Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (17 page)

"… Don't know what you mean by that."

"You do—and you'd better tell me about it."

"Tracy, she dead. It don't matter now."

"It matters a lot."

He was silent.

I reached into my briefcase and took out the notebook containing
Tracy's character sketches, opened it to the last page. "Does this
sound like someone you used to know, Bobby?"

He looked at me, then at the notebook, puzzled.

I read, "'It has become her habit to milk every emotion, even her
own, for personal gain. Everything is useful. She sleeps with this one
and that one solely for the exotic experience.'"

He moved his hand, as if to push the words away.

"Tracy used people," I said. "She let her friends confide in her,
then built characters for her routines based on those confidences. When
she ran out of material, she created it. Like she planned to create it
by sleeping with you."

Jack grunted in surprise. Bobby lowered his head into his hands, his
fingers pressing spasmodically against his skull.

"If it's any comfort," I added, "she regretted what she'd done. She
told her mother she thought she wasn't a good person anymore, said
she'd done things to hurt others."

He mumbled something.

"What?"

"Wasn't the way she told it to me. That why we had the fight. I knew
what we did was wrong. We were friends. I loved her, but not that way."

"When did you sleep with her?"

"Two, maybe three weeks before."

"How many times?"

"Just the once."

"And that Thursday night… ?"

"I wanted to talk about it, tell her no way it gonna happen again. I
want to know why— She started it, see. But she wasn't having any talk.
I say we got to have it out, and she say…"

"She said… ?"

"That it wasn't no big deal. She done it 'cause she was gonna use a
white girl who slept with black men in her act. She wanted to know
firsthand what it was like. You know how she make me feel? Like some
slave put out to stud. I say that to
her, and she say some ugly things. That the last I saw of her."

He raised his face; his eyes were bleak and moist. "Now we can't
never put it right. She dead, and I can't tell her I'm sorry."

Beside me Jack cleared his throat and shifted on his chair. I didn't
feel any too comfortable myself, but I pressed on. "Okay—you fought,
and then what?"

Bobby wiped his eyes on his sleeve before he answered. "She run off,
something about going to Marc's."

That gave me pause; Emmons had said nothing about an appointment
with Tracy that night. "He wasn't working the bar?"

"Guess not. He only a part-timer."

"Marc told me they'd broken up."

"Yeah, but every time she want something, she go to him. And Marc,
he love her, so he give it to her, no matter what."

But love has its limits, I thought, and when they're reached, it can
turn nasty. "All right," I said, "then what did you do?"

"Just walked. Stopped for a couple of drinks."

"Where?"

"Some bar, I don't remember where."

"Think."

He thought. And shook his head. "The way it was, I'd done some
crack, to get up for talking to Tracy. With the booze and all…"

"Well, if you do remember anything, let me know right away. So you
walked around, stopped for a couple of drinks, then went back to the
club around closing?"

"Yeah. I wanted to see if the other guys covered for me with Larkey."

"Had they?"

"Yeah."

"Then what did you do?"

"Look, I told you all this the other day."

"Tell me again."

He sighed. "I went to see this girl I know, but she not home. After
that I go back to my ma's place. She working all night at the clinic.
My brothers, they off someplace. The old granny from next door, she
sitting with the little ones. She the only one saw me, and that don't
help 'cause she die the next month, before all this shit start to come
down."

Now I sighed. He'd told it as he had before; it bore the
unmistakable stamp of truth. But it wouldn't be of much use in
establishing his story.

Bobby looked from me to Jack and back again. "Still don't look good,
huh?"

I began gathering my bag and briefcase. "Things are better than they
were last week. We'll just take it one step at a time." I wanted to get
back to the city now, to call Stan Gurski in Napa to see if he had an
identification on the remains. And I needed to check with Rae about
what she'd turned up on Lisa Mclntyre. And then there was George…

Jack said, "You going?"

"Yes. I'll check in with you later." We'd come in separate cars, so
there was no reason for me to wait for him.

Bobby said, "I thank you again."

"You're welcome. Try not to feel discouraged. We'll work this out
yet."

"I wish…"He hesitated.

"Wish what?"

"I don't know. All this time I been hoping you'd find her alive. So
I could of got things straight between us."

I had no answer for that. I knew from bitter experience that every
death diminishes us, but those that leave differences unresolved and
things unsaid are the most painful of all.

"According to Larkey, Mclntyre worked at the club the night that
Kostakos disappeared. She was scheduled to have Friday and Saturday off
that week, and they're not open Sundays, so her next shift was Monday
night. She never showed, never picked up her last check. In my book
that's a big coincidence… Sharon, are you listening to me?"

I was, but with only half my attention. The rest of it was turned
inward, focused on Marc Emmons. I'd called Detective Gurski that
morning and relayed the information about Harbour's visit to the
cottage and Emmons's counseling her not to go to the authorities.
Gurski had said he'd request the SFPD to pick them up and hold them for
questioning. But when I'd called him again after returning from San
Quentin and told him Tracy might have been on her way to Emmons's
apartment the night she disappeared, he said neither had been located
yet. That probably meant I'd panicked them into running, and I was now
regretting my poor handling of the situation.

In response to Rae's plaintive query I said, "A big coincidence.
You're right. Did anyone at the club make an attempt to
locate Mclntyre?"

"Larkey got worried and sent his partner's wife around to her
apartment later that week, but she'd vanished."

I'd been turned toward the bay window of my office, watching dusk
fall over the monotonous expanse of the Outer Mission district, but now
I swiveled to face Rae. She was pacing on the old oriental carpet,
following its geometric pattern in precise steps. She often did that
when we talked about a case; I assumed it was her way of slowing down
and ordering thoughts that were frequently rapid-fire and chaotic.

"What do you mean, 'vanished'?" I asked. "Had she moved out?"

"Apparently. Most of her stuff was gone. The manager told Kathy
Soriano that she didn't give advance notice and nobody saw her go."

"Interesting. The police should have been told about that. I want
you to look into it more thoroughly. Talk to the manager, and to Kathy.
Were you able to get any leads on where Mclntyre went?"

"No. There's not much to go on. She'd recently moved here from out
of state—she was originally from Oklahoma, Larkey thought—and hadn't
bothered to get a California driver's license. I got the impression he
wasn't too surprised by her just up and going. He said a lot of
would-be comedians drift from place to place."

"Mclntyre wanted to be a comedian?"

"That's what he implied."

"Well, keep on it."

"Sure. Anything else?"

"Not at the moment." I glanced at the silent phone, then at my
watch. A few minutes before five. Gurski hadn't yet received
confirmation that the remains I'd found were Tracy's when I'd talked
with him earlier; he'd said he'd call me as soon as he heard. When I'd
phoned George, I'd gotten his answering machine. Wait for the beep;
So-and-so will get back to
you. That, and doorbells ringing in empty residences: sometimes it
seemed they were all my days consisted of.

Rae had stopped on the central block of the rug's pattern and was
looking hesitantly at me. "What?" I said, more snappishly than I'd
intended.

"Well, excuse me!"

"Oh, come on, don't be so touchy."

"Then you don't be so much of a grouch."

"Sorry. What is it?"

"Hank."

Now she had my full attention. "What's wrong?"

"He slept on the couch here last night."

"Uh-oh. Have you seen Anne-Marie?"

"She hasn't been in."

It didn't sound good.

Rae shifted from foot to foot, then said, "I was thinking maybe you
should talk to him."

I recalled Hank's abrupt dismissal of me on New Year's Eve and shook
my head.

"Somebody's got to help him, Sharon. He looks terrible. And I saw
him head downhill to the Remedy right after noon. He's still not back."

"Oh, for God's sake… all right. I'm not accomplishing anything by
sitting here. Are you going to be around for a while?"

"Yes."

"Good. If Detective Gurski or George Kostakos calls, take a message
and call me down there, okay?"

Rae gave me a thumbs-up sign and left the office.

The Remedy Lounge has long been my litmus test for discovering
kindred souls among the co-op's staff. One of Mission Street's many
working-class bars, it is totally devoid of character—unless you count
cracked plastic booths and gouged formica tables, fly-specked mirrors
and suspiciously clouded
glassware, decrepit pinball machines and an often broken jukebox as
hallmarks of individuality. But friendships at All Souls have blossomed
or withered depending upon the person's attitude toward it.

Hank loved the Remedy; had, in fact, the dubious distinction of
having discovered it. Anne-Marie liked to disparage it, but until she
and Hank started having problems, she was almost always found on the
next barstool. Jack and I spent a disproportionate amount of time
there. Rae had felt I'd bestowed an honor upon her the first time I
invited her down the hill for a drink. Even Ted—who despaired of the
clientele's staunchly heterosexual orientation—stopped in several times
a week and, in fine neighborhood tradition, was tolerated by the
patrons. Let others from All Souls sip their blush wines in
fern-infested bars, we often declared. We knew where the good times
were to be found!

Only the times at the Remedy weren't so good anymore. Hadn't been
for quite a while.

Tonight the evidence of that was slumped over the bar at the far
end, a glass of scotch in front of him. The happy hour was just getting
started, and most of the customers were giving Hank a wide berth. Even
Brian, the bartender, was keeping his distance. I waved at him and
pointed to Hank, a signal that he should bring my white wine down there.

When I slipped onto the stool next to him, Hank didn't glance my
way. But when Brian set down my wine and took a dollar and a quarter
from the pile of bills and coins on the bar, he looked up in surprise.

"You owe me," I said.

"I do?" Behind his thick lenses, his eyes were vague and unfocused;
he was badly in need of a shave.

"Yes. You were downright nasty to me on New Year's Eve."

"I was?"

"Uh-huh. You ordered me out of your office, told me to go find a
surfer and take him home and screw him."

"I did?"

I nodded and sipped wine.

"Jesus." Hank ran a hand over his thick curly hair.

"Of Anne-Marie, you said, fuck her.'"

"Ah, I'm beginning to remember." He took a gulp of scotch.

"Do you want to talk about it now?"

He was silent, turning his glass round and round between his palms.
The bar beneath it was wet with spills from many earlier drinks.

"I've held off asking you anything for months," I added, "because I
hoped things would improve, or that one of you would talk to me. But I
can't hold off any longer."

"So why don't you ask her? I'm sure she'll be happy to give you all
the explanation you need."

"I plan to, but right now I want to hear your side of it."

"Why?"

"Because you're my friend, dammit! We go all the way back to the old
days in Berkeley. What the hell's wrong with you, that you can turn
your back on that kind of friendship?" My voice had risen; the people
two stools over looked at me, then hastily glanced away.

Hank said, "Shar, I just can't talk about it."

"You talked to Jack. He gave me a brief outline way back last fall."

"That's different. Jack's been through it."

"You think I haven't? Just because Don and I weren't married—"

"Ah, Shar, I know that. But you handle things. You're… in control."

His words brought a sense of deja vu. I remembered my older brother
John, just after his divorce, telling me I couldn't understand what he
was going through because I was a person who "played it safe." At the
time I'd wondered if I really presented
such a cold, constrained facade to others; now I wondered again.

"Yes," I said, "I'm in control. That's why it took me months to
break it off with Don—months that I spent drinking too much and fussing
over little things so I wouldn't have to face the real issue. That's
why I've holed up and avoided another relationship ever since." Until
last night.

Hank peered at me through his smudged lenses. "I didn't know any of
that."

"That's only because I'm better at hiding my emotions than you. Talk
to me, Hank."

He drank the rest of his scotch—courage, I supposed— then said,
"What it all boils down to is that I can't live with Anne-Marie. She
wants order, I create chaos. I hate sharing household chores and
entertaining graciously and going out for Sunday brunch. I want to let
the flat go to hell and have old friends over for a pot of my chili and
sleep till noon all weekend. We're just different, and I should have
realized that and never married her."