Bill Pronzini: Spook

The little slap-talk with herself made her feel better. When Jake Runyon called a few minutes later, to let her know he was on the road and expected to be in the office around one o’clock, she made an effort to be nice to him. Told him again what a good job he’d done up in Mono County. The stroking didn’t have much effect; all he said was “Thanks” and “See you later.”

She did some work, managed to lose herself in it. But then, around ten, the phone rang a second time. And her mood went sour again.

Breathing. Heavy breathing.

Oh, yeah, that was all she needed now. A perv.

Still breathing. She didn’t wait for any more, didn’t say anything, just slammed the receiver down.

Phone rang again a few seconds later. She ground her teeth, made herself answer it cool and businesslike.

Same jerkoff chump, breathing like a pig at a trough. But then a raspy voice said, “Don’t hang up.”

“Well, don’t be panting in my ear. Something I can do for you?”

She expected an obscene answer and got ready to slam down even harder, bust his eardrum. But he surprised her. He said angrily, spewing the words, “What’s the idea siccing the cops on me?”

“Huh?”

“Can’t leave a man alone, always after him, never a minute’s peace. Everybody, my wife, the IRS, cops, you people, the bastards you’re working for. Who are they? Who hired you?”

Man! “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know, all right. Don’t give me that crap, I’m not taking any more bullshit from anybody.”

“Who is this?”

“You know who I am. Sicced the cops on me. All those years, nobody did anything about it, everything went to hell, whose fault is that? Not mine. Goddamn you people, not mine!”

“Robert Lightfoot? Thomas Valjean?”

“Smart bitch, don’t play games with me!”

That made her lose it. She said, “Drop dead, asshole,” and hammered the receiver into its cradle, damn near broke it. Next thing she did was open her purse, find the high-frequency whistle Pop had given her years ago. Chump called a third time, she’d huff and puff and really bust his eardrum for him.

But he didn’t call again. The phone stayed quiet.

Well, all right. Must’ve been Valjean; Lightfoot talked with a slur because of his stroke. Why hadn’t the cops arrested Valjean by now? Insufficient evidence, probably. Report the call? Not much point. He hadn’t said his name; she was just guessing and the police couldn’t act on guesswork. Boss man had drummed that into her head enough times, hadn’t he? But if he called again...

Meanwhile, back to work. She started preliminary work on a skip-trace for Abe Melikian, a hard-luck bondsman who called the agency whenever one of his lowlife clients jumped bail, which seemed often enough to put most bondsmen out of business or at least make them think twice about who they posted bond for. Routine stuff. Interesting when she was in the right mood, boring when she wasn’t. Boring today.

An hour’s worth of the routine was all she could stand. The only good thing about the hour was that the phone stayed silent. For no damn good reason, she surfed Philadelphia on the Net. Fifth largest city in the country, population 5.8 million... too many people in one place. City of Brotherly Love. Yeah, right. Well, they did have an African-American heritage museum, and Philly’s Quakers had been active in the abolitionist movement and the underground railroad, so the brotherly love thing had some history anyway. Liberty Bell and Freedom Hall. University of Pennsylvania. Home of the Eagles, Phillies, 76ers. And the Philly Cheesesteak sandwich, just what she needed to help keep her weight under control. Average winter temperature of 33 degrees... terrific.

Lots of stuff on the plus side, she supposed, but too many minuses if you were a West Coast woman, a San Francisco woman, a snow-and-freezing-cold-sucks woman. Yeah, and a 49er fan like Pop and Bill and everybody else she knew on this side of the Bay. Root for the Eagles? No way.

Horace could adapt to life back there, sure. Horace didn’t care about football or the weather or anything much except classical music. (And me, she thought, don’t forget me.) But this child? Shrivel right up and die in a snowbank the first winter.

She sighed. And then grimaced because the sigh sounded just like one of Pop’s. Wall clock said it was almost noon. She shut down her Mac, put on her coat, locked up, and went out to lunch.

Tommy’s Joint on Van Ness, treated herself to their buffalo burger. Some treat. Tommy’s specialty had always been one of her favorites, but she just wasn’t hungry today, couldn’t even eat half of it. Raining again when she came out, and she’d forgotten to bring her umbrella. Figured. She was dripping by the time she got back to the office.

Inside she hung up her coat, squeezed out her scarf and hung that up too. On her way to her desk, she heard the door open behind her. She thought it was Jake Runyon, took another couple of steps without turning. Next second she heard hard, quick footfalls coming up behind her, metallic objects rattling and clanking together, and that was when she started to turn—

Something cracked against the side of her head, something solid that brought a sunburst of pain and confusion and sent her sprawling headlong across the floor.

Steve Taradash was still doing that nervous, quit-smoking trick of his with a package of cigarettes. While I talked I watched him take one from the pack, roll it between thumb and forefinger, lay it on the desk blotter, and go through the slice-and-dice routine with his penknife. In the other chair Meg Lawton kept her eyes on me the whole time, a look of near anguish on her round face.

Eventually I stopped talking. Taradash said, “Rotten cancer sticks,” and swept the dismembered weed into his wastebasket. Without any sign of glee this time; his expression was bleak. Mrs. Lawton rubbed her palms over the silky material of her skirt, making a dry rustling sound.

She said, “It’s so hard to believe Spook murdered three people in cold blood. My Lord, he seemed so... harmless.”

“He was by the time you met him. Unstable personality unhinged by one psychotic episode, seventeen years of guilt and remorse and self-hatred.

“Until there wasn’t anything left,” Taradash said glumly, “but a walking vegetable.”

“Horrible,” she said. “I almost wish...”

“That we’d never found out the truth about him? So do I. Try to make a gesture in the spirit of the holidays, this is what you get. I should’ve left well enough alone.”

“Look at it this way,” I said. “If you had, Spook might never have been identified and nobody would’ve known what became of Anthony Colton. At least now the Mono sheriff’s department and the FBI can close their files on the case.”

“I suppose you’re right. Still... oh, hell, don’t misunderstand me, you and your people did a good job, I don’t begrudge the expense. It’s just that I’m feeling disillusioned right now.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“And I can’t help wondering if Spook got what he deserved out there in the alley, if Lightfoot and Valjean, if they’re the ones responsible, were justified in knocking him off.”

“Murder’s never justified, Mr. Taradash.”

“I’m not so sure I wouldn’t’ve done the same thing if a member of my family was shot down and I had a crack at the man who pulled the trigger.”

“Nobody knows what he’d do in a situation like that until he’s confronted with it. All I can say is that most of us wouldn’t give in to the impulse.”

“I wouldn’t,” Meg Lawton said. “I could never take a human life, not for any reason.”