretary, one Bernice Dolan-lots of personal secretaries running around these days, I thought-and then discovered that there was no address or telephone number for anyone of that name in the file. So I checked the White Pages and found a listing for a Bernice Dolan in Cow Hollow, not far from Speers’s Pacific Heights residence. But when I called the number there was no answer. Three other calls to people on the list also drew blanks.

The file offered a couple of other possibilities, but they would require legwork. Finding La Speers was not going to be quite as simple as I’d hoped; at least, it didn’t look as though I could accomplish the task by sitting on my ample duff with the telephone. It was too late to start knocking on doors today, I decided. That was for tomorrow’s agenda.

At four-thirty I put the file away and dialed the Bates and Carpenter number. Fifteen seconds and one secretary later, Kerry’s voice said, “Hi,” in my ear.

“Hi. What’s new and exciting?”

“Nothing much.”

“Did you finish your presentation?”

“Yep. Last night, late.”

“And they loved it, right?”

“Wrong. They want me to redo it.”

“How come?”

“Problems with the concept, I’m told.”

“Sounds like a rough day.”

“You can say that again.”

“Sounds like a rough day.”

“Cute. Did anyone ever tell you you’re cute?”

“You did, grumpy.”

“Grumpy, yourself. How was your day?”

“Not bad. Two new clients.”

“That’s good. Beautiful rich ladies, no doubt.”

“One beautiful rich lady,” I said. “But I didn’t get to ogle her. She’s missing, and I’ve got to find her and serve her with a subpoena. She’s being sued because she likes to play reckless games with her Porsche.”

“Who’s the other client?”

“A guy named Clyde Mollenhauer. He has an estate in Ross.”

“Mollenhauer? No kidding?”

“You know him?”

“Sure. A VIP. Why does he want a private eye?”

“No big deal,” I said. “His daughter’s getting married on Saturday and I get to guard the wedding gifts.”

“You’re coming up in the world, my friend. Hobnobbing with the rich and the famous.”

“Uh-huh. Listen, I could use a beer, and I’ll bet you could use something even stronger. Why don’t I meet you at the Hyatt? Then we’ll go have dinner-”

“I can’t, “she said.

“How come?”

“Jim Carpenter is taking me to dinner tonight. He wants to talk about the presentation.”

“Going out with the boss, huh? Is he the good-looking one?”

“Yes. Are you jealous?”

“Hell, no,” I lied. “I’d just like to see you, that’s all.”

“Maybe tomorrow night. I’ll have to call you.”

“I’ll probably be in and out all day. If I’m not here, just leave a message.”

We said a few more things to each other, and then she said she had to go, and that was that. When I cradled the receiver I could feel shades of blue seeping in on me again. I felt rejected, which was probably dumb; she had a career, she had responsibilities and priorities, there was nothing wrong with her going out to dinner with one of her bosses. And yet I still sensed a distance opening up between us. I just could not shake the feeling that I was losing her.

I walked over to a place on California and drank two bottles of beer. The prospect of food didn’t appeal to me; neither did the prospect of going home to my empty flat. I bought a copy of the Examiner and checked the movie listings. There were two classic private eye films showing at the Richelieu- Murder, My Sweet with Dick Powell as Philip Marlowe and Out of the Past with Robert Mitchum. So I collected my car and drove to Geary and took my funk into the dark theater.

I felt better when I came out four hours later, but not much. When I got home the flat smelled of dust and lingering traces of Kerry’s perfume. You really are a horse’s ass, I told myself as I made a sandwich and opened another beer. Lone-wolf private dicks don’t act like this. You know what Phil Marlowe would do if he walked in here right now? He’d laugh his head off, that’s what he’d do. He’d fall on the floor laughing.

The hell with Phil Marlowe, I thought. I’m not Phil Marlowe; I’m me. I’m me, damn it, and I love that lady.

I went to bed. And pulled the covers over my head, like a kid alone in a big, empty house.

* * *

There was a woman waiting for me when I got down to Drumm Street on Tuesday morning.

She was hovering around the hallway, looking annoyed, and when I unlocked my office door she followed me inside. “Are you the detective?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“You’re supposed to be open for business at nine o’clock,” she said accusingly. “That’s what your ad in the telephone directory says. Do you know that it’s almost nine-thirty?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m running a little late this morning.”

“I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes,” she said. “I was just about to leave and go find someone else.”

“I’m sorry if you were inconvenienced,” I said, with more tact than I felt. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Of course there’s something you can help me with. Would I be here if there wasn’t?” She made a sniffing noise. “My name is Edna Hornback.”

She looked like an Edna Hornback. She was thin and pinch-faced, with vindictive eyes and a desiccated look about her, as if all her vital juices had dried up a long time ago. I took her to be somewhere in her mid-forties, although she had herself arranged-dyed blond hair, stylish clothes, plenty of makeup-to look ten years younger. She wore rings on eight of her ten fingers, at least a couple of which sported precious stones. Because of the obvious value of the rings, I decided I would keep on letting her be rude to me. Up to a point.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hornback,” I lied. “Come into my private office. We’ll talk there.”

I took her through the anteroom and pointed out one of the chrome-and-corduroy clients chairs. She sat down, put her purse on her lap, and promptly lit a cigarette. Her eyes, moving over the surroundings, showed disapproval.

“I can’t say much for your decor,” she said.

I didn’t say anything.

“I’m an interior designer,” she said. “The color scheme is all wrong; the colors clash. There’s no harmony.”