Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (50 page)

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."

"Do you still love her?"

"Yes."

"Does she still love you?"

"If she still does after New Year's Eve, she ought to be
institutionalized."

"What happened—besides your going to the All Souls party without
her?"

He motioned for Brian to bring him another drink. Brian looked
doubtful but poured it when I nodded at him.

"Okay," Hank said when the drink was in front of him. "What happened
was Anne-Marie invited the Andersons— the people we rent the upstairs
flat to—for dinner. I wanted to be at All Souls, where we've always
spent New Year's Eve, so I left. But then I couldn't face people, so I
drank in my office."

"Do you remember me coming in and talking with you?"

"Oh, yes. I remember it quite clearly now. I'm not so bad off that
I'm blacking out. And I remember the rest of the evening. In hideous
detail."

"Go on."

"I gave up and went home a little after midnight. Took a cab—I'm not
enough of an asshole to drive in that condition. The Andersons were
still there. Anne-Marie had this made-of-porcelain look she gets when
she's pissed off but trying to remain civil. I'd hoped they'd be gone
so we could talk. Just seeing them there… Are you sure you want to know
what a swine I am?"

"We all behave swinishly upon occasion."

"Some of us more than others. Well, I started yelling at her for
letting 'those people' in our flat. Said I was sick of them, sick of
hearing about their car phones and computers and their vacation condo
with the view of some golf course fairway, and their stupid, boring
jobs on Montgomery Street."

"Oh, Lord!"

"It gets worse. Then she started yelling at me. Said that the only
reason she ever had them down to dinner was so she wouldn't have to
spend the evening arguing with me. Said that she'd only asked them for
New Year's Eve so we wouldn't go to the All Souls party and get drunk
and scream at each other in front of our real friends. Said that she
found car phones and computers and condos and Montgomery Street boring,
too, and besides, Bob—he's the husband—is an ass grabber. By that time
the Andersons were on their way out the door."

Hank's expression was woebegone in the extreme. I, on the other
hand, felt a welling up of relief. For months now Anne-Marie had
avoided me, not returning my phone calls. From what I'd heard of her
behavior, I'd been afraid that my friend had turned into someone I
wouldn't even want to know. But her New Year's Eve outburst in front of
the dreadful Andersons proved that the candid, unpretentious Anne-Marie
of yesterday still existed.

I said, "Well, you won't have to worry about having them to dinner
again."

"It gets worse."

"How could it?"

"Then we really got into it. I'm sure the Andersons were upstairs
with a glass pressed to the floor. Hell, they wouldn't even have needed
one. I told her I couldn't stand living her life-style. She told me I'm
a slob with the social graces of a pit bull. Then she said my chili was
awful." Hank drew himself up indignantly. One elbow slipped off the
bar, and I had to steady him.

I'd been having difficulty controlling the laughter that was
building inside me. Now it rose and spilled over. The more I laughed,
the more indignant Hank looked, and his expression only gave fuel to my
hilarity. Finally—gasping and wiping my eyes—I said, "Hank, I don't
know about all the rest, but she's right on one point—your chili is
horrible!"

"… You always ate it."

"That's because the company was always so good."

He thought about that for a moment. "Anne-Marie always ate it, too.
Guess my company isn't good anymore."

"For the time being, probably not."

He knocked back half the fresh drink and said, "Do you want to hear
the rest of it?"

"There's more?"

"It still gets worse. She stomped off and locked me out of the
bedroom. Then I threw up and passed out on the bathroom floor, sort of
wrapped around the toilet. And in the morning there was an envelope
from the Andersons shoved under the door. They gave thirty days'
notice. That's when I decided I'd better stay at All Souls."

I leaned my forehead on my hand and groaned. Finally I said, "A nice
flat like that'll be easy to rent."

"It's not keeping the flat occupied that worries me," he said. "It's
the prospect of sleeping on the All Souls's couch for the rest of my
life."

I knew what he meant; the couch was a maroon relic of the 1930s with
badly sprung springs.

Before I could offer any optimistic comments, however, Brian
signaled that I had a phone call. "We'll talk more later," I said to
Hank and went to the end of the bar to take it.

George's voice came over the line—high and shaky, infused with an
element that I wouldn't have expected. As he said, "Sharon? Your
assistant told me to call you here," I heard joy—no, elation.

"What's happened?"

"I just spoke with Detective Gurski. About the identification from
Tracy's dental records."

"I've been trying to get in touch—"

"Sharon," he said, "it wasn't her! The body you found wasn't
Tracy's!"

For a moment I couldn't speak. The implications of this new
development were staggering, that much I knew. But I couldn't quite
grasp them yet, couldn't put them into words.

"Sharon?" George said.