The Man Everybody Was Afraid Of (21 page)

“My name is Brandstetter.” Dave handed the kid a card. “I’m an insurance investigator. It’s about Gerald Ross Dawson, deceased. I came to see Mrs. Dawson.”

“She’s not here.” The boy coughed and wiped his eyes with his fingers. He frowned at the card in the smoke. His brows were thick and black and grew straight across without a break. “She went to the funeral home. Some women came from the church. They went to see my dad.”

“You’re Gerald Dawson, Junior, then—right?”

“Bucky,” he said. “Nobody calls me Gerald Dawson Junior.”

“Were you cold?” Dave asked. “Did you run out of briquettes?”

“I don’t understand you,” Bucky said.

“That’s funny fuel. Where did you get those?”

“I found them in—” But Bucky changed his mind about that answer. “They’re mine. I’m ashamed of them. I wanted to get rid of them. Now was the first chance I had.”

“Magazines like that cost a lot of money,” Dave said. “How many were there—ten, a dozen? That’s fifty, sixty dollars, maybe more. You were lucky to get that kind of allowance. Your father must have thought a lot of you.”

“And look how I repaid him,” Bucky said.

“You can only use so many Bibles,” Dave said. “But shops that sell these don’t cater to kids. It must have been hard to get them. Doesn’t that count?”

“Not now.” Bucky shook his head. “I hate them.” Tears were in his eyes and not from the smoke this time. The smoke was trying to drift off. “He was so good. I’m such a sinner.”

“Don’t make too much of it,” Dave said. “Everybody has to be eighteen sometime. When’s your mother coming back?”

“Don’t tell her I was doing this,” Bucky said.

“I only ask questions,” Dave said.

“The police already asked them all,” Bucky said. “Why do you want to start it over again? It’s too late. Everything’s too late. They even kept his body downtown ten days.” He turned sharply away, trying to hide that he was crying. He went back to the barbecue and poked blindly at the smoldering paper. Smoke huffed up again. He blew at it, making a wet sound because of the crying. Small flames licked up. “They’re finally going to let us give him his funeral tomorrow. Can’t you just leave us alone?”

“Where was he the night he was killed?” Dave asked.

“I don’t deserve to be called by his name,” Bucky said. “He never did anything dirty in his life. Look at these. I’m always dirty. I pray and pray”—he jabbed at the flaming magazines, outraged, despairing—“but I can’t be clean. Look at me.” He turned suddenly, flinging out his arms. Flakes of pale ash had caught in the black wool of his chest and belly. “Covered with hair. Anybody can see what I am. An animal.”

“Genes,” Dave said. “Did he often stay out all night?”

“What?” The boy blinked. His arms lowered slowly. It was as if Dave had wakened him from sleepwalking. “No. Never. Why would he? Sometimes he was late. But that was church work.”

“Do you know what kind?” Dave said.

“This neighborhood”—Bucky began shredding up a magazine and wadding the shreds and throwing them hard into the flames—“isn’t a fit place for Christians to live. It isn’t a fit place to bring up children. Stuff goes on in that park there isn’t even any name for. Have you seen those smut shops, those pervert bars, the movies they show? Filthy.” He ripped at the magazine. “Filthy places, filthy people. Burn!” he yelled to the fire. “Burn, burn!”

“He was trying to clean it up?” Dave said.

Bucky went guarded and sulky. “I don’t know. You know where he was. The police found stuff on his clothes. He’d been where there were horses. He’d made an enemy of Lon Tooker.”

“Keyhole Bookshop,” Dave said.

“Right. And he’s got horses where he lives, in Topanga Canyon. That’s why they arrested him. Don’t you know anything?”

“I read the police report,” Dave said. “That’s why I’m here. It doesn’t satisfy me.”

“You? What difference does that make?”

“Fifty thousand dollars’ difference,” Dave said.

Under the soot that smeared his face, he turned a pasty color. “You mean you could hold back his life insurance? That’s to put me through college. That’s to keep my mom. She can’t work. She’s handicapped.”

“I don’t want to hold it back,” Dave said, “but a couple of things are wrong and I have to find out why.”

“The only thing that’s wrong is he’s dead,” Bucky said. The tears came back. “How could God do that? He was God’s servant He was doing God’s will.”

“Lon Tooker was in his shop till midnight.”

The fur boy scoffed. “The creep who works for him says. Anybody who’d work in a place like that—what would they care about lying?”

“The shop hours are posted on the door,” Dave said. “Noon till midnight weekdays. And if he kept those hours, then he couldn’t have been home to his horses till two or after. Topanga’s a long drive from here.”

“What’s that mean?” Bucky began shredding another magazine. “My mom didn’t find my dad’s body till she went out to get the
Times
in the morning.”

“But the medical examiner says he died between ten
P.M.
and midnight.”

“I got home at midnight,” Bucky said, “from basketball practice at the church. He wasn’t there. I would have seen him.” Another wad of glossy paper went into the fire. For a second, a naked fifth-grader looked seductively over a skinny shoulder at Dave, then blackened and vanished. “Lieutenant Barker says the medical examiner could be wrong.”

“‘Could be’ doesn’t mean ‘is,’” Dave said.

“He got home, got out of the car to unlock the garage, and Lon Tooker jumped him,” Bucky said. “The stuff from the horses rubbed off Tooker onto him.”

“Nifty,” Dave said. “Did you hear the struggle? Where do you sleep?”

Bucky jerked his head at corner windows. “There. I didn’t hear anything. I was tired. I slept hard.” He ripped at another set of pages. “Anyway, what kind of struggle do you think there was? Tooker got him from behind and snapped his neck. You learn how to do that in the Marines. Tooker was a Marine in World War II.”

“It looks easy in the movies,” Dave said.

“It happened,” Bucky said.

“Tooker would have to be fifty-five,” Dave said. “Your father was ten years younger.”

“He didn’t know anything about fighting,” Bucky said. He poked at the burnt paper and big loose fragments sailed up through the heat like sick bats. They settled up above on the ivy-covered slope. “He was a Christian.”

“Not a soldier of the Lord?” Dave said.

“Are you laughing at him?” Bucky turned with the poker in his hand. “What are you? An atheist or a Jew or something? Is that why you don’t want my mom and me to have his insurance money? Because we’re born again?”

“If he was trying to open the garage door,” Dave said, “where were his keys? They weren’t in his pocket. They weren’t on the ground.”

“Tooker must have taken them,” Bucky said.

“He was searched,” Dave said. “So was his shop. His home. His car. They didn’t find those keys.”

Bucky shrugged and turned back to jab at the fire. “Tooker threw them away someplace. What good would they be to him?”

“Exactly,” Dave said. “So why take them at all?”

“Why don’t you get off my case?” Bucky said. “Don’t you think we’ve got enough trouble, my mom and me, without you coming around and—” Down on the street, a car door slammed. The poker clanked again. Bucky turned pasty again. He stared alarm at Dave. “There’s my mom, now. Oh, look, listen—don’t tell her about the magazines. Please.”

“Maybe you should quit for now,” Dave said. “Put them away. Wait for another chance.”

“If you don’t say anything”—Bucky retrieved the poker—“it’ll be okay. She won’t come up here. It’s too hard.”

“Then I’ll go down there,” Dave said.

The smoke hung caustic in the slanting street. No wind stirred to take it away. It kept crawling down the hillside. It lodged in the shrubbery. A tall, wide-hipped woman came out of the garage where a tan Aspen showed an
I FOUND IT
bumper sticker. The woman dragged her right foot; a cane hung over her arm. She wore a new tan double-knit pantsuit over a new cocoa-color synthetic shirt. She’d had her hair done. It was iron gray. Effortfully she stretched up for the garage door and dragged it down, clumsily shifting aside just in time for it to miss her. She turned toward Dave and stopped. An eyelid drooped. So did a corner of her mouth. But she got her words out sharply.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

He went to her, spoke his name, handed her his card. “When a policyholder dies by misadventure, we investigate.”

“Where’s my son?” She looked up. “What’s that smoke?”

“He’s burning trash,” Dave said. “I’ve talked to him.”

“He’s only a child,” she said. “You had no right.”

“I’m not a police officer,” Dave said.

“What did you talk to him about? What did he say?”

“That he thinks Lon Tooker killed his father,” Dave said. Across the street, window-fastenings snapped. French doors opened beyond shaggy treetops. “Maybe it would be better if we talked inside.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said. “The police have arrested the man. I guess that means the district attorney must have been satisfied he was the right one. Why is it unusual that Bucky should think so?”

“It’s not unusual,” Dave said. She had to be close to sixty. It wasn’t just that a stroke had left her half paralyzed. Flesh sagged loose beneath her jaw. Her skin was a web of wrinkles. There were liver spots on her hands. Gerald Dawson had married a woman almost old enough to be his mother. Bucky had been a last-chance baby. He said, “But it’s too easy.”

She gave her head a shake that made the loose lip quiver. “There’s nothing easy about it. Everything about it is hard. Death is hard. Loss is hard. Even for Christians, Mr.”—she glanced at the card—“Brandstetter. God sends these things to test us. But knowing that doesn’t make the tests any easier to bear.” She narrowed the eye whose lid she could control. “What are you doing here? You haven’t brought a check from the insurance company. Have you brought another test?”

“Where was he that night, Mrs. Dawson?”

“On the Lord’s business,” she said. “I don’t know the particulars.”

“Who would know? Someone at the church?”

She started toward the door, using the cane, dragging the foot “They’ve already said not. Maybe Reverend Shumate.” Keys rattled in her free hand. She clutched at a cypress to haul herself up the short doorstep. She poked the key at the door. “It seems very hard that he should have been killed, going about his Father’s business.”

Dave said, “At the bank, his statements show he wrote a couple of large checks lately. Do you know why? Are his canceled checks here?”

“At his office,” she said. “The girl there paid all the bills. It was simpler.” The door swung inward. There was a breath of lemon-scented furniture polish.

Dave asked: “Why did he have birth-control pills in his pocket?”

She stopped moving, hand on the door latch. Slowly, painfully, she turned. She twisted her mouth in a wince of disbelief. “What? What did you say?”

“Among the items the police found in your husband’s pockets—wallet, credit cards, the usual—was an envelope from a pharmacy on the Sunset Strip. And in the envelope was a folder of birth-control pills. The prescription was written to Mrs. Gerald Dawson. Would that be right?”

“The Sunset Strip.” It was only six or eight miles west, across town. But she said it blankly, the way she might name someplace in Afghanistan. Then she didn’t say anything more. She simply kept her gaze on Dave’s face. She seemed stunned.

He said, “The doctor’s name is Encey. Is he your doctor?”

Her face twitched. “What? Encey?” Then suddenly answers chattered out of her. “Dr. Encey.” She nodded. “Yes, yes, of course he’s my doctor. That’s right. The pills,” she said. “Yes, of course. Gerald promised to pick them up for me. I’d forgotten. In all the terrible things that happened, I’d forgotten about the pills.”

“I can understand that,” Dave said.

“I have a headache,” she said. “It’s this dreadful heat. Excuse me.”

And the living half of her dragged the dead half inside and shut the door.

H
E DROPPED OUT OF
the expensive Hillcrest neighborhood down twisting streets past old apartment courts where doors were enameled bright colors and sported new brass knockers, where windbells hung in the trees, and where lissome young men in swim trunks clipped hedges or soaped down little sports cars at the curbs. Then, another level lower, he passed rickety wood-frame houses in need of paint, where radios blared mariachi music through rusty window screens, and little brown Mexican kids swarmed in yards where no grass grew.

He braked the Electra at Sunset for a red light. Across the broad curving stream of traffic lay the park with the little lake, the ducks in the rushes, the muggers in the bushes, the sunburned tourists rowing battered little skiffs and peering through Instamatics at the glass skyscrapers beyond the tops of palms. When the light turned green, he swung left, making for Bethel Evangelical Church. But he changed his mind because the door of Lon Tooker’s shop hung open under a red-and-white tin sign,
KEYHOLE BOOKS.
It took a while to find a tilted street he could swing into and back up out of, but at least there was no parking problem. Except for a corner Mexican grocery, the rest of the flat-roof one-story brown-brick store buildings along this stretch held businesses that flourished only after dark.

The carpet inside Tooker’s place was thick enough to make it dangerous for anybody with weak ankles. It was gold color. Flocked gold-color wallpaper rose above the bookshelves. Gold-color paint was new on a ceiling from which hung fake crystal chandeliers. Plastic-wrapped magazines lay back at forty-five-degree angles on low shelves. The color printing was sharp but the subjects were monotonous. Spread legs, lace underwear, girls lifting massive breasts while they leered and coaxed. Or youths displaying bulky penises. No little girls. But then, this wasn’t all the stock. A few feet farther on, stairs carried the thick, gold carpet upward between frail wrought-iron railings. Thumps seemed to be coming from there. Dave went up.