A dog’s distant howl
An empty yard, a full moon
A night heron—Szan
“I beg your pardon?”
She giggles. “It’s a bookstore, silly. Used books, half-price or less.” She gives me an address on Ironwood.
A bookstore. No cigarettes, no alcohol, and well away from the Canterbury Bazaar. Sounds like a safe place for a meet.
A concrete block divided into identical individual suites, the Ironwood Industrial Park houses a discount carpet outlet, a computer sales and service shop, an auto parts store. Each has a warehouse with a bay door and separate office entrance. Except for the bookstore, the businesses don’t keep late hours so they’re all dark. The flood light over the bookstore’s windowless front door is a beacon in the misty night.
I scope out the place from a spot just inside the door, find Heidi in the warehouse space beside a wooden rack of old National Geographics. She wears a body-clinging black lace top and tight purple jeans. Her only jewelry is a cameo on a black velvet ribbon around her neck. Her blonde hair, tucked behind her ears, falls to her shoulders. She sees me, smiles, and signals with a tiny nod that it’s all right to approach.
“Well, if it isn’t Will Mansion,” she says in that hushed tone everyone adopts in libraries and, by extension, bookstores. “So, did you find Hector?” she asks in an even fainter whisper.
“No. And I’m beginning to think that when I do, it’s not going to be good.”
Her smile fades. “Oh?” She glances to the left and right. “Um, want to help me find a book?”
I follow her into the stacks of six-foot tall utility shelves. Dusty hardbacks, moldy leather-bound classics, and obsolete textbooks reek of mildew and cigarettes. We pass aisles of scuffed paperbacks until Heidi makes a sudden left. As if I have stepped into the parlor of a bordello, I find myself surrounded by dozens of half-clad couples locked in a variety of passionate poses on books displayed face-out. Romances.
Heidi pulls a book off a shelf. On its cover, a man with dark wavy hair and an open poet’s shirt embraces a fair-skinned blonde woman. His hands almost cup breasts mounded like whipped cream above the ruffled neckline of her gown.
“What did you find out about Hector?” she asks, flipping through the pages.
“Not much. Tell me about the theft at Facets.”
“Before my time. I don’t know much about it, just what Mr. Overshort told me.” She replaces the book, selects another. This one has a Tarzan theme. Heidi makes a face. “His hair’s longer than hers. And blonder. I like my heroes to have dark hair.”
I have dark hair, I think with inordinate pride.
She picks up another book whose cover suggests one way in which the West might have been won. An Indian brave kneels at the feet of a frontier woman, his head buried in her skirts.
“Will?”
“Huh? Oh, right. The stuff that was taken—just how valuable was it?”
“I’m not sure,” Heidi says. “Apparently Hector used to do all the ordering, and checked the merchandise when it came in. Now Mr. Overshort does that.”
“You don’t assess the stones?”
“Not every one. Just when a customer requests it.”
“Is it possible the stolen items were of a different value than what was reported?”
“Different how?”
“Overshort made it sound like they weren’t worth very much. What if they were worth more than he said?”
“Why would he do that?” she asks. “They were insured. He’d want to put in a claim for every penny of loss. What are you getting at?”
“I’m not sure.” The book-cover models’ parted lips and rapturous faces have derailed my train of thought. “I understand it was an inside job.”
She turns away from me to shop the books on the opposite shelf. Her body muffles her voice. “Could have been. I guess that’s why Mr. Overshort got all new staff, people he could trust.”
“Like you?”
Heidi pivots to flash a modest smile. “I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
“Well, was anyone working late that night? Was Hector?”
“I don’t know. All I know is, I wasn’t.” She considers another book, rejects it, and reclaims the dark-haired poet and blonde damsel.
“You actually read those?” I ask.
“Why not?” she replies. “They’re sexy, and in the end, the heroine always gets what she wants. I like happy endings.” She turns on her heel and marches to the cashier.
I walk her out to her car. She pauses alongside a dark BMW and lights a cigarette.
“You’re not telling me very much, Heidi Quince.”
“There isn’t much I can tell you.” She peers up through her lashes. While her tone is apologetic, her expression is worried.
From across Ironwood, an unexpected glint steals my attention from Heidi’s pretty, troubled face. A car emerges slowly from the easement beside a warehouse. What’s a car doing there at this time of night? The car’s golden gleam is incongruous in the dark, industrial setting.
The car inches into the street with a caution that the absence of traffic doesn’t warrant. It creeps into the lane parallel to the bookstore. It’s a gold Eterniti! I should get closer, get a look at the driver but the vehicle’s inappropriately slow speed and proximity to the curb trigger my internal alarms.
“Down!” I tackle Heidi Quince, sandwich her between the bookstore’s concrete wall and my body. Shot pellets fill the air over where our heads were a second ago.
Heidi screams. “What’s happening?”
“Stay down!” I keep us low until even the scrunch of the tires can no longer be heard. The car is out of sight and I didn’t come anywhere near making the driver or the plate. Slowly we get to our feet.
Her arms around my neck, Heidi looks up into my face, her eyes wide. “What was that? A street gang drive-by?”
Dizzy, I can barely reply.
“Ohmigod, we could have been killed!”
“Back in the store. Call police,” I gasp.
“No! We can’t. If the cops come out there’ll be a big scene. It’ll be on TV, in the paper. Overshort will find out about our meeting.”
“Call—”
“Besides, I didn’t see the car,” she says. “All I saw was the wall coming to meet my face.”
I’m going down.
“I’m fine. I mean, I will be fine, once I get home. I’m not hurt, thanks to you. Just like on the book covers.” She cries, “My hero!” Her arms still around my neck, she kisses my cheek. “Please, I’d really like to go home now. Sit down before I fall down.”
I mumble something.
“No, no need to escort me,” she says. “You’ve been hero enough for one night.” She kisses me again, this time on the lips, but I don’t feel it.
She releases me and before her car’s taillights have even vanished around the corner, I sink to the curb. Ironwood Street dematerializes and I am on Terminal Road. Lit by muzzle flashes, chaotic scenes flicker before my eyes like slides in a fitful carousel. Me sprinting down the side of the stash house. Swbyra rounding the corner from the rear.
Men and bullets burst from the back door, Swbyra in their sights. No time to shout a warning he can’t hear. I pitch myself at Swbyra in a flying tackle, then scramble to my feet, run for cover.
From behind, a rocket tunnels into my leg, burning, ripping. The leg gives out, I fall. Hot blood. Cold shock. I black out knowing it’s over, I’m dead. My last sensation is gritty pavement against my cheek and the smell of asphalt, dust, gunpowder, and blood. My blood.
The balky slide carousel grinds to a stop. The show is over. I find myself once again on Ironwood, collapsed on the curb. The bookstore is dark, the store is closed. How long was I out of it? How many people drove past me on their way out of the lot? Was I raving, too scary to approach? In the dark, the surroundings come back into focus slowly.
The Eterniti. Was it Hector Waltann’s car? Who was the driver? Hector? The person he’s running from? Shrike? Overshort?
Force of habit directs my gaze to the street. There are probably tire tracks but I can’t see them and have nothing to capture them with anyway. Something metallic winks in the misty moonlight. A spent twelve-gauge shotgun shell casing. Unsteadily I stand, pick it up. It feels warm but I must be projecting. It can’t be from this shooting. Those rounds should have been ejected into the car. I put it in my trouser pocket anyway.
Hector Waltann’s disappearance has taken on deadly proportions. Grady and Swbyra will have to take it from here. Effective immediately.
*****
The Mercy Mission’s door opens to a deserted room. No one sits at the redwood bench, no one stands at the coffee urn. This close to midnight even the homeless have found a home. Yet the lights, the coffee are on. Sister Clyde has to be here.
Perhaps she’s in the alley, taking out trash. My steps echo as I cross the empty room. I open the rear door to the alley. The creak of rusty hinges flushes an animal from behind the trash cans. A fox, I think at first when it darts across the alley into the shadows. No, it couldn’t be. Not that we don’t have foxes in the area and not that we don’t see them in the city, but this far downtown? Must have been a small stray dog. With a tawny coat. And a bushy tail.
There’s no Sister Clyde, however, so I go back inside to find two men huddled at the redwood bench, sipping coffee. They must have come in while I was in the alley.
“Sister Clyde here?” I ask.
“Yup,” one of the men replies without looking up.
I scan the room but all I see are the two men. I step closer, lean over, and repeat, “Sister Clyde here?”
“Someone looking for me?”
I spin around. There she stands in the familiar blue coat. Where did she come from? She had to have been out back. How did I miss her?
“Oh, it’s you, Detective Mansion. So good to see you. How are you coming on finding Hector?” she asks.
“I quit.”
She laughs. “No, no, no. We’ve had this discussion.”
“Not this one, we haven’t. I think Hector wants to stay lost. Plus, there’s apparently someone who’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep him lost, maybe Hector himself.” I tell her about Heidi Quince, the meeting at the bookstore, the shotgun sniper attack. “It’s gotten too dangerous. Someone could die. Like me.”
She appears relieved. “Well, we all have to die sometime.”
“Been there. Done that. Don’t want to do that again, not for a very long time.”
Her laughter is light and merry. “As if you have anything to say about that.”
“I don’t have to walk in front of a loaded gun, that’s for sure.”
She shakes her head and tsks. “So you’re not going to help me.”
I’m not up to it, is my mute protest. “If I keep poking around, I could end up dead.”
“And what about Ms. Quince?”
I open my mouth to rebut but I’m speechless. Yes, what about Heidi? Her life was threatened. It’s obvious she knows something, and it’s equally clear someone wants to keep her quiet. Wants that badly enough to kill her. Whoever it is may not stop trying simply because I’ve quit looking for Hector.
“So basically you’re saying that I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”
Sister Clyde smiles. “Or blessed. You decide. The sword that kills the man is the sword that saves the man.”
I don’t know what the hell that means but I do know one thing: I’m trapped. However, the weakness, the sin, of heading next to Knockers is not that I want a drink to calm my nerves, to numb my brain, and banish the night’s horror. It’s not even that I give in to that desire. It’s that I allow myself to believe I’m looking for Marvin Overshort, for Hector.
Canterbury’s shops are closed for the night. Knockers and the Bazaar’s restaurants are open, though, so a valet is on duty. In spite of the abundant empty spaces in front, he insists if I’m self-parking that I take Old Paint around to the rear.
Knockers at night is even louder than during the day. Tangerine-colored bulbs make it appear lit by fire. It’s crammed with noisy customers. The smoke stings my eyes and I feel a cue-induced craving coming on. I find the bar by radar and hoist my butt onto a padded stool.
The bartender lays a cocktail napkin in front of me. “Ah, Mr. Overshort’s new friend. What can I get you?”
“Seagrams. Make it a double.”
I raise it in a vague toast, drink it too fast to taste it, order another. While I’m waiting, automatically I pat my pockets in search of cigarettes. Just as I remember that I’ve quit, I find the Verves that Overshort left me. Nicotine-addicted nerves rejoice. I turn the pack over and over in my hand. The bartender watches me with a bemused expression. It’s unlikely he’s seen anyone regard a cigarette pack with such a mixture of longing and trepidation. With a shaking hand, I put it back in my coat pocket.
“Is he here?” I ask.
“Marvin? ‘Fraid not.”
No, of course not. He’s home reloading his shotgun. “How about Hector?” I put the second drink away nearly as fast as the first. The liquid warmth unkinks muscles. Vapors veil the grisly pictures in my mind. A third should disperse them altogether.
“Mr. Waltann? Not tonight,” the bartender replies.
Not tonight. But maybe on other nights? Recently? I drink the third whiskey, ask for another. I want to hear more of what this man knows about Hector. Drinking will justify my staying here.
The bartender slides a glass toward me. “Really putting it away tonight, aren’t ya, fella?”
I waggle the glass at him. “If you’d quit watering it down, maybe I wouldn’t have to.”
“Water?” He scowls. “Hey, this is a class place.”
“Yeah, well don’t you have something with a little kick to it?”
“Got some kind of big hurt, huh buddy?”
“You don’t know the half.”
“Kick, huh?” The bartender busies himself with some glass-washing behind the bar and avoids my glance.
I catch the tease in his tone. “Yeah, you know, like what Hector was into.” Whatever it was, there’s a better than outside chance this man knew something about it.
He raises his eyebrows. “Who said anything about Hector?” It sounds more like, “Go on.”
Act twitchy, I think, like a junkie looking to score. It’s not hard, I want one of the Verve cigarettes about as badly. “Come on, we both know what the man was into. Nearvana?” It’s a long cast but I figure there’s a fifty-fifty chance the bartender will bite.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. Sorry, I can’t help you,” he says, but he seems to nod at a man in a black raincoat sitting alone at a booth, his face shadowed by a limp rain hat.
I shrug, pay for my drinks, and leave. The night is blue-black after Knockers’ radioactive orange. I amble to Old Paint and lean against it, make like a man taking some night air in the misguided attempt to sober up enough to drive. I don’t have to wait long. Footfalls announce the raincoated man’s approach long before he appears at my left elbow.
“Nice place, that Knockers,” he says.
“S’all right as far as it goes. They didn’t really have what I’m looking for, though.”
“Girls ain’t friendly enough, huh?”
“Girls are fine. It’s not girls I’m after. You know, an hour with a girl is, well, it’s just an hour with a girl. I’m looking for something with staying power.”
“Ain’t we all,” says the man by my side. He lights a cigarette, takes a puff. “Trouble is, there’s them what thinks them kind of thrills shouldn’t ought to be allowed.”
I know the words to this tune. “You mean like cops?”
“You ought to know, you being one.” Against the black of his hat and coat, his unremarkable face is moon-pale.
“Was,” I tell him. “They canned my ass. See, I got me this little problem, know what I mean? The job, it gets to ya after a while. I just wanted a little something to take the edge off. So I could keep going. You know?”
“I hear you.”
“Sonsabitches, I give ‘em the best years o’ my life, you think they could cut me a little slack.”
“Fuck ‘em.”
“Fuck ‘em is right. So how about it? This Nearvana Hector Waltann was into?”
The man smokes some more. “Trouble is, cops make the stuff hard to find these days. I mean, I got some, but it’s my last.” He looks away, takes another couple of puffs. “Ah, what the hell.” He fishes a cigarette pack from inside his raincoat, taps one out, and hands it to me. It looks normal but if I’m right, it will be supercharged with the heroin.
“What do I owe you?” I ask.
“Nothing. Oh, it’s worth two bills.”
“For one hit?”
“It’s worth it.”
I don’t ask him why he’s giving it away. He’s not the dealer, he’s just a steerer. He’ll expect me to smoke it, though, right here and now, to prove this isn’t a sting.
We don’t usually enter these transactions at the retail level. We send a CI in and don’t come into play until it’s time to talk wholesale. At that point it’s understood—we’re dealers. And while users often deal, dealers rarely use, not if they’re true professionals. So we never actually have to do the stuff.
But there will be no getting away with that here. All I can do is light up.