“What are you talking about? She’s not
killing
the cat. She’s cleaning his teeth and he has to be sedated. I’m to pick him up at five.”
I said, “Really? Well, that’s great!”
He seemed to be feeling self-conscious as he went on. “The vet says he’s a Japanese bobtail, which is a rare breed. As a matter of fact, this is the first one she’s seen in her entire career. Bobtails are active and very intelligent, easily trained to a leash. And talkative, she said, which I’d noticed myself. Two people in the waiting room spotted him and volunteered to take him off my hands that very minute, but I didn’t like their looks. One had a yappy dog the cat took an instant dislike to, and the other was a young woman who looked irresponsible to me. She had pierced ears and peroxided hair that stood up in spikes all over her head. I told the vet I wouldn’t dream of putting the cat in the care of someone like that.”
“Well, that’s wonderful,” I said, patting myself on the chest with relief. “So he’s a male?”
“He
was
male. Apparently, he was neutered some time ago. The vet says neutering tempers aggression and will keep him from spraying and getting into fights with other cats. She also pointed out he has what they call heterochromia, meaning his eyes are different colors. One is blue and the other is a golden green. Odd-eyed kittens are more expensive than the ordinary ones.”
William stirred, wanting to ask a question without generating any more ire on Henry’s part. “Have you thought about a name?”
“Of course. The cat’s name is Ed.”
William blinked and said, “Good choice.”
I said, “Excellent.”
PETE WOLINSKY
May 1988, Five Months Earlier
Pete ignored the phone when it rang, letting his answering machine pick up while he sorted through the mail that had piled up over the past week. Idly, he tuned in to his outgoing message, thinking as he always did that his recorded voice sounded manly, mature, and trustworthy.
“Able and Wolinsky. We’re currently out of the office, but if you’ll leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you as soon as we return. We value your business and look forward to serving you with efficiency and discretion.”
There was actually no Able. Pete had adopted a mythical partner so his agency name would appear first in the listings for private investigators.
The caller didn’t need to identify himself since he rang up six to eight times a day. “Listen, you son of a bitch. I know you’re there, so let’s cut the bullshit and get straight to the point. If you don’t pay what you owe, I’ll come over there with a meat cleaver and chop off your shriveled dick . . .”
Pete listened with amusement. Synchronicity being what it was, it was Barnaby on the line again, calling on behalf of Ajax Financial Recovery Associates, whose officious written demands were spelled out in the letter he held in his hand while the goober from the self-same company spewed venom. In truth, the dunning notices were almost as bad as the daily calls and both were getting on his nerves—abusive tirades generated by clowns who weren’t qualified for real jobs. What kind of fool spent his days in a cubicle badgering gainfully employed citizens about debts that might or might not be owed? Most debt collectors were rude, obnoxious, devious, and unprincipled. He filtered their calls, deleting a message the minute the caller announced his purpose. If he was careless and picked up the line, allowing one of his creditors to get through, he’d blast him with a handheld siren that would render a fellow deaf for the better part of an hour. He made an exception for Barnaby, whose threats were more vicious and imaginative than most. As soon as he’d recorded another week’s worth of diatribes, he’d file a complaint with the FTC.
He tossed the Ajax letter into the trash along with the other overdue notices, a summons, two default judgments, and the threat of a lawsuit. The only envelope left contained a preapproved credit card offer, which made him laugh aloud. Those assholes never gave up. He adjusted his glasses, leaning close to the application as he took a few minutes to fill in the particulars. He used his own name with an X as his middle initial. The rest of the personal information—employment, bank accounts—he invented on the spot, wondering if the company would actually be foolish enough to issue him a card.
It didn’t bother him so much that he was broke. It was the unpleasantness he objected to, having to suffer the screaming and insults, being interrogated about his intentions, which forced him to make up excuses or, worse yet, tell outright lies. He didn’t enjoy the dishonesty, but what choice did he have? Business was slow and had been for the past year and a half. The rent on his small office was three months in arrears. He avoided the premises when possible because his landlady was likely to pop up without warning, angling for payment. She insisted on cash, refusing to accept Pete’s checks after the third one was returned for insufficient funds.
He glanced at his watch, startled to see the time had gotten away from him. It was 9:43. He had an appointment at 10:00, a job prospect that had come as a happy surprise. Fellow named Willard Bryce—young man by the sound of him, clearly unaccustomed to requiring the services of a private eye. During their phone conversation, Pete had pressed, trying to get a line on the problem, but the fellow was reluctant to specify. Pete was imagining a matrimonial issue, always depressing to contemplate.
He removed his sport coat from the rack, hung his scarf around his neck, locked the office door behind him, and went out to the car, brooding about his lot in life. In his heyday, he’d hated having to stoop to domestic cases, which were emotional and messy and seldom netted much in the way of returns. Confirm a woman’s intuition that her husband was cheating and suddenly she’d reverse herself, denying the truth even when the photographs were laid out in front of her. If Pete managed to convince her, she’d be too bitter or too upset to pay his fee. On the other hand, if he assured her of her hubby’s innocence, the wife would claim he hadn’t done his job. Why pay a PI who couldn’t come up with the goods? Why was that worth thirty bucks an hour, she’d ask, peevishly.
Working the husband’s side of the equation was no better. Pete would tease out the ex-wife’s property holdings, providing proof she’d bought a condominium in Hawaii while at the same time claiming her meager spousal support was inadequate to her needs. By the time a court date was set to review the facts, the husband would have piled up legal expenses so steep that he wouldn’t have the bucks to pay the PI who’d provided the ammunition.
He drove north on the 101, waving in response to the sour looks from passing drivers. His 1968 Ford Fairlane wouldn’t exceed fifty-five miles an hour. The muffler was noisy and the once fire-engine red paint had faded to a harsh flamingo pink. It was a sweet drive for a twenty-year-old vehicle with 278,000 miles on the odometer. On cold mornings, it took a fair amount of coaxing before the engine turned over, sending up dark puffs, like smoke signals, visible in his rearview mirror. He’d bought the car at what he could see now was the height of his career. It ate up gasoline at a rate of fifteen miles to the gallon, but it was otherwise low maintenance.
He didn’t want to dwell on the fact that the prospective client lived in Colgate, but it didn’t bode well. Colgate was a lackluster sprawl of tract homes, built on land that had once supported citrus and avocado orchards. Colgate residents were workaday folk—plumbers and electricians, auto mechanics, store clerks, and trash collectors—not poor by any stretch, but getting by on wages that barely kept up with inflation. Actually, they all made more than he did, but that was neither here nor there.
He’d been a damn fine detective once upon a time and he was still good at what he did. If he cut corners on occasion, he figured it was strictly his business. He’d learned early on that in his line of work, it didn’t pay to be too fastidious. As long as he delivered the goods, his clients looked the other way. Most made a point of not inquiring too closely about his methods. For years he’d sidestepped the Business and Professions Codes that governed the practices of private investigators. By his reckoning, he’d violated most of them anyway, so why get all prissy at this point? His clients didn’t seem to care what he did as long as nothing blew back on them. So far he hadn’t been
caught
, which was, after all, the point. As long as he wasn’t apprehended in the course of an illegal act, he wasn’t subject to censure. He was immune from threats of having his license yanked since he hadn’t operated with a valid PI license for some years. Those who hired him understood that whatever their needs, fees would be paid in cash before he embarked on a job and little would be committed to paper. A contract was sealed by gentlemen’s agreement, confirmed by a handshake, and accompanied by a nod and a wink.
Once in Colgate proper, he turned off the main street onto Cherry Lane, leaning forward to catch house numbers. The address he was searching for turned out to be a twelve-unit apartment complex, built during the fifties by the look of it, not shabby but with the glum air of postwar construction. He found a parking spot, locked the car, and walked back to the entrance. An iron gate opened into a spacious courtyard partly shaded by young trees. Now he pictured a schoolteacher or the general manager of a fast-food restaurant, though why either would be home at this hour was anybody’s guess. Maybe the problem was a business dispute or a slip-and-fall claim, something involving an insurance company, which would allow him to pump up his bill into the four-figure range. Pad his hours, pad expenses, exaggerate the difficulty of the job, and then string it out.
Apartment 4 was on the ground floor near the rear of the building. He rang the bell and then turned to do a quick survey of the premises. No kids’ toys in evidence and no swimming pool. In the central grassy area, a set of metal lawn chairs and a glider had been arranged in a conversational grouping that suggested an occasional gathering of the residents. These were probably the kind of folks who looked after one another. Always admirable, he thought. The shrubs needed pruning and the flower beds were riddled with weeds, but the basic landscaping design was good.
The door opened and when he turned to face his prospective client, he made quick work of covering his surprise. The fellow had had the crap knocked out of him at some point, though Pete guessed the injury wasn’t recent. Willard Bryce had propped himself upright using a pair of lightweight aluminum forearm crutches with rubber handgrips and vinyl-coated contoured arm cuffs. His left leg was intact, but the right was half gone, his pant leg empty from the knee down. There was also something about his pelvic area that suggested irreparably crushed bones. There were no visible scars in evidence, so there was no way to guess what had happened to him.
His red hair was clipped close to his skull and his light blue eyes seemed faded under pale ginger brows. His eyelids had a pinkish cast as though itchy from an allergy. His upper lip and chin were shaded with a two-day growth of facial hair. He was thin. His dress shirt was open at the collar, exposing a bony, hairless chest. He’d rolled his sleeves up above his elbows, and his pale arms were hairless as well.
The young man held out his right hand, saying, “I’m Willard Bryce, Mr. Wolinsky. I appreciate your coming out.”
“Happy to oblige,” Pete said. He shook Bryce’s hand, watching Bryce’s reaction to his own appearance, which usually netted him second looks. Pete was very tall and stooped, with disproportionately long arms, legs, fingers, and feet. He suffered a curvature of the spine and his breastbone dipped inward. He was extremely nearsighted and his mouth was crowded with a mess of teeth.
“Come in,” Willard Bryce said. He turned and crossed the living room on his crutches, moving with ease as he swung himself forward, leaving Pete to close the door behind him.
This was one of those apartments where the living room took a short left-hand turn into a dining L, which was separated from the open kitchen area by a pass-through. Two tall stools sat at the counter, providing an eating area. Living room furniture was the standard matching tweed sofa and armchair, plus a La-Z-Boy upholstered in dusty brown suede cloth. The seating was arranged around a coffee table with a television set on the opposite wall. The color scheme was beige on beige. The small dining table and four wooden chairs were relegated to the periphery to make room for a big drafting table, located by the window where the light was good. A corner desk held a computer with two floppy disk drives. The black-and-white monitor was turned on but presented no more than a blur from where he stood. Willard sank into the La-Z-Boy and placed his crutches to one side. On a table next to him, he had an oversize sketchbook and an assortment of drawing pencils.
Pete settled onto the couch. He unwound the scarf from his neck and held it loosely in his hands, leaning forward slightly with his elbows on his knees. Ruthie had knit him the scarf and he liked the feel because it reminded him of her. “Looks like you’ve suffered a world of hurt,” he said. “Mind if I ask what happened?”
He wouldn’t ordinarily have made mention of the young man’s condition, but he didn’t want to spend the entire meeting avoiding reference to something so obvious. Maybe this was a product-liability suit, in which case he could add an automatic five thousand dollars to his bill. He’d get paid whether the jury found for the plaintive or not. If the plaintive prevailed and was awarded punitive damages, it might net him a handsome bonus.
“Automobile accident when I was seventeen. Car went off the road and hit a tree. My best friend was driving and he died instantly.” No mention of rain-slick roads or high speeds or alcohol.
“One of those unfortunate twists of fate,” Pete suggested, hoping the comment didn’t sound too trite.
Willard said, “I know this sounds odd, but if it hadn’t been for the accident, I wouldn’t have felt so compelled to succeed.”
“Not odd at all. I noticed your drafting table. You’re an architect?”
Willard shook his head. “Graphic design and illustration with a specialty in comic art.”
Pete was at a loss. “You’re talking comic books?”
“Basically, though it’s a much broader field.”
“You’ll have to pardon my ignorance. I didn’t realize a fellow could make a living off comic books. You have formal training for a job like that?”
“Of course. I got my degree from the California College of the Arts in Oakland. I work freelance—currently with a couple of guys I went to school with. My buddy Jocko does the writing. I’m what they call a penciler. There are two other fellows who do the inking and the coloring.”
“I read a lot of comic books when I was a kid. Tales from the Crypt and the like.”
Willard smiled. “I know that one well. The company was originally Educational Comics. William Gaines inherited the business from his dad. In 1947, he and an editor named Al Feldstein came up with the concept, which was a smash success and generated hundreds of imitators. Weird Chills, Weird Thrillers, Web of Mystery. I have hundreds of those old classics.”
“Is that right? And now you’re writing them yourself.”
“As part of the team. I also do freelance editorial cartoons as well. I’m lucky circumstances allowed me to pursue my dream. My parents are still convinced I’ll starve.”
“Well, I admire your gumption. I’ll have to take a look at your work sometime,” he said, hoping the fellow wouldn’t jump right up and fetch his portfolio.
“I think of this as my bread-and-butter money until I can launch the project closest to my heart.”
“And what would that be?”
“A graphic novel. Are you familiar with the form?”
“I’m not, but I’d imagine it’s much like it sounds. Comic book starring a superhero of some type?”