Bill Pronzini - Spook

We went upstairs and I briefed him on the relevant points I’d noted during Friday evening’s interview with Steve Taradash. He asked a few cogent questions, wrote down the answers in a notebook not unlike the one I carry. The questions were tersely worded; he didn’t have anything to say that required more than a couple of sentences, and nothing at all that wasn’t business related.

I had him fill out and sign a form for the bonding company, so he could be added to the agency bond. Then I gave him one of the spare keys to the office. Tamara would have to decide if he should be granted access to her computer files; not my department.

Downstairs, I asked if he wanted to ride over to Visuals, Inc. with me. He said no, politely, he’d follow me in his car, save me the trouble of having to bring him back. Half-truth, I thought. He didn’t care to ride with me because it would’ve meant small talk, establishing a connection in an enclosed space. Nothing personal against me; it was a loner thing, part of that reticence of his. Hard man to read, to talk to one on one. He preferred to deal with people, professionally and otherwise, in ways that were glancing, impersonal.

I wondered if he’d been that way before the loss of his second wife. At least partly, I decided. He was the kind of man who let few individuals get close to him, who for the most part reserved his inner self for someone he loved, trusted, connected with on a deep private plane. He and the second wife must have made a very close, self-contained unit — two people moving through life as if in a thinly membraned bubble, venturing out separately for practical purposes but neither of them whole unless they were together. People who didn’t need many friends or outside activities, who found complete fulfillment in each other.

I understood that kind of man, that kind of relationship. Essentially Kerry and I were like that, even more so before we let Emily inside our little bubble. If I lost her, as Runyon had lost his wife, would I be as he was now? Almost certainly. Half a unit — half a man. Existing for my work and little else, except for Emily in my case as Runyon’s estranged son was in his.

Brothers under the yoke, all right. In more ways than one.

Parking in the Franklin Square vicinity was as bad on Saturdays as it was during the week. I let Runyon have the first space I saw, then had to drive around for ten minutes before I found another spot a couple of blocks off Mariposa. Getting my exercise whenever I came here.

Steve Taradash, contrary to his assurances, was absent from Visuals, Inc. Some sort of urgent business, the guy who admitted us said; he was due back at one o’clock. The guy pointed us toward Meg Lawton’s office with a mild warning to keep out of the way of the “shoot.” This translated to a film crew busily setting up cameras and equipment and wheeling sets and props around in the vicinity of the sound stage. All the hectic activity drew my attention as we walked to the offices, but not Runyon’s; he might have been alone in the building, eyes front all the way.

Meg Lawton greeted us enthusiastically. She was a large, fiftyish bottle blonde with a nurturing smile belied by sad blue eyes: earth mother in turquoise polyester, a little careworn and disillusioned, but clearly still clinging to her own set of youthful ideals.

“I’m so glad Steve called you,” she said. “What happened to that poor man... Spook, I mean... well, it’s awful. Just awful.”

I said, “You do know we’re not investigating the homicide.”

“Yes, I know, just trying to identify him. The police haven’t found out a thing so far. I don’t suppose they’ll ever find out who killed him in his doorway.”

“His doorway?” Runyon said. “He always slept in the same spot?”

“Yes, once he knew we — Steve, I should say — had no objections.”

“Always alone?”

“Oh, yes, always.”

“You ever see him with anyone during the day?”

“Other homeless people, you mean?”

“Anyone at all.”

“No. Except for his ghosts, of course... he was always talking to them.”

I asked, “Do you know a homeless man, big, dark, wears a tatty red and green wool cap?”

“Big Dog? I don’t know him, no, but I’ve seen him, heard the name.”

“From Spook?”

“No, from another homeless person. Spook wouldn’t have had anything to do with Big Dog, I’m sure.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“He just wouldn’t,” she said. “Spook was friendly, very polite... such a gentle soul. And Big Dog... well, he’s the exact opposite. An ugly personality, if you know what I mean.”

“Not exactly, Mrs. Lawton.”

“I don’t like to speak ill of the disadvantaged, but Big Dog... he’s an angry man. Very aggressive, foul-mouthed. I’ve only seen him twice and he was screaming obscenities at someone both times.”

“Not Spook?”

“No. He wasn’t around either time.”

“Mr. Taradash mentioned seeing them together once, around Thanksgiving,” I said. “Sharing a bottle of cheap wine in a doorway.”

“Really? Spook and Big Dog? Steve never told me that.”

“So evidently they did know each other, spent some time together.”

“I suppose so. Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. Spook spent some of the spare change we gave him on wine, there wasn’t anything to be done about that, and if Big Dog knew Spook had alcohol he’d demand a share. And Spook would’ve given it to him willingly, that’s the way he was.”

“Violent, this Big Dog, would you say?” Runyon asked.

“Oh. yes. But if you’re thinking he’s the one who shot poor Spook, no, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“A man like that wouldn’t have a gun.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“He’s an alcoholic,” Meg Lawton said. “Drunk both times I saw him. And his clothes are filthy, just rags. If a homeless man like that ever had a gun, he’d have pawned it for money to buy liquor.”

“Unless he used it to get money another way.”

“You mean... robbery?”

“Armed robbery, that’s right.”

“But that’s... no, I don’t believe that. Besides, what possible reason could he have for killing Spook? That poor man didn’t have anything worth stealing, no money or valuables. He spent whatever anyone gave him on... well, what were essentials to him.” Meaning wine and tobacco.

“You’re sure of that, Mrs. Lawton?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “If Spook owned anything of value, I’d have known it. We were friends. Really, I’m not just saying that. I was his friend and I think he felt the same about me.” She pushed her jaw out a little and said again, “I’d have known.”

“If this Big Dog had some kind of grudge against him,” Runyon said, “would you have known that?”

“I think so. I think he’d have said something. He was always talking to his ghosts about people on the street. Some of it didn’t make much sense — he was disoriented a lot of the time — but sometimes you could understand the gist of it. I never heard him say a bad word about anyone, or mention any trouble.”

“Where does Big Dog hang out, do you know?”

“Over in the Square, probably,” she said. “That’s where he was the two times I saw him.”

“Franklin Square,” I explained to Runyon. “Park a couple of blocks from here — we passed it coming over.”

He nodded. “The other street people Spook talked about, Mrs. Lawton — any names you can remember?”

“... Delia, Mac something, Pinkeye. There were so many...”

“Anything specific about any of them?”

“No, I don’t think so. Nothing that made any sense.”

“What about his life before he showed up here?” I asked. “He ever say anything about that?”