Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery)

NIGHTCRAWLERS

“NAMELESS DETECTIVE” MYSTERIES BY BILL PRONZINI

Nightcrawlers
Scenarios (
collection
)
Spook
Bleeders
Crazybone
Booby trap
Illusions
Sentinels
Spadework (
collection
)
Hardcase
Demons
Epitaphs
Quarry
Breakdown
Jackpot
Shackles
Deadfall
Bones
Double (
with Marcia Mutter
)
Nightshades
Quicksilver
Casefile (
collection
)
Bindlestiff
Dragonfire
Scattershot
Hoodwink
Labyrinth
Twospot (
with Collin Wilcox
)
Blowback
Undercurrent
The Vanished
The Snatch

A Nameless Detective Novel

Bill Pronzini

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

NIGHTCRAWLERS

Copyright © 2005 by The Pronzini-Muller Family Trust

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Book design by Jane Adele Regina

A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Forge
^®
is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Pronzini, Bill.

Nightcrawlers / Bill Pronzini.—1st ed.

p. cm.

“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”

ISBN 0-765-30931-9 (acid-free paper)

EAN 978-0765-30931-0

1. Nameless Detective (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—California—San Francisco—Fiction. 3. Gay men—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. San Francisco (Calif.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3566.R67N45 2005
813'.54—dc22                                                                     2004056323

First Edition: March 2005

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

For the better half
of the Mulzinis

With thanks to Michael Seidman for his usual astute editorial comments, and to all the faithful readers who have helped to keep the “Nameless” series alive and well for more than thirty-five years.

NIGHTCRAWLERS

“T
here he is,” Tommy said.

Bix squinted past him through the passenger-side window. “Yeah. Our meat, all right. Lookit that fag coat, fag mustache, the way he walks.”

“Nobody else around.”

“Perfect, man.”

“You ready?”

Bix giggled the way he always did when he was high, pulled his Giants cap down low on his forehead. “Hot to trot.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

They rolled on past, slow. Downhill a ways, the headlights picked out an alleyway between a couple of the big old houses, both of them dark. Bix wheeled the pickup over to the curb in front of the alley. Before it came to a full stop, Tommy was out and moving with the Little League bat under his coat. Bix had
to yank on the emergency brake, cut the lights and the engine before he jumped out, and then he got his big feet tangled and almost fell down in the street. Christ. Slow and clumsy and stupid, stoned or sober.

Tommy moved up on the sidewalk, taking it easy, letting Bix catch up. “Hey, pretty boy,” he called, not too loud.

The faggot stopped. Tommy moved over when Bix got there, one on either side, facing him, not crowding him yet. Pretty boy, yeah. But not for much longer. Excitement began to run inside Tommy, drying his mouth, putting sweat on his palms. Oh man, oh baby!

“What’s your hurry, sweet thing?” Bix asked the queer.

“It’s late and I’m going home.”

“Pretty late, all right. Where you been?”

“Working. Tending bar.”

“Yeah. Fruit drinks for Castro fruits, right?”

“What do you want?” Cool, a little pissed, but not scared. Not yet.

“What you think we want?” Tommy said.

“All I have on me is five dollars—”

“Hey, you got us wrong. We’re not after your money.”

“That’s right,” Bix said. “Something else we want.”

“. . . Oh, so that’s it. Well, you’ve got the wrong person.”

“Uh-uh. We don’t think so.”

“I don’t do that kind of thing.”

Bix giggled.

“I mean it, I’m not a street hustler. I happen to be in a stable relationship—”

“Stable?” Bix giggled again. “You live in a stable? You and your boyfriend bugger each other in a stable?”

“Shut up,” Tommy snapped at him. He said to Pretty Boy, “Lying queer bastard.”

Pretty Boy made a disgusted noise and started to push ahead. They blocked him, crowding him a little now.

“What’s the idea? I want to go home.”

Bix said, “Not yet, sweet thing.”

“Come on, just leave me alone.”

“We got other plans.”

“If you don’t get out of my way—”

“What’ll you do? Pee in your panties?”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“No? You oughta be, boyfucker.”

“I’ll yell. I’ll wake up the whole neighborhood.”

“Uh-uh. No, you won’t.”

Pretty Boy opened his mouth, but they were all set for him. It was just what they were waiting for, just like the other times. Bix got him in a bear hug from behind and Tommy jammed the greasy rag into his mouth, all the way in. He started grunting and choking, flailing around, trying to kick them with his twinkle toes. Tommy put a stop to that with a punch in the gut, a knee in the crotch. Pretty Boy doubled up, sagged; a moan slid out of him sweet as music.

They dragged him into the alleyway, threw him down, watched him crawl around in a little circle like a dog that’d just been run over. Then Bix started giving him the boot, one two three kick, one two three kick. “Hey,” Tommy said, “you don’t get all the fun,” and he hauled out the Little League bat and went to work himself.

Oh man, oh baby!

The crack of bone breaking damn near gave him a hard-on.

There she is, he thought.

He knew it as soon as he saw her. The right age, no older than six. Slim, her hair straight and parted in the middle and braided into pigtails. Mostly white skin like cream with a little coffee mixed in. Sweet little smile. Pretty.

Just like Angie.

The woman with her was past fifty, heavyset, slow-moving. And black, all black, not mixed blood like the girl. Probably not her mother. Grandmother, aunt, maybe a babysitter. Not too careful, either. Didn’t hold the girl’s hand, let her run ahead or veer off or lag behind as they crossed the parking lot. Kept looking straight ahead—worrying on something, not paying much attention to her surroundings. He might be able to take the kid right here, tonight, when they came out. If not, he’d follow them home. There’d be another opportunity soon enough. The hard part was finding her. Now that he had, he could afford to relax and be patient.

He watched them enter the supermarket. Might as well go in himself. He was out of bottled water, almost out of cigarettes; might be enough time to stock up. He was tired of sitting, too, muscles all cramped up. He’d been in the Suburban five hours straight tonight, since four o’clock. Long hours every night after work, longer hours on the weekends, for three weeks now. Driving around, driving around—San Francisco, the Peninsula, San Jose, East Bay, North Bay. Shopping centers, strip malls, parks, day-care centers, anywhere he could think of looking. Two or three that’d seemed right from a distance, but weren’t when he got up close. Too skinny, too young, too old, too dark, too light. He knew he’d find her
sooner or later, so he hadn’t been frustrated or anything. But all the driving and looking had taken their toll. The headaches were back and getting worse again. Not as bad as when he got angry, not so bad that he couldn’t think clearly, but bad enough so the Percodan didn’t help anymore. Right behind his eyes, so much pressure that sometimes it felt like they’d pop right out of their sockets. He wondered if he needed glasses. Maybe he’d go see an eye doctor later on.

He swung out of the SUV. He’d parked in a shadowed space off to one side, where he had a clear view of the entrance. He pinched his eyes with thumb and forefinger, flexed his back and shoulders, got his legs moving and went inside.

The bright fluorescent glare made him squint and blink. The woman and the little girl weren’t at any of the checkout stands or in any of the nearby aisles. Soft drinks and bottled water to his left; he went that way, picked up two quarts of Crystal Geyser, and then moved back and sideways in front of the dairy cases. Still no sign of them until he reached the produce section.

He saw the woman first. Basket looped over one arm, feeling up tomatoes and paying no mind to the little girl. She was running circles around a bin of corn, pigtails flying, playing some kind of game like Angie used to do. He walked by, slow and close. She looked up and saw him. Put on the brakes, gave him a gap-toothed smile that lit up that sweet face like a jacko’-lantern, then started running again. His throat tightened, his mouth tasted brassy.

Angie, he thought.

He went on up to the express checkout, bought a couple of packs of Marlboros and the bottled water. Outside, the cold air hit him with a rush and made him realize he was sweating.
He opened one of the bottles, took a long swig. Once the brassy taste was gone and the sweat quit oozing out, he was all right again. The ache behind his eyes was starting to ease some, too. That was a good sign. He might be able to sleep tonight, might not even dream.

In the Suburban he lit a cigarette, sipped water between drags. Waiting the way a cat waits—waiting for the good thing to happen. Who was it had said that to him about the way cats waited? Mia? He couldn’t stand cats, but Mia’d always liked them. He remembered one time when the three of them . . . when he and Angie and Mia . . .

It was another five minutes before they came out, the woman carrying two plastic grocery sacks, the little girl running and skipping ahead. Their car, some kind of old four-door sedan, was in the first row. The woman hesitated when they got there, as if maybe she’d forgotten something. “Go back inside,” he said out loud, “leave Angie in the car.”

But she didn’t. It wasn’t going to be that easy. She was just fumbling for the keys. She found them, unlocked the car, and both of them got in and stayed in. The sedan’s engine started, the lights came on. He had the Suburban clear of the space and easing forward before she finished backing up, and he was right behind her when she pulled out of the lot.

No problem following the sedan. She drove as slow as she moved. And it wasn’t far to go—less than half a mile through a bunch of residential streets to a single-family home within spitting distance of a neighborhood park. The sedan stopped in the driveway, the woman and the little girl got out and went into the house. He didn’t need the number; he’d recognize the place when he came back, couldn’t miss that tree with the tree-house in it over in the side yard. All he’d need was the name of
this street and the cross street up ahead where the park was.

Tomorrow he’d come back, daytime and after dark both. And as many days and nights after that as it took to find out who else lived in the house, how often the girl was alone in the yard or in the park or on her way to and from school. Pick his spot, wait for just the right time. He had a feeling it wouldn’t take long.