MIchael Prescott - The Shadow hunter

He drove a half block, parked at the curb, and risked returning to the same pay phone for a quick followup that had just occurred to him.

"One more thing," he said when he got through to her home number.

"You know that flower arrangement I sent you? It would look good at a funeral, don't you think? Talk to you soon."

He thought he was done, but three blocks later he pulled into a supermarket parking lot and used his last thirty-five cents to call the KPTI switchboard again.

The same operator answered.

"Kris Barwood, please," Hickle said.

She let out a sigh.

"I'm sorry, but Ms. Barwood-"

"Is unavailable. That's what you were going to say, right?"

"Yes, sir. I can take a message-"

"Would you, please? Uh, tell her Raymond called.

Just Raymond, no last name. She knows me."

"Fine, sir, I'll do that."

"And one more thing? Hello?"

"I'm still here. What is it?"

"Tell her I hope a fucking rat crawls between her legs and chews out her fucking cunt."

He hung up. He had raised his voice at the end. A woman with a small child was staring at him from across the parking lot. He spat at her as he walked back to his car. She hurried away, and her little boy began to cry.

Hickle arrived home shortly after five o'clock. He parked in his assigned space under a carport and went inside.

The Gainford Arms, one of the oldest buildings in the neighborhood, was a relic of the era before garden apartments became fashionable-a rectangular brick pile, five stories high, with rows of small windows looking out on the dismal street in front and the parking lot in the rear. Iron fire escapes climbed the back of the building. Hickle sometimes sat on the fire escape outside his bedroom window and watched the sunset fade over the towers of more expensive real estate to the west.

In the lobby he checked his mail. There was a bunch of junk, a gas bill, and a reply from a TV station in Cincinnati. The station regretted to inform him that it had no photos of its former weekend anchorwoman available for public dissemination. It thanked Hickle for his interest.

He threw away the junk mail and the station's reply.

A couple of months ago he had written to every TV station where Kris had worked, requesting her photo from the archives. So far the responses had all been negative. He supposed it didn't matter anymore.

He rode the rattletrap elevator to the fourth floor.

The elevator was slow. He passed the time reading graffiti on the walls.

His apartment, number 420, was halfway down the hall. He was fumbling for his keys when he noticed that the door to the apartment next door was open. A large, battered suitcase stood at the threshold. As he watched, a slender, dark-haired woman in a T-shirt and jeans stepped out of the doorway and picked up the suitcase.

She glanced at him and smiled.

"Howdy, neighbor."

Hickle nodded.

She carried the suitcase into her apartment and shut the door. Must be moving in. He wondered who she was.

Once inside his apartment, he forgot her. This was his private place, his refuge from the world. Appraised objectively, it was a narrow, depressing hole. Cracks veined the plaster walls. There were no curtains anywhere; the windows were covered by sagging blinds, raised and lowered by pull-cords with paper clips at the ends. The carpet was a nauseous shade of gray green, like mold, and its short-nap fibers had been stamped flat in the heavy-traffic areas.

Heat was supplied by an upright gas furnace against one wall, with a vent feeding into the bedroom.

Nearly all furnishings were provided by the management. In the living room there was a battered sofa, the cushions flattened and misshapen; an armchair with a vinyl seat; chipped and mismatched end tables; undersized lamps with spotted shades. The landlord had also supplied the thirteen-inch TV with rabbit ears-no cable here-but Hickle had purchased the VCR that rested underneath. Lacking shelves, he had customized a few tables out of apple crates to fill up empty corners and undecorated walls. He had wanted to buy a computer but couldn't justify the expense, so he used the public terminals at the Goldwyn Hollywood Library on Ivar Avenue a mile away.

The kitchen area was a tiny alcove, equipped with a gas oven that had not been cleaned since he moved in, and a refrigerator that leaked on the linoleum floor.

Two stained potholders hung forlornly from hooks under the cupboard.

Empty soda cans and glass jars were assembled on the counter; he redeemed them for nickels at the local Safeway.

Sharing a wall with the kitchen was the windowless bathroom, smaller than a closet. A ribbon of rust ran down the wall from the medicine cabinet to the sink.

More rust fringed the frame of the shower door, competing with a patina of mildew.

Finally there was the bedroom. The bed sagged.

Some of the mattress springs were broken. One spring had punctured the mattress itself, its jagged end poking up like a weapon. When Hickle had informed the landlord of "this problem, he had been told to flip the mattress. Isn't it time to get a new bed? he'd asked quietly.

The landlord had answered. Maybe it's time for you to get a new apartment. What do you think this is, the Ritz fucking Carlton?

He had no air-conditioning; when the hot Santa Ana winds blew in from the desert, he sweltered like a beast in a cage. At night he was kept awake by the radios from cars moving in and out of the parking lot, where drug deals had been known to go down. A few months ago a dealer had been fatally shot by a rival.

The Gainford Arms was a crummy place, yet it offered him privacy. With the blinds pulled and the door locked and chained, he was as free as he could be from watchful eyes. He was free-There was a knock on his door.

Hickle looked up, his head canted at an odd angle, his breath held.

Momentarily he was baffled by the prospect of company. Nobody ever visited him. He had no friends, and the apartment building's outside doors were locked to keep out trespassers.

Could it be the people who were watching him? The people Kris had hired? Would they be so brazen as to approach him directly?

He crossed the living room, moving warily. Before opening his door, he peered through the fish-eye peephole.

It was the dark-haired woman, the one who'd said howdy.

He removed the security chain and drew back the deadbolt. This was an adventure-talking to an unfamiliar woman-and he felt his heart beating harder than it should.

The door swung ajar under his hand, and he was facing her.

"Hi again," she said brightly.

He nodded, then realized a response was called for.

"Hello."

"Sorry to bother you, but can you tell me where the phone outlet is?"

"Phone outlet?"

"Not the one in the living room. I found that. But there must be one in the bedroom somewhere. I've been crawling around on my hands and knees like a moron, but I can't find it."

"There isn't one."

"There's gotta be."

"Only one. All these apartments have the same layout. The only phone outlet is in the living room. If you need a phone in the bedroom, you'll have to get an extra-long phone cord."

She sighed.

"Any other surprises the landlord didn't want to spoil for me?"

"Probably quite a few. There's not enough hot water in the mornings, so take your shower early. Don't hook up too many appliances on any circuit, or you'll blow a fuse."

"This gets better and better."

Hickle risked humor.

"Not exactly a garden spot, is it?"

She rewarded him with a laugh.

"That might be an understatement."

"So are you an actress?" Damn. He hadn't meant to say that. It had come out of nowhere and sounded strange.

She didn't seem put off by the question, though.