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.