Bill Pronzini - Deadfall

“Oh, shit, you again. What do you want now?”

“A few minutes of your time. Mind if I sit down?”

“I don’t have to talk to you,” she said.

“That’s right, you don’t. Where’s Richie today?”

Some sharp emotion-I took it to be pain-darkened her eyes and pulled her mouth out of shape. She looked away from me before she said, “None of your business where he is.”

“Don’t you know?”

“Sure I know. Why wouldn’t I know?”

“What’s the secret, then?”

“There’s no secret.” I sat down across from her as she spoke. She looked at me again, but the one cockeye made it seem as though her gaze was still somewhere else. Her expression had changed to one of bluff and anger. “What do you care where Richie is?”

“I want to ask him some questions,” I said.

“What questions?”

“About Danny Martinez.”

“Who?”

“Danny Martinez.”

“I don’t know anybody named Danny Martinez.”

“No? Well, Richie does.”

“Am I supposed to care about that?”

“You should. Danny Martinez knows who murdered your father.”

Her mouth opened, closed again; the surprise seemed genuine. “You’re crazy,” she said. “You’re full of shit.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Kenneth wasn’t murdered,” she said.

I still didn’t say anything.

“You’re making it up,” she said. “There’s nobody named Danny Martinez.”

“Yes there is. He used to work for Cabrillo Market in Moss Beach, delivering groceries and liquor. He made a delivery to your father’s house the night he died, right about the time he died. He saw or heard what happened. A couple of weeks ago he contacted your Uncle Leonard and tried to sell him the name of the person who pushed Kenneth. Maybe he did sell him the name; maybe that’s why Leonard was shot. I don’t know yet. I won’t know until I find Martinez.”

She was shaking her mouse-brown head. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “I don’t believe any of that.”

“It’s true, Melanie.”

“No,” she said. Then she said, “Even if it is, what does Richie have to do with this Martinez?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. He was at the Martinez farm in Moss Beach yesterday afternoon. I saw him there. The place is deserted now; Martinez split for Mexico a couple of weeks ago. I think Richie was searching the house.”

“You’re lying,” she said.

“Why would I lie to you?”

“You’re trying to get something on Richie-”

“Melanie,” I said, “where is he?”

“I’m not going to tell you!”

“Did he come home last night? Has he been home since yesterday afternoon?”

She got up fast, so fast she almost upset her chair. “You son of a bitch!” she said, loud enough so that her voice carried to everyone on the pier. They all turned to look at us. “I don’t have to listen to any more of this! You hear me? No more of this!”

Her face had gotten red and she was trembling; she had worked herself into a state, and quickly. I stood up, too, and just as I did a brawny guy in a sheepskin vest came over from one of the nearby tables. He said to Melanie, “Some trouble here, kid?”

I said, “No trouble,” but she said, “He tried to pick me up. He offered me money to go to a motel with him, the goddamn creep.”

Ah Christ, I thought, that’s all I need.

The guy put his eyes on me. He was one of these macho types, the kind that see themselves as champions of law, order, and virtue — the kind to whom violence is the answer to every problem and Stallone’s Rambo is the great American hero. This attitude of blind-leap heroism and distorted patriotism was rampant in the country these days. Nobody seemed to be thinking much anymore, including the politicians; it was all might makes right, action and reaction, and never mind how many innocent people might get hurt in the process.

True to form, the guy balled up his fists and said, “That right, asshole? You try to molest her?”

“No, it’s not right.”

“She says it is.”

“She’s playing games. Look at her.”

“Pervert,” Melanie said between her teeth. She was backing away now, fading into the small crowd that had gathered from the other tables. “Lousy goddamn pervert.”

“I ought to break your face,” the guy said to me.

“Lay a hand on me, you’re in big trouble. Melanie, come back here!”

But she was moving away now, not looking back. I wanted to go after her, but if I made a move the brawny guy would jump me. The rest of them were liable to jump me, too; it was that kind of potentially ugly scene. I stayed where I was and let her go.

“You’re the one who’s in trouble, pal,” the guy said. “Hey, somebody go call the cops.”

“I am a cop,” I said, making it sound tough. “How about that, asshole?”

It was the only way to handle the situation, the only way to keep it from turning any uglier; I was not about to get myself manhandled on little Melanie’s account if I could help it. And it worked, too: it took the edge off their righteous anger, made them uncertain and suddenly uneasy.

“Cop?” the brawny guy said.

“You got it. That girl is a suspect in a murder case. Her name is Melanie Purcell, she lives down on the creek. Maybe one of you knows her. Her uncle was murdered last week.”

One of them did know her, one of the other men. He said, “Yeah, that’s right. He’s right.”

The brawny guy said in a backing-down voice, “Then why’d she say you tried to pick her up?”

“Why the hell do you think? So she could get away. Now do we break this up and let me get on with my job or do you people want some hassle for obstructing justice?”

They broke it up, muttering among themselves. All except the brawny guy; he was reluctant to let go of his chance to play Rambo. Before it could occur to him to ask for my ID, I shoved past him and went off the pier and alongside the cafe and out through a side gate. There was no sign of Melanie, and I hadn’t seen which way she’d gone-not that I gave much of a damn right then. Even if I caught up with her again I wasn’t going to get anything more out of her, not today.

I got into the car. The brawny guy had come out of Blanche’s and was standing by the gate watching me. And as I swung out onto Fourth Street I saw him writing on a piece of paper-my license number, probably, just in case he’d let a dangerous sex offender escape after all.

Do-gooders and damn fools, I thought. World’s full of both nowadays, and the problem is you can’t tell one from the other anymore. I wasn’t even sure which one I was, not on most days and definitely not on this true blue Saturday.

I went to the office, something I try to avoid doing on weekends because I really don’t like the place much, thanks to the fine greedy hand of Sam Crawford. The air was stale from the smoke from Eberhardt’s cheap tobacco, and I wanted to open a window; but the night chill still lingered and it wasn’t warm enough outside to let in fresh air, not unless I wanted to sit around shivering. Something was going to have to be done about Crawford, too, but not right now. Right now he was at the bottom of the list.

I filled the coffee pot from the bottle of Alhambra water, put it on to heat, and sat at my desk. The piece of paper with Ruth Mitchell’s name and telephone number- apparent telephone number-was still lying on my blotter. I picked it up and squinted again at the last digit in Eberhardt’s scrawl. Then I scooped up the phone and dialed the number that hadn’t been answered yesterday, the one with a two as the final digit.

Five rings, and a woman’s voice said hello.

“Ruth Mitchell?”

“No, she’s not here right now. This is her sister Claudia. May I help you?”