Linwood Barclay: Stone Rain

I swallowed. Shit. “I’ll be there,” I said, and hung up.

“You’ll be where?”

I looked over my shoulder. Sarah. “What?” I said.

“You got something on the go? Because I was just going to give you something.” She was standing there with a piece of paper in her hand.

“Sure, what is it?”

“But if you’ve got another story, I can hand this off to someone else.”

“No, no, let me have it.”

“Okay, well, it’s just some city hall budget thing. The bureau’s a bit short-staffed this week, so we’re helping out. It’s about the proposed Windsor Street bridge project over Mackenzie Creek. The way it is now, you have to go all the way down to Broad, or up to Milner, and the neighborhood has been asking for a bridge for years and every year when they prepare the budget the money gets put in but at the last minute gets taken out.”

“Yeah sure, I can do that.” I took the sheet from her that had some contact numbers on it and an earlier story someone at the city hall bureau had done.

“What’s the other thing you got?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, just someone calling about a Star Trek convention. There’s going to be one here, next spring, they wanted to send me some stuff on it, because of my books. That guy, the one who played Picard’s nemesis, Q? That guy? I think he’s coming, they want to know if we’re going to want to interview him.”

“Okay,” Sarah said. “You just better check with Entertainment. They find out you’re interviewing some TV star, they’re going to have a shit fit.” She glanced up at one of the many wall clocks, all set at different times depending on the world locale they were supposed to represent. It was midafternoon in London. It would be nice to be there, hanging out in some pub, right about now. “I’ve got to go to the morning meeting. You know how Magnuson is when you show up late at these things.”

“How’s the foreign editor thing going?”

“Interview’s in a couple of days,” Sarah said. “Tonight you can drill me on the difference between Shiites and Sunnis. I don’t think I understand it any better than Bush does.”

“Sure,” I said, forcing a smile. I wasn’t a particularly good liar, and I was afraid she wouldn’t buy the Star Trek thing. But it helped that she had a lot on her mind.

I could make some calls on the bridge story, get the interviews done, I figured, before heading out to Oakwood.

A couple of hours later, I slipped out of the office, got in our Virtue, a hybrid car that I’d bought in a police auction a couple of years ago, and did the twenty-minute drive out of downtown to the suburbs of Oakwood. I headed south off the highway, toward the lake, and found a parking spot along the main street, just down from Pluto’s.

Pluto’s, while ignoring the solar system and animated characters, is done up with enough fifties-style kitsch on the walls that you’re supposed to think the place has been around the last forty years. The only problem with that is, in a suburban community like Oakwood, nothing’s that old. So you plaster the walls with Elvis movie posters, put in a jukebox that doesn’t actually work, and line the window ledges with antique Grape Nehi, and no one’s the wiser.

But I seemed to recall that they made a pretty decent breakfast of eggs and sausages, and a respectable turkey club at lunchtime, and by the time I arrived I was ready for something to eat.

The place wasn’t that busy, and I quickly scanned the tables. I didn’t see any sign of Trixie, but there was a guy sitting in a booth by the window who looked remotely like the logo shot that went with Martin Benson’s column in the Suburban, so I tentatively approached. He was probably in his early forties, balding, thirty or forty pounds overweight, wearing a sports jacket that was just slightly too small for him.

When I hesitated by his table, he looked at me, his face apprehensive, almost fearful.

“Martin Benson?” I said.

He nodded, attempted to stand, but he was caught under the table and could only manage to get halfway up. “Yeah,” he said, extending a hand. I shook it. It was damp.

“Zack Walker,” I said, letting go of his hand and sliding in across from him.

“Why does that name ring a bell?” he asked cautiously, settling back into the booth.

I smiled. “I, uh, I’ve written a few sci-fi books. And my byline runs occasionally in the Metropolitan. I write features, stuff like that, but not a column. I don’t get a head shot in the paper like you do.”

Benson nodded. “That’s where I’ve seen the name. In the paper. I don’t read science fiction. Mostly I read literary fiction.”

I just smiled.

“So,” he said. “Where’s Ms. Snelling?”

“I guess she’ll be here any time now,” I said. “Why don’t we get some coffee while we wait.” I signaled the waitress, asked for two coffees. “Have you had the turkey club here? It’s good, lots of real, roasted turkey, not that processed stuff.”

Benson nodded again. “I was worried you might be some sort of tough guy. You know, scare me into backing off my story.”

I laughed nervously. “If there’s anything I’m not, it’s a tough guy.”

“But you do want me to back off the story, right?” He leaned a little closer across the table. “That’s why you’re here.”

“No, no,” I protested as two porcelain mugs of coffee were placed in front of us. “Of course not.” I looked around, checking the front door of Pluto’s. “Where the hell is she?” I glanced at my watch. Trixie was seven minutes late. Why was she seven minutes late to her own meeting?

“So what’s your connection to Ms. Snelling, then?” Benson asked. “You a relative? She a friend? Or,” and he paused a moment here, “are you a client?”

I nearly spat out a mouthful of coffee. “No, gosh no, we’re just, we used to be, this was a couple of years ago, we were neighbors. We-that’s me and the family-lived a couple of doors down, but we’ve moved back downtown since then. You might have heard about what happened, there was a bit of a kerfuffle.”

“No,” said Benson. “I only got to the Suburban a year ago. Came here from Buffalo.”

“Oh yeah, wings,” I said. “Love those wings.”

Martin Benson stared, thrilled that his former home was reduced to an appetizer.

He said, “You do know what she does for a living.”

I hesitated. “What is it you think she does for a living?”

“I think she runs a sex business. I think she’s a hooker, a very high-end hooker that caters to very specific tastes.”

“I certainly wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Then why did you nearly choke on your coffee when I asked whether you were one of her clients?”

“Look, I, I’m pretty sure Ms. Snelling-where the hell is she, anyway? — is not a prostitute. She does not have sexual relations with her customers.”

“Where have I heard that phrase before?” Benson asked. “When I asked whether you were a relative or a friend or a client, I forgot one. Are you her pimp?”

I guess my jaw dropped, and I stared at him in openmouthed astonishment for a moment, before I had the sense to close it. Twice I started to say something, and each time, a chuckle got in the way. “You have no idea,” I said, “how totally ridiculous that comment is.”

“Is it? Then you tell me, why are you here?”

“First of all, let’s go back to this hooker thing. Far as I know, Trixie-Ms. Snelling-does not offer sexual services. But you know what, you’d be better asking her about that yourself once she gets here.”

The waitress had reappeared, notepad at the ready. “You gentlemen ready to order?” she asked.

“We’re still waiting for someone,” I said. She nodded and withdrew.