Bill Pronzini: Spook

She said, “What’s the other name on your list?”

“Jake Runyon.”

“Right. Only name on mine.”

“I thought you didn’t much care for Runyon’s past or personality.”

“Didn’t much care for you either in the beginning,” Tamara said. “Man’s a pro, that’s the main thing. I can work with him.”

“So are you a pro,” I said. “Someday you’ll be a better one than I ever was.”

“Not better, but just as good.” No false modesty in Ms. Corbin.

“So it’s Runyon then?”

“Best man for the job. Only one in the bunch worth your time and mine.”

I made the call to tell Jake Runyon that he was hired. All he said was, “Good. When do I start?”

The phone rang at ten till five, just as I was getting ready to close up shop for the weekend. Tamara was already gone, and I’d been finishing a report on a claims investigation for Western States Indemnity and trying to decide if I should fight the Friday night crowds downtown for a couple of hours of Christmas shopping, or wait until tomorrow and fight the Saturday morning crowds. Tonight might be better, I was thinking, get it over with. It was Kerry’s night to pick up Emily and they wouldn’t be home until seven o’clock at the latest.

The caller identified himself as Steve Taradash, adding that he was the owner of a company called Visuals, Inc. He’d gotten the agency name out of the phone book, he said, and wanted to know if I was available to “do a small job” for him. He sounded uncertain, possibly a little embarrassed at asking for the services of a detective agency.

“What sort of job, Mr. Taradash?”

“Well, it’s kind of difficult to explain over the phone. Could you come here? We’re not far from where you are.” He gave the address.

“This evening, you mean?”

“If you could manage it. I’ll be here until seven or so.”

“I’ll need some idea of what kind of job you want done first.”

“Find out who somebody is. Was.”

“I’m not sure what you mean. An identity check?”

“Well, there was an article about it in Wednesday’s Chronicle. It mentioned us — Visuals, Inc. Maybe you saw it?”

As a general rule I neither read the newspapers nor watch TV news. Investigative work is depressing enough, and I can count on Kerry or Tamara or various clients to keep me abreast of current events. I didn’t tell Taradash this; I said only, “I’m afraid not.”

“Oh. Well.” He made a throat-clearing sound. “The thing is,” he said, “I’ve been stewing about this ever since Tuesday morning. Whether to call somebody or not. I kept hoping the cops... police would ID him, turn up some information on his background, but they don’t have a clue. He’s still a John Doe.”

“Who is?”

“Spook.”

“Did you say Spook?”

“That’s what everybody called him.” The throat-clearing sound again. “Look, I’m not very good at this kind of thing, especially on the phone. I’ve never hired a detective before. Could you come over? Even if there’s nothing you can do, I’ll pay you for your time...”

Five o’clock. Friday evening crowds, Friday evening traffic snarls downtown. Two hours before Kerry and Emily would be home. Visuals, Inc. was more or less on my way to Diamond Heights. And I wouldn’t be officially semiretired until after the first of the year.

“Give me half an hour, Mr. Taradash,” I said. “I’ll let you have the same, free of charge.”

Visuals, Inc. occupied half of a converted warehouse on Mariposa, off lower Potrero. The area was semi-industrial, home to all sorts of small businesses, the Municipal Railway bus yards, and the local PBS station, among other things. It was close to downtown, close to the interchange of Highways 101 and 80, close to the Mission District, Pac Bell Park, S.F. General Hospital.

The centralized location may or may not have much to do with the fact that a fairly high concentration of the city’s 8,000-plus homeless population congregates there. The area has a soup kitchen and at least one city-operated shelter, but many of the displaced live on the streets or sleep in squalid little encampments under the freeways and in neighborhood parks such as Franklin Square. Sidewalks, alleys, doorways are littered with shopping carts, refuse, human waste. Conditions aren’t as bad as in some other parts of the city, but walking here can be a depressing experience. And I had to hoof it three blocks in a chilly December dusk because street parking is always at a premium, even after five o’clock on a Friday evening. I doled out change to three panhandlers along the way, turned down a fourth because he was drunk on cheap wine and overly aggressive. Life in the city in the new millennium.

The windowless entrance to Visuals, Inc. was locked tight. Plated on the door was a discreet sign with the company’s name and nothing else; a bell button was set into the wall next to it, above which another, card-size sign said RING FOR ADMITTANCE. I rang, waited a good two minutes before a voice said, “Yes, who is it?” When I identified myself, chains and bolts rattled and the door opened and I was looking at a guy in his mid-thirties with a severe case of male-pattern baldness and a tic under his right eye that made it seem as if he were winking.

“Steve Taradash,” he said. He grabbed my hand, worked it like a slot-machine handle for about three seconds before he let go. “Come in, thanks for coming, I really appreciate it, we’ll talk in my office.” All run together like that. Nervous guy.

He led me on a fast walk through an areaway into a cavernous space lighted by both spots and fluorescents. Two-thirds of the space contained film-related equipment: cameras, dollies, boom microphones, a variety of wheeled backdrops and a gaggle of furniture and props. The other third was walled off and had two sets of metal doors, above one of which was mounted a presently unlit red light. Sound stage, I thought. Two men were working among the equipment; they paid no attention to us as we passed along the side wall.

At the far end was another closed off section, this one cut up into windowed offices. Two were dark and curtained; the third and largest showed lamplight. That was where we went — Taradash’s office. Big, cluttered, evidently soundproofed, and outfitted with a computer, a film projector, another large machine I couldn’t identify. The three solid walls were coated with posters, photographs, film stills, and various award certificates, some framed, some fastened to corkboards with pushpins.

Taradash said, “Sit anywhere you can find space,” and flopped into a leather desk chair. Two of the other three chairs in there were piled high with miscellaneous stuff. I moved a couple of large cans of film off the third to make room for my hind end.

“What sort of film work do you do, Mr. Taradash?”

He took a cigarette from a pack on the desk blotter. If he’d started to light it, I would have protested; but he didn’t. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, looking at it with an expression of loathing. “What we are for the most part is an industry supplier,” he said. “Rent out equipment to small outfits that can’t afford to buy or transport their own — documentary filmmakers, production companies that make indy flicks or commercials. We provide other services, too — sets and a sound stage for indoor shots, film processing, transportation.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It can be. Profitable, too — finally. We’ve been in business seven years, this last one was our best so far and the projection for next year looks even better. You’d be amazed at how much film is shot in the Bay Area, not just the city but within a radius of a couple hundred miles. As much as in L.A., no kidding.”