Scattershot

THIRTEEN

On Friday morning I got another jolt from the Fourth Estate. I bought a Chronicle on Drumm Street and took it into my office, and there, on page one this time, was a lousy photograph of my phiz that made me look mean and puffy, and a headline that said: PRIVATE EYE INVOLVED IN ANOTHER HOMICIDE.

It was the Xanadu thing, of course. The local press had got wind of it, as I should have realized they would, and the reporter had made a big deal out of what he called my “private eye pyrotechnics.” The thrust of the piece was: Supercop or Shady Angle Player or some sort of Typhoid Mary who bungled into and out of disaster at every turn-which was I? The story was continued on the back page, where I found a second story, this one an account of yesterday’s press interview and including the complete text of my written denial of Edna Hornback’s charges. The reporter didn’t draw any conclusions in either case, but then he didn’t have to. All the sensationalism, and the l

lurid imaginations of the readership, would take care of that. No matter what anybody decided, I was going to come out on the short end.

But I didn’t get angry this time; I was beyond anger today, wallowing in an oily sea of resignation and self-pity. I folded the paper, put it into the wastebasket. Then I made myself some coffee and sat down to finish my report to Adam Brister.

The telephone started to ring ten minutes later and kept on ringing at intervals over the next two hours. Kayabalian, full of sympathy and advice. My steak-eating pal on the Examiner, full of crap; he thought the whole thing was amusing. The manager of a credit firm I had done some work for in the past, whose duty it was to tell me, he said righteously, that for public relations reasons I would not be considered for future investigative services. Three media types, two from local TV stations, all of whom wanted interviews; I said no in each case, with more politeness than I felt. And, one right after another, two nuts-a young man who said I was a fascist pig and an old woman who said Satan had entered my body and my only hope for salvation was to embrace the Lord Jesus Christ.

Welcome to hard times, Eberhardt had said.

Yeah.

I finished the Brister report, put it into an envelope with the expense-account sheet, and licked a stamp. And the phone rang again. I was beginning to hate telephones; I was beginning to understand why subversive types went around bombing telephone installations. I picked up the receiver and said, “Satan Detective Agency,” just for the hell of it.

““You’re some guy,” Eberhardt said. “If my ass was on the griddle, I wouldn’t be half so comical.”

“I wasn’t being comical. You’re the ninth person who’s called this morning and I’m tired of it, that’s all.”

“You could get a lot more tired,” he said, but there was none of the perverse satisfaction in his tone this morning. He actually sounded a little worried. “Things don’t look good for you around here.”

“Ah, Christ, what now?”

“The Chief wants to see you this afternoon.”

“The Chief? What for?”

“What do you think for? I told you yesterday, we’ve been getting some pressure to yank your ticket. We’re getting even more pressure today. He wants to talk to you personally, see what you’ve got to say for yourself.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And if he doesn’t like it, he’ll recommend suspension to the State Board. That the way it is?”

“That’s about it.”

“Terrific. What time am I supposed to come in?”

“Three-thirty.”

“Will you be there?”

“Klein and me both. We’re not exactly in his good graces, either; he wants action on the Hornback murder.”

“Which means there still isn’t any.”

“A big fat zero,” Eberhardt said. “Listen, if there’s anything you didn’t tell Klein about what happened up on Twin Peaks, you’d better trot it out for the Chief.”

“I didn’t hold anything back. Why would I?”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant anything you might have overlooked, no matter how minor.”

“Eb, I told Klein everything, down to the smallest detail. And I’ve been over it and over it in my mind since.”

“Go over it again,” he said. “Something went on while you were watching Hornback’s car up there; you’re the only one who knows what you saw or didn’t see.”

I sat looking at the phone after we rang off. It was going to ring again any minute; that was one thing I was sure of. And pretty soon somebody I didn’t want to see was sure to come waltzing into the anteroom and set the little announcement bell over the door to tinkling. But I wouldn’t be here to deal with any of that. I had a headache again and my head was full of enough bells as it was, like a groggy boxer in the late rounds of a losing fight; I needed air, movement, things to do. I switched on the answering machine, just in case somebody I did want to talk to called in, and got out of there.

The first place I drove was out to the Western Addition, to the house of a retired cop named Milo Petrie. Milo worked part-time as a guard and field operative for various detective agencies; I had used him myself in the past, and I knew him well enough from the old days to ask a favor. The favor I needed today was the loan of a handgun, so I could go armed to the Mollenhauer estate in Ross tomorrow. George Hickox hadn’t been one of my morning callers, so I assumed I still had that job. And I still had both my license and a carry permit for a handgun; even if the Chief of Police decided to recommend suspension of my license, there wouldn’t be any action taken until next week.

On the way to Milo’s I reviewed the events of Monday night, everything from the moment I had first seen Lewis Hornback walking along Union Street. Restaurant, newsstand, drugstore, library, Dewey’s Place, Twin Peaks Boulevard, and the lookout-all mundane, reasonable, without apparent significance. Hornback stopping the car, lighting a cigarette, sitting there in the dark, and my observation of the Dodge until the arrival of the two patrolmen-nothing in that, either. Still no ideas, not even any that I could stretch or manipulate into a possible explanation.

And yet, something Eberhardt had said kept noodling around in my mind: “You’re the only one who knows what you saw or didn’t see.” That seemed meaningful, somehow, but I couldn’t quite get a handle on it.

Milo was home, as he almost always was unless he had a job, and his usual talkative self. He wanted to know all about the Big Flap, as he called it; I suffered through fifteen minutes of explanations and a cup of bad coffee. But he was willing to loan me one of several handguns he owned-a.38 Police Special in a belt holster. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t own a gun myself; I was an ex-cop and a private investigator and I had a permit, so why didn’t I keep a piece around? I tried to tell him that I didn’t care for the things much anymore, but that got his back up; he said, “Don’t tell me you’re turning into one of those antigun nuts?” I didn’t want to get into that with him, and I kept my mouth shut through the rest of his firearms lecture. Then I thanked him, said I’d return the.38 on Sunday, and took it out and locked it inside the glove compartment.

You’re the only one who knows what you saw or didn’t see. I drove back downtown. The place where I had made arrangements to rent the tuxedo was near Civic Center; I parked a half-block from the main library and walked over to the shop and wrote out a check to cover the rental fee and deposit. The proprietor insisted I try the tux on, to make sure it was a proper fit, and I let him talk me into it. When I looked at myself in the mirror, all decked out in the monkey suit, I thought I looked like a fat fool. My beer belly bulged and my shoulders bulged and my rear end bulged; I had never felt lumpier in my life.

What I saw. And what I didn’t see. I took the tuxedo in its carry bag back to my car and laid it across the rear seat. When I straightened up and shut the door I was looking over at the gray Corinthian-style bulk of the library. Something turned over, clickety-click, in the back of my mind. I kept on standing there, staring at the building.

Several things I did see.

And two things I didn’t see that I should have seen.

And the library.

Sure, hell yes-the library.

Well, what do you know? I thought, and I could feel myself grinning humorlessly. The old private-eye pyrotechnics come through again. Just in the nick of time.

If I was right, my ass might be about to depart the griddle.

The Russian Hill branch of the public library was on Leavenworth, just up from the rowdy gay neighborhood of Polk Gulch. I parked illegally a block away-I seemed to be accumulating parking tickets these days, but I wasn’t going to mind paying this one-and walked uphill to the turn-of-the-century building that housed the branch.

Inside, a middle-aged fat woman with glasses on a silver chain was holding forth behind the main desk. A youngish blonde, busty and moderately attractive, moved among the stacks to one side, reshelving books from a metal cart; I didn’t see any other employees around. A number of patrons were in attendance, though-half a dozen seated at the reading tables scattered throughout, a couple at the New Books shelf, a girl using the photocopy machine, a guy loading up on paperbacks from a nearby rack.

My footsteps echoed as I crossed to where the fat woman sat behind the desk; except for the whir of the copy machine, the usual reverential library hush prevailed. The fat woman glanced up when I cleared my throat, put on her glasses, put on a smile, and said, “May I help you?”

“Yes, you may. A friend of mine was in here on Monday night and spoke to a young lady about a book she recommended. That young lady over there, maybe”-I gestured toward the stacks-“if she was working on Monday evening.”

“She was, yes.”

“Well, I want to ask her about the book myself,” I said. “My friend told me her name but I’ve forgotten it.”

“Miss Weeks.”

“That’s right, Miss Weeks. Jean Weeks, isn’t it?”

“No. Her first name is Carolyn.”

“Carolyn-sure. Was she the only employee here on Monday night?”

“No, Mr. Benson was on that night as well.”

I was not interested in anybody named Mr. Benson. I said, “Thanks very much,” gave her a bright smile, and made my way over to where the blonde was restacking books.

She was about thirty, hard of eye and thin of mouth, wearing a blouse that showed off her chest and a skirt that showed off her hips. She was also nervous and preoccupied; the section she was in was Archaeology, and the book she was shelving when I came up was called Nude Photography.I said, “Excuse me. You’re Miss Weeks? Carolyn Weeks?”

She gave me a startled look. Then she blinked a couple of times, wet her lips, and said warily, “Yes?”

“I’d like to talk to you,” I said. “About the murder of Lewis Hornback.”

I was after a reaction and I got one, all right. Fear crawled into her expression; she went rigid. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. You were Hornback’s girl friend, weren’t you? Among other things?”

I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. I thought she’d offer another denial, after which I intended to tell her the police wanted to see her and then go call Eberhardt on the library phone. But she must have believed I was a cop myself. The fear in her eyes turned wild. And she threw herself at me, jabbed her elbow into my protruding belly, kicked me in the shin, and ran.

The blows staggered me, pitched me off balance into the left-hand stack; books spilled out and thumped on the floor. I caromed off, clawing at the shelf, dislodging more books, and my backside smacked the cart and sent it skittering away at an angle. Then I thumped to the floor, too-so hard that the rest of my breath came out in a whistling grunt. Book spines cracked under my weight; the hard edge of one bit into my hip, made me flop over on my side and bang my head against another shelf.

The rest of the people in there were on their feet making disturbed noises, half of them gawking at me as I scrambled up and half of them gawking at the front entrance doors where Carolyn Weeks was about the plunge through. I sucked in air, used it to say something obscene, and went lumbering after her.

She was gone by the time I dodged around one of the tables. Halfway to the door, a determined-looking guy in a brown sweater tried to grab me; I shoved him out of the way. The fat woman was shouting, “What did you do to her? What did you do to her?” in a voice like a fire siren. The determined guy came after me again and hit me over the ear with enough force to set up a ringing in my head. I brushed him away a second time, and by then I had regained enough presence of mind to yell, “This is police business! You understand? Police business!”

That gave them pause; the fat woman stopped shrieking and the determined guy quit being determined, and I got to the entrance without any more interference. I banged the door open with my shoulder, stumbled down the steps, looked both ways along Leavenworth.

Carolyn Weeks was nowhere in sight.

I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, panting, hurting in several different places. Three or four people were staring at my. I let them stare for ten seconds or so; then I said, “Shit,” to no one in particular and went back into the library to call the police.