Bill Pronzini: Betrayers

Nothing she could do about it. Nothing Runyon could, either, except be there for her when she needed him-particularly during one of her periodic bouts of near-suicidal depression. He’d been suicidal himself after Colleen died, come close more than once to eating his gun; he knew all about the waves of black melancholy and the death-wish impulses. He’d fought them, beat them off, finally buried them. Bryn would do the same with his help and support. He believed that and he felt that she was starting to believe it, too.

He hoped the weekend had gone well. He hadn’t talked to her since Thursday night, didn’t feel it was right to intrude on her private time with her son. Had she taken his advice to be more affectionate with the boy? So afraid Bobby would pull away from her because of her deformity that she’d let an uncomfortable distance build up between them, not once in his presence removing the scarf she wore constantly over the frozen side of her face.

That wouldn’t change, at least not for some time. She still wouldn’t let Runyon see her without the scarf, or touch her face or kiss her. Sex in the dark, bodies close but heads apart at awkward angles.

Hurt and lonely, both of them. It was what had drawn them together, what would keep them together until something happened to end their relationship or make it permanent.

Better not think about that now. Carpe diem. It had been so long since he’d felt like seizing any day, looked forward to something other than filling up the long empty hours with work and aimless driving. Enjoy it while it lasted. Be grateful for the chance to feel alive again.

Noe Valley, between the east side of Twin Peaks and the Mission District, was one of the city’s thriving upscale neighborhoods. Fashionable older homes and apartment buildings, and along 24th Street blocks of restaurants, coffee-houses, bookstores, taverns, small businesses. Parking was at a premium; it took Runyon ten minutes to find a space within a block and a half of 24th and Castro, where Noe Valley Arts amp; Crafts was located.

Small place: long, narrow, with shelves and displays along the walls, more shelving down the middle, and an upfront counter. The girl behind the counter was eighteen or nineteen, gold rings and studs in her ears, nose, and upper lip, and fingernails painted the color of a ripe eggplant. The stud in her lip sparkled when she told him, smiling, that Mr. Madison was in his office in back. She offered to go fetch him, but Runyon said he’d just go on back, he had some personal business to discuss.

The office door was open, revealing a small, tidy office and the man standing at an old-fashioned file cabinet along one wall. He was taller than his brother, a couple of inches over six feet, and also red haired, but with the kind of smooth baby-skin face that would sprout only enough whiskers for twice-weekly shaves. A weak chin and close-set eyes kept him from being good-looking. He glanced around, blinking, as Runyon stepped into the doorway.

“This is a private office,” Madison said. “The girl at the counter can get you anything you need-”

“Afraid not, Mr. Madison.” Runyon introduced himself, showed his license. “I’m here about your brother.”

Madison said, “Oh, God,” in a voice that was half-pained, half-irritated. “Come in; shut the door.” Then, when Runyon had complied, “I suppose that bondsman, Melikian, hired you to find Troy.”

“My agency. That’s right.”

“Well, I don’t have any idea where he went.” Madison moved away from the file cabinet, around behind his desk. Most men of his height had an easy way of walking, but his movements were awkward and loose-jointed, almost a duck waddle. “A long damn way from here, I hope. So far away you never find him.”

“If you feel that way, why did you arrange for his bail?”

“You don’t know him,” Madison said. “Nobody knows him like I do.”

“Meaning?”

“He puts on a good act, pretends to be easygoing, everybody’s friend. But inside he’s just the opposite. A mean, violent son of a bitch. He used to beat me up when we were kids, just for the hell of it. I took more abuse from him than anybody else in my life, including my wife.”

“He threatened you, is that it?”

“Not at first. Claimed he was innocent, that he’d been set up and could prove it at his trial. Swore he’d pay the money back as soon as he could-a crock; he never paid anybody back a dime in his life. I told him no, we couldn’t afford it. That’s when he turned ugly. He knew we had the money. Said he’d hurt me, hurt Arletta, if we didn’t bail him out.”

“You could’ve ignored the threats, left him in jail.”

“Sure. Maybe he’d’ve been convicted and maybe he wouldn’t, and even if he was he’d spend, what, a couple of years in prison. What do you think he’d do when he got out? No, you just don’t know him and what he’s capable of.”

“Did you expect him to jump bail?”

“I thought he might. He was in jail for six months a few years ago; you probably know that. He hated it, hated the idea of going to prison.”

“So you were hoping he would jump, go on the run.”

“Well, what if I was? I didn’t help him do it, did I?”

Same as. But Runyon didn’t put the thought into words.

“I have a right to protect myself and my wife,” Madison said defensively. “The best way I can.”

“She agree?”

“Sure she agrees. Why ask that?”

“I understand it was her money that paid Melikian.”

“Her money.” Madison’s mouth thinned down even more, until his smooth baby face seemed lipless. “Christ, I get tired of hearing that. So she’s gotten lucky with those sculptures of hers, darling of the critics and gallery owners, so what? We’re married, it’s my money, too.”

Runyon said mildly, “Abe Melikian says you had to ask her for the thirty-five hundred. Prenup?”

Anger kindled in Madison’s pale blue eyes. “That’s none of your business. My personal affairs have nothing to do with my brother skipping out on his bail.”

Runyon let it go. “When did you last see him?”

“The day he got bailed out.”

“No contact with him since? No demands for more money?”

“No. At least not yet.”

“Then he might have some of his own stashed away. Or a supply of drugs or a source to get him some that he can turn into ready cash. Any idea who his suppliers are?”

“No.”

“His friends?”

“No. They’re all drug freaks like that bitch he lives with. I don’t have anything to do with people like that.”

“But you do know her. Jennifer Piper.”

“Not before he was arrested. I hardly ever saw Troy, except when he needed money. She was at the jail when I went to see him. Christ, what a piece she is. Tattoos, greasy hair, body like a scarecrow. She gave me the creeps.”

Runyon asked, “He still have ties to anyone in Bakersfield?”

“Not that I know about. He wouldn’t’ve gone back there, if that’s what you’re thinking. He hated growing up there; we both did.”

“What do you think, then, Mr. Madison? Is he running or hiding out somewhere locally?”

“I can’t answer that. Troy’s not smart; he’s just cunning-and so messed up on drugs there’s no telling what he might do.”

Runyon laid one of his business cards on the desk. “Let me know if he contacts you for any reason.”

“I don’t think so,” Madison said. “I help you catch him and he finds out, Arletta and I will be the ones to suffer when he gets out of prison. I hope to Christ none of us ever sees his ugly face again.”

TAMARA

Vonda’s brother James was a partner in a construction company called Three Brothers. Specialized in home repair for black home owners and landlords in Bayview-Hunters Point, the Fillmore, and other parts of the city. In the last couple of years Three Brothers Construction had expanded their operation, moved to a bigger location, and started bidding on small developments of new houses both inside and outside the city. James was the smartest of the three, the driving force behind the expansion. Natural-born hustler and promoter, so he ran the white-collar end of the business while his two partners did the blue-collar work.