None of that happened. I soaked in a hot bath for an hour with no slippage of calm, I took some aspirin and nonprescription cold capsules, I went to bed and to sleep right away — such a deep, exhausted sleep that I neither dreamed nor woke up until an hour past dawn. And when I awoke I felt all right: a little shaky, my limbs full of aches and sharp pains, my chest tender and my breathing scratchy, but with my mind clear and my nerves at ease. I didn’t even have a runny nose from the wetting in the ocean.
I put myself through my normal routine of exercises, a half hour’s worth, taking it slow at first until cramped muscles relaxed and the stiffness and shakiness were gone. A shower and two cups of coffee used up another half hour. By eight thirty I was dressed and on my way out of there.
No more pussyfooting around, not after last night. Coleman Lujack and I were going to have it out.
* * * *
First stop: Containers, Inc. Coleman’s Imperial wasn’t on the lot; neither was anybody else’s car. The factory was shut down as usual for the weekend.
All right.
I drove back to 101 and headed south toward Burlingame.
* * * *
Just North of the airport exit, the mobile phone buzzed. When I picked up, Eberhardt’s voice said, “Yeah, I figured you’d be on the move already. Where are you?”
“Why?”
“I’m asking you, that’s why.” There was an edge to the words. “Where?”
“Down the Peninsula. On the way to see Coleman Lujack.”
“What for?”
“Ask him some questions.”
“About Rafael Vega, maybe?” he said.
“Among others. Why? Something about Vega?”
“You don’t know, huh?”
“No. What should I know?”
“You go to the Hideaway last night?”
“Yeah, I was there.”
“Anything happen? Say between ten and eleven?”
“Like what?”
“Like Vega, goddamn it. You have a run-in with him?”
“What’s this all about, Eb?”
“Vega’s in the hospital,” he said. “Found on Ocean Beach last night, half-drowned, with a concussion and a couple of compressed vertebrae in his neck. Somebody put in an anonymous call, told Emergency Services where to find him.”
“What’s his condition?”
“He’s alive. If he’s lucky he won’t be permanently paralyzed.”
“He do any talking?”
“No. Able but not willing.”
“Police find his car?”
“Not far away and nothing much in it. Don’t you want to know which part of the beach?”
“I can guess.”
“Yeah. You didn’t have anything to do with it, huh?”
“What would you do if I did?”
“Knock some sense into your head-that’s what I’d like to do. What happened out there?”
“I’m not going to talk about it on the phone, Eb.”
“Come over to my place, then.”
“No. Not now.”
“When?”
“Later. Later today.”
“What’re you up to? What do you want out of Coleman?”
“I told you-the answers to some questions.”
“You think he sicced Vega on you, is that it?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Listen, you rock-headed bastard, you do anything to him …”
“I’m not going to do anything to him. I’m just going to talk to him.”
“Like you talked to Vega last night?”
“I didn’t talk to Vega last night. I didn’t hurt him either.”
“But you were out there on the beach with him. You’re the one made the anonymous call.”
I didn’t say anything.
“What’s the matter with you lately?” Eberhardt said. “You used to play things by the book. Now you go around busting laws left and right. You want to lose your license again?”
I didn’t say anything.
“You still there?”
“I’m still here.”
“Well then talk to me, for Christ’s sake. Tell me the truth for a change. Every time we talk lately, you either lie through your teeth or futz around with half-truths. I’m your partner and your friend; I’m on your side. Don’t you know that?”
“I know it,” I said.
“Then tell me what the hell’s going on.”
“Later. After I talk to Coleman.”
“If it’s not too late by then.”
“It won’t be too late.”
“I’ll be home all day,” he said, and banged down the receiver at his end. Hard.
What’s the matter with you lately?
Rhetorical question, Eb, I thought. How can I explain it to you when I don’t fully understand it myself?
* * * *
Coleman Lujack’s house was a two-story mock Tudor just across the northwestern dividing line between Burlingame and exclusive Hillsborough. The fact that his was a Burlingame address probably saved him a couple of thousand dollars a year in property taxes, woodsy Hillsborough land being worth much more per acre than that of its neighbors.
Before I got out of the car I took Vega’s gun-a Charter Arms.38 Special-from the glove compartment and flipped open the gate. All five chambers were full. I emptied out two of the cartridges, rotated the cylinder until one empty chamber was under the hammer and the other next to it in the firing line; then I slipped the piece into my jacket pocket. I might need the threat of it, but I did not want to use it except as a last resort. The empty chambers were a buffer against another onslaught of black fury and sudden impulse. A man who doesn’t respect his weaknesses, new or old, is a damned fool.
I went up through a formal rock garden to the front porch. There was a burglar alarm system wired into the house; the tiny red warning light on a panel next to the door indicated it was switched on. I rang the bell anyway. Rang it two more times before I gave up and walked around to the driveway. At the garage I found a window to peer through. There was a car inside, but it wasn’t Coleman’s Imperial; it was a low-slung white foreign job. His wife’s probably.
I quit his property and began canvassing the neighbors, telling them it was urgent that I get in touch with Coleman. The third one I tried, an athletic young woman in jogging clothes who lived across the street, told me Coleman and his wife had gone off about six o’clock last evening. As far as she knew, they hadn’t returned.
“They took suitcases,” she said. “I happened to notice him putting them into the trunk of his car. So I guess they went away for the weekend or longer.”
“Would you have any idea where?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
I spoke to three other neighbors. None of them had any idea, either.
I wondered if Eileen Lujack did.
* * * *
She wasn’t at home. Or at least she didn’t answer the bell, even though I worked on it pretty good.
Out with one of her friends, probably, I thought. She wasn’t the type who would be comfortable alone, especially at such a painful time in her life. The question was how long she’d be gone-a few minutes, an hour or two, the whole day?
Back in the car, I rolled the window down and sat there waiting. The sky was clear down here, the day warmish for January; people were out in the yards of two of the neighboring houses, normal people doing normal Saturday morning things like gardening and tossing a football around. A couple of them began to pay attention to me after half an hour or so. It doesn’t take long for curiosity to turn into apprehension, and I wasn’t up to any hassle on a day when I was not one of the normal people myself. I gave Eileen Lujack another five minutes. When she still didn’t come, I went.
* * * *
There was some sun and blue sky in Daly City too, though it was fighting a losing battle with the fog. By mid-afternoon the area would be socked in again. On Atlanta Street, as on Sweet William Lane, people were outside taking advantage of the good weather while it lasted. Teresa Melendez wasn’t one of them, but at least she was home. Or her Honda Civic was anyway.