Bill Pronzini - Schemers

“Like he did with you on the San Jose Auditorium show?”

A scowl turned Cullrane’s knobby face even uglier. “What do you know about that?”

“The deal fell through and you lost a bundle. Pollexfen’s money, wasn’t it?”

“What if it was?”

“He doesn’t like you and you don’t like him. How’d you talk him into investing a hundred thousand in one of your promotions?”

“It wasn’t all his goddamn money.” Down went the rest of the scotch; the bottle clinked on glass as he replaced it. “I lost some of mine, too. And it wasn’t my fault the deal went sour, no matter what anybody told you.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

“How you managed to talk him into making the investment.”

“What makes you think I talked him into it?”

“He volunteered, then? Or was it his idea in the first place?”

“I didn’t say that, either.”

“You’re not being very cooperative, Mr. Cullrane.”

“Why the hell should I be?” he said. “My financial arrangements with Greg Pollexfen are my affair.”

“They are unless they have a bearing on the case I’m investigating.”

“Christ, man, I told you-Greg took the fucking books, nobody else. And you can bet he had a good reason. He never does anything without what he thinks is a damn good reason.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“But you don’t have a clue what the reason might be.”

“Also right. He’s a schemer, you’re a private eye. If you’re smarter than he is, you’ll figure it out like Mickey Spillane.”

Nicole Coyne heard that and found it amusing. Not because she knew Mickey Spillane had been a writer, not a private eye, but because she was tight. Her laugh was low and throaty. “My glass is empty, Jeremy,” she said.

He got up immediately with the scotch bottle. When he came back to the bar, he said to me, “You finished now? Nicole and I have an appointment for drinks at five o’clock.”

He didn’t seem to see the irony in that statement and I didn’t enlighten him. “For the time being,” I said.

“I’ve answered all the questions I’m going to,” he said. “You come around again, you’ll find me in my mime suit.”

The Coyne woman thought that was hilarious. She was still laughing when I let myself out.

F rustrating damn case. No matter who I talked to or what information I came up with, I couldn’t seem to move off square one. Some sort of crime had been or was being perpetrated here, but what kind? Theft? Insurance fraud? Filing a false police report for an unknown purpose?

Any of the three principals could be responsible. Pollexfen was reputedly devious, manipulative, and ruthless. Jeremy Cullrane and Angelina Pollexfen were money-grubbing alcoholics with secrets and manipulative behavior patterns of their own. None of the trio liked one another; accusations flew back and forth, none backed by solid evidence. Pollexfen had the means and opportunity to steal his own books, but no apparent motive. His wife and her brother had opportunity and motive, but no apparent means. Brenda Koehler? Opportunity, but no means and no apparent motive, given her spotless history and simple lifestyle. Julian Iverson? Neither means nor opportunity nor motive.

There was nothing to catch hold of, to follow through to a definite conclusion. One big confusing tangle of possibilities, half-truths, lies, secrets.

Where to go from here? The only option, unless Tamara uncovered something new, was for me to start over again: another visit to the Pollexfen house, to ask more questions, have another look around the library and maybe the rest of the place this time. If that didn’t produce a lead, then another crack at the wife and her brother and Brenda Koehler-push them, play a little bad cop. And if that failed… quit beating my head against the wall, admit defeat, and file a report that would effectively approve Pollexfen’s claim.

It would also prove Barney Rivera right and make him happy as hell, even if it cost Great Western Insurance the half-million-dollar bundle. The needle would come out, long and sharp, and he’d find ways to keep jabbing it into me for a long time afterward. The prospect was galling.

TAMARA

On the way home after work she detoured to Home Depot and bought some shelving, shelf paper, and a few other hardware items. The new crib on Connecticut on Potrero Hill had come furnished, but there were things that needed to be done to make it her own. She expected to be there awhile, and the small alterations she planned were the kind that would make any landlord smile.

The flat took up the second floor of a two-story Stick Victorian that’d been renovated and repainted four years ago. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, kitchen, laundry room, high-ceilinged living room big enough to hold a dance party in. Good old San Francisco neighborhood, businesses and restaurants within walking distance-uphill from the flat so she could get plenty of exercise when she felt like it. Hefty rent, but not high enough to put a strain on the salary she drew from the agency. On the rental market just a few days when she looked at it. Pure luck no one else had snapped it up. She’d signed the lease on the spot.

The phone rang about two minutes after she let herself in. Probably Vonda. They hadn’t talked since the weekend before last, when Vonda and Ben helped her move her stuff from the old apartment on 27th Avenue. Meant to call her last night, brag a little on Lucas and the solving of her little problem, but one thing and another had kept her from doing it. Young ho stuff, anyhow, bragging on getting laid. Vonda was married and five months’ pregnant and all wrapped up in Ben and the baby. No more goodnatured competition between them like there had been in their badass days. All grown up and respectable now. More or less.

Still, she’d probably have thrown out some details if it were Vonda on the phone. Only it wasn’t. It was Lucas.

The sound of his voice put a smile on her mouth. When he left on Monday morning he’d said he would call, and she’d been hoping he would, that he wasn’t just talking the usual man talk after bed games. But hey, this soon? All right!

“Thought I’d see how you’re doing,” he said.

“Doing fine. How about you?”

“The same. Any plans for tonight?”

“Put up some shelves, that’s about all.”

“I could come over and give you a hand.”

Uh-huh. Give her a hand right into bed. The thought brought back memories of Sunday night and yesterday morning, and the prospect of a repeat performance or two made her tingle. “I wouldn’t mind,” she said.

“You eaten yet?”

“Not yet.”

“How about I bring something with me? Pizza, Chinese takeout, whatever you’d like.”

“Chinese sounds good.”

“Any dish you’re partial to?”

“Nope, I like it all. Surprise me.”

“That’s me at your door, in about an hour.”

She put the phone down, still smiling, still tingling. Oh, Lordy, that man was good in bed. Better than Horace, she thought with a little satisfied malice. Better than anybody she could remember. He must’ve felt the same about her, wanting to come back for more this soon.

Sex was all it was, though. Each of them scratching itches. That was what she’d told Bill and that was the way it was. What she felt for Lucas was all below the neck. He said it was the same for him and she hoped he meant it. Last thing she needed in her life right now was another heavy relationship like she’d had with Horace. Love wasn’t any big deal anyway. Overrated. Too many complications, too much chance of getting hurt again. Uh-uh. No, thank you.

She went out to the car for the rest of the shelving. Another nice thing about this new place: plenty of close-by street parking. The car sat there at the curb like a fat scabby bug: Horace’s eleven-year-old Toyota. She hated that damn car-another of Horace’s hand-me-downs, like the apartment on 27th Avenue. Get herself a new ride, that was the next change she’d make. And do it soon. Wash the last of Horace Fields right out of her life.