Росс Макдональд - The Way Some People Die

He said: “What’s the matter, mister? I told you the truth so far as I know the truth.” His cheek twitched, and I realized that I had been gazing down sightlessly into his empty hazel eyes.

“Maybe you have at that. You didn’t make it all up, you haven’t the brains. What was Tarantine’s system?”

“I wouldn’t know about that.” He ran his uneasy fingers through his short black hair again.

“Sorry, I forgot. You’re a respectable citizen. You don’t have truck with crooks like Tarantine.”

“Him and his brother bought this boat,” he said. “The boat that got wrecked today. How would I know what they used it for? They went on a couple of fishing trips, maybe they went to Mexico. That’s where Speed got the stuff when he was here, from a guy in Mexico City that manufactured it out of opium.” He leaned forward toward me, without leaving the security of the chair. “Mister, let me go out to the office now, I told you all I know. What do you say?”

“Don’t be such an eager beaver, Ronnie. There’s another friend of yours I want to hear about. Where do I get in touch with Mosquito, in case I ever have the urge?”

“Mosquito?”

“He’s selling in San Francisco now, Ruth says. He used to sell for Speed here.”

“I don’t know any Mosquito,” he said without conviction, “only the ones that bite me.”

I clenched my fist and held it for him to look at, telling myself that I was a great hand at frightening boys.

The hazel eyes crossed slightly looking at it. “I’ll tell you, mister, promise you won’t use my name. They wouldn’t appreciate me talking around. He wrote me I might get a job up there this summer–”

“I’m not making any promises, Ronnie. I’m getting impatient again.”

“You want to know where to find him, is that it?”

“That will do.”

“I contacted him through a musician plays the piano in a basement bar, a place called The Den . It’s right off Union Square, it’s easy enough to find.”

“When was this?”

“About a month ago. I flew up for a week-end last month. I get a buzz out of Frisco. It suits my personality, not like this one-horse town–”

“Yeah. Did you see Mosquito to talk to?”

“Sure, he’s a big shot now, but he’s a good friend of mine. I knew him in high school.” Ronnie expanded in the thought. He knew Mosquito when.

“What’s his real name?”

“You won’t tell him I told you, mister, will you? Gilbert Moreno.”

“And the musician?”

“I don’t know his name. You’ll find him in The Den , he plays piano every night in The Den . He’s a snowbird, you can’t miss him.”

“Does Mosquito know where Speed is?”

“He said Speed was up there Christmas trying to raise a stake. Then he went to Reno, I think he said Reno. Can I go now, mister?”

The pattern was starting to form on the map at the back of my mind. It was an abstract pattern, a high thin triangle drawn in red. Its base was the short straight line between Palm Springs and Pacific Point. Its apex was San Francisco. Another, shadowier triangle on the same base pointed its apex at Reno. But when I tried to merge the two into a single picture, the entire pattern blurred.

I said: “All right, get.”

When we went out, the girl had disappeared. I felt relieved. She was a bigger responsibility than I wanted.

The lighted clock on the tower of the county courthouse said that it was only five minutes after eleven. I didn’t believe it. I had a post-midnight feeling. My tongue was already furred with the dregs of a long bad evening. A criminal catechism ran on like a screechy record in my head. What? Blood. Where? There. When? Then. Why? Who knows. Who? Him. They. She. It. Us. Especially us.

I parked in front of the wing of the courthouse that held the county jail. The windows of the second and third floors were barred with ornamental ironwork, to appeal to the aesthetic sense of the thieves and muggers and prostitutes behind them. Part of the first floor of this wing was occupied by the sheriffs office, whose windows showed the only lights in the building below the tower clock.

The tall black oak door stood open, and I walked in under white flourescent light. Behind the counter that divided the anteroom in two, a fat young man was talking into a telephone. No, he said, the chief wasn’t there. He couldn’t give out his private number. Anyway, he was probably in bed. Is that right, he was very sorry to hear it. He’d bring it to the chief deputy’s attention in the morning.

He set the receiver down and sighed with relief. “A nut,” he said to me. “We hear from her every day or two. She thinks she can receive radio waves, and foreign agents are bombarding her nervous system with propaganda. Next time I’m going to tell her to get her tubes adjusted so she can receive television.”

He left his desk and lumbered to the counter: “What can I do for you, sir?” He had the friendly manner of a corner grocer, dispensing justice instead of bread and potatoes.

“I don’t suppose the chief is here?”

“Not since supper. Anything I can do?”

“One of the deputies is working on a disappearance case: Joe Tarantine.”

“One of the deputies, hell. There’s three or four working on it.” He buried his eyes in a smile.

“Let me talk to one of them.”

“They’re pretty busy. You a reporter?” I showed him my photostat. “The one I was talking to is a big man in a ten-gallon hat, or do they all wear ten-gallon hats?”

“Just Callahan. He’s in there with Mrs. Tarantine just now.” He jerked his thumb towards an inner door. “You want to wait?”

“Which Mrs. Tarantine, mother or wife?”

“The young one. If I was Tarantine, I wouldn’t run out on a bundle of goodies like that one.” A leer started in his eyes and moved across his face in sluggish ripples.

I swallowed my irritation. “Is that the official view, that Tarantine ran out? Maybe you’ve got some inside dope that he can walk on water, or maybe a Russian sub was waiting to pick him up.”

“Maybe.” He fanned his face with his hand. “You and the old lady should get together. She says the voices in her head talk with a Russian accent. Matter of fact, there ain’t no official view, won’t be until we complete our investigation.”

“Did they get aboard the Aztec Queen ?”

“Yeah, it’s all broken up on the rocks. Nobody in the cabin. What’s your interest, if I may ask, Mister–?”

“Archer. I have some information for Callahan.”

“He should be out any minute. They been in there nearly an hour.” Casting an envious glance at the inner door, he meandered back to his desk and inserted his hips between the arms of the swivel chair.

I had time to smoke a cigarette, almost my first of the day. I sat on a hard bench against the wall. The minute hand of the electric clock on the opposite wall inched round in little nervous jumps to eleven thirty. The deputy on duty was yawning over a news magazine.

The latch of the inner door clicked finally, and Callahan appeared in the doorway. His big hat was in his hand, exposing a sun-freckled pate to the inclement light. He stood back awkwardly to let Galley precede him, smiling down at her as if he owned her.

She looked as trim and vital as she had in the afternoon. She was wearing a dark brown suit and a dark hat, their suggestion of widow’s weeds denied by a lime-green blouse under her jacket. Only the bluish crescents under her eyes gave me an idea of what she had been through.

I stood up and she paused, one knee forward and bent in an uncompleted step. “Why, Mr. Archer! I didn’t expect to run into you tonight.” She completed the step and gave me her gloved hand. Even through the leather, it felt cold.