Bill Pronzini - Mourners

Fine, but then Emily asked her why she’d been in such a terrible mood. And she said, “Let’s not talk about it tonight. Soon, okay? A day or two, and everything will be back to normal.”

“You promise that, too?”

“Yes, honey. I do.”

Big smile to go with the words, but it was a pretender’s smile that said the promise was built less on certainty than on hope.

The phone rang at seven thirty that evening. I was closest to it when it went off, so I picked up. And the caller was the last person I expected to hear from, this night or any other.

“This is James Troxell.”

After a couple of seconds I said slowly, to keep the surprise out of my voice, “Yes, Mr. Troxell. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve been reading your report to my wife,” he said. Deep voice, calm, measured, lacking any discernible emotion. “It’s very thorough, very detailed. Very revealing, too.”

“Yes?”

“I feel that I ought to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For helping me open my eyes. You must have found my actions bizarre. I find them bizarre myself, seeing them outlined in cold type.”

What can you say to that?

“It’s as though I’ve been wandering in a daze the past few weeks,” Troxell said. “But I’m seeing and thinking clearly now.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But I’m not the person you should be thanking.”

“You could have gone directly to the police. You didn’t have to allow me a grace period to do what I should have done in the beginning. I’m grateful that you did.”

I said, “Charles Kayabalian tells me you’ll be going in on Monday morning.”

“That’s the plan, yes.”

“It won’t be as difficult as you might expect.”

“No, I don’t think it will be. Once you finally understand and accept what has to be done, you wonder why you fought against it for so long. With help you can find the courage to go through with it.”

“Yes.”

“And I have all the help I need now. No more bizarre behavior, I promise you that.”

“I don’t understand. Why promise me?”

“It won’t be necessary for you to keep watch on me any longer.”

“You think you’re still under surveillance? Not by us.”

“You’re still working for Lynn, aren’t you?”

“No. Didn’t she tell you?”

“Nothing was said. I just assumed you were.”

“Not since yesterday morning. That report is final.”

“I see,” Troxell said. “Were you paid for your services?”

“In full.”

“Well, then. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say, does there. Except thank you again.”

“Good luck, Mr. Troxell. I hope everything works out for you.”

“It will,” he said.

Strange, awkward conversation. The more I replayed it in my head, the odder it seemed. Something not quite right about it, off-kilter, disconnected, like a conversation in a dream. I was already on edge because of the situation with Kerry, and Troxell’s call sharpened it. I felt that I ought to do something. Call Lynn Troxell, call Kayabalian…

But what could I say to them that would help the situation, make a difference? Or do anything except stir up the pot again?

JAKE RUNYON

The days of his life, now that Colleen was gone, were all the same-in essence if not in detail. He arranged them so that they marched by in structured uniformity, with a kind of military precision. There were no holidays, vacation days, leisurely weekends. There were only work days and make-work days and preparing-for-work days. It wasn’t that he lived to work; it was that he worked because it was the only way he could live.

This Saturday was a specific-job day. Even if it hadn’t been, even if Santa Rosa were hundreds of miles north of the city instead of only fifty-some, he would’ve been on the move by eight a.m. Part of the regimen was that he never slept in, never stayed in the apartment past eight on any morning. Movement was preferable to stasis or confinement, always.

The man who opened the door at Sean Ostrow’s sister’s west-side apartment was drunk. Ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, and already he had to hang on to the door and lean a shoulder against the jamb to hold himself steady. Beer-drinker, the saturation type: he had a sixteen-ounce can of cheap malt liquor in one hand and the smell of it came from his pores as well as his open mouth. Early thirties, heavyset, the kind of beer gut that wobbled and shimmied when he moved; unshaven, wearing a stained undershirt and a pair of faded dungarees with the fly partially unzipped. Derelict in training.

He squinted at Runyon through eyes like sliced marbles crosshatched with red lines. “Who’re you?”

“Is Arlene Burke home?”

“Fuckin’ salesman.” The door started to close, but Runyon got a foot in the way. “Hey, what’s the idea?”

“I’m not a salesman,” Runyon said. “Are you Eugene Burke?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Runyon. I’m trying to find Sean Ostrow-”

“Huh?”

“Mrs. Burke’s brother, Sean Ostrow.”

“That freeloader.” Burke made a sneering mouth, belched in Runyon’s face, and sneered again. “Gone now and he better not come back.”

“When did he leave?”

“Who the hell counts days?”

“How long was he here?”

“Too long, man.”

“How long is too long?”

“Wasn’t my idea to let him move in,” Burke said. Then, in a blurry falsetto,” ‘Get a job, bring in some money, then you can run things round here.’ That’s what she said to me, always throwing it in my face like it’s my fault I can’t find work. Fuckin’ cow.”

“Where’s Ostrow now? Where did he move to?”

“So he paid a few bucks toward the rent, so what? Still a goddamn freeloader. Apartment’s too small for two people, for Chrissake.”

“Where can I find him?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Does your wife know?”

“She don’t know jack shit, that’s what she don’t know.”

“Is she here?”

“No, she’s not here, she’s workin’ today.” Self-pity changed the timbre of his voice, put a whine in it. “Used to be Saturdays, weekends, were the best time, plenty to do, places to go, but not no more. Nothing to do but watch the tube, suck down some brews. Too many businesses closed so you can’t even go out and look for a job.”

“Where does she work?”

“Huh?”

“Your wife. Where does she work?”

Burke squinted at him again. “Who the hell’re you, anyway? Comin’ around here, askin’ about my wife?”

“Where does she work?”

“None of your business.” He tried to close the door again. “Hey, move your goddamn foot.”

“Not until you answer my question.”

“Want me to move it for you?”

“You don’t want to try that, Mr. Burke.”

“No, huh?”

“No. Where does your wife work?”

Truculent glare. But when Burke finished measuring him with his blood-flecked eyes, a process that took less than ten seconds, the truculence morphed into sullen resentment. He made a disgusted sound and helped himself to a long swig from the can of malt liquor. He said then, growling the words, “Macy’s. Downtown.”

“Which department?”

“Housewares. You satisfied now?”

Runyon withdrew his foot.

Predictably Burke said, “Fuck you, man!” and slammed the door, fast.

Santa Rosa was a small country town, the Sonoma County seat, that had grown up too fast into a sprawling city with a population of a quarter of a million. Its “historic” downtown had been designed around a courthouse square; the county offices had been relocated elsewhere long ago and what had probably once been a quiet town center was now traffic-clogged, noisy, and spotted with indicators of encroaching urban blight. Between the square and the freeway that bisected the city, an enclosed shopping mall sprawled over two or three blocks. An attendant in the service station where Runyon stopped for gas told him that was where Macy’s was located.