Shackles (21 page)

Susan Belford showed up for work at five minutes to ten the next morning. I had been waiting since nine, when Richards and Kirk opened for business, and I was fidgety and trying hard to conceal my irritation when she walked in.

Today I wore a hound’s-tooth sports jacket, the loose-fitting kind with deep pockets so I could carry the .22 without any telltale bulges, and a white shirt and a pair of gray slacks—items I had bought the night before at a cut-rate clothing store in this same shopping center. One reason was that the too-tight clothing I’d taken from the Carder A-frame was beginning to both chafe and smell after three days of constant wear; the other reason was that if I was going to convince the uncooperative Ms. Belford to answer another question, I would need to look as well as act like a reputable private investigator. I had thought so last night, anyway. One look at her, and I knew that neither I nor anyone else would ever have to dress up on her account.

La Belford was a frumpy blond in her late forties, sloppily outfitted in a baggy gray skirt and a white sweater with little spots and streaks of cigarette ash on the front of it. She had mannerisms that were as twitchy as her voice, and such a preoccupied air that she almost ran into me before she realized I had moved into the path she was taking from the front entrance. And in almost running into me, she also came within an inch of setting fire to my new sports jacket with the lighted cigarette she was brandishing in one hand.

She was not glad to see me. She scowled when I identified myself, and made a violent waving gesture with the cigarette that sent particles of ash flying. “You again,” she said. “Why do you persist in … what is it you want
now
?”

“Five minutes of your time, that’s all.”

“I answered all your questions yesterday—”

“Not quite. There’s one other I should have asked.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’m a busy woman, I don’t have time for this sort of thing …”

“One question, Ms. Belford. Please, it may be important.”

“Important, it’s always important. Well? What is it, then?”

“Did the man who rented Mr. Lanier’s cabin supply any personal references?”

“The man who … you mean Lawrence Jacobs?”

“Yes, ma’am. Lawrence Jacobs?”

“Don’t call me ma’am,” she said. “I hate that … ma’am is short for madam, don’t you know that? Do I look like a madam?”

She did, as a matter of fact. But I said, “No, of course you don’t. My apologies. Now about Lawrence Jacobs—”

“Yes, yes, we usually ask for … I’m sure he must have given at least one personal reference. Yes, I
know
he did, I saw it in the file yesterday.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d let me have the person’s name and address.”

She thought that over for maybe ten seconds, sighed, and then made one of her fluttery gestures and turned on her heel and stalked off across the room. I took that for an affirmative and trailed after her, dodging smoke and more ash from her cigarette. She plunked herself down behind a cluttered desk, aimed the remains of the cancer stick at a cut-glass ashtray; it caught the edge and showered sparks, a couple of which fell on a loose pile of papers. She didn’t seem to notice, so I reached over and smudged out the sparks before they started a fire. She didn’t notice that either; she was already turning toward a metal file cabinet to one side. But in the process she whacked her elbow into an onyx pen set and knocked the whole thing off onto the floor.
That
she noticed, along with everybody else in the office. She muttered something under her breath, and without any hesitation or pretense at decorum she slid off the chair onto her hands and knees, crawled under the desk with her skirt riding up on plump thighs to retrieve one of the pens, gathered up the rest of the set, hauled her pudgy body back into the chair, and threw the pens and base unit onto the desktop without looking at me or any of her co-workers. Then she swiveled around as if nothing had happened, fumbled open one of the file drawers, and began rummaging inside.

If I had a place to sell or rent, I thought, Susan Belford would be the last person I’d let handle the deal. It was even money she would either wreck or set fire to one out of every ten houses she entered.

It didn’t take her long to find the proper file. She even managed to get it out of the drawer and back onto her desk without doing any more damage. I watched her riffle through the papers inside, jerk one out with an unintentional flourish, and peer at it myopically for a few seconds before she said, “Here it is. Mmm, yes, now I remember … yes.”

She didn’t seem inclined to continue on her own initiative, so I made a throat-clearing noise to prod her.

“… Elmer Rix. Odd name, isn’t it?”

And just as meaningless as the others. “How do you spell the surname?”

“R-i-x.”

“What address?”

“The Catchall Shop, Yuba City.”

“No street or number?”

“No.”

“Telephone number?”

“Just a … yes, here it is.”

She read it off to me and I repeated it twice to memorize it. Then I asked, “Do you know the relationship between Lawrence Jacobs and this Elmer Rix?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Did you call Elmer Rix to check the reference?”

“Well, of course.” La Belford knocked over her purse reaching inside it for another cigarette; several items besides a pack of Salems fell out—comb, brush, compact, a Heath bar—but she left them scattered where they lay.

“Do you have any idea what the Catchall Shop is?”

She had fished a cigarette out of the pack and was bringing it to her mouth—but backward, so that it was the tobacco end she put between her lips. I thought she was going to light the filter, but she realized the mistake in time and reversed the thing. The flame on her lighter was turned up too high: She almost singed her bangs firing up the weed.

“Ms. Belford.”

“What?”

“I asked if you have any idea what the Catchall Shop is.”

“None whatsoever.” She scowled and blew smoke in my face—obliviously, not intentionally. I batted it away with my hand. “One question, you said … a dozen is more like it. Now really, if you don’t … I have
work
to do.”

“So do I,” I said, and got up on my feet.

She made a dismissive gesture with the cigarette. And smacked the burning end against her desk lamp and sent another fallout of sparks to the litter of papers strewn over the surface. One of the sparks started to smolder; she didn’t notice because she had swiveled her chair around to replace the file folder in the cabinet. This time I didn’t bother to smother the sparks. I went away from her instead. There was a thumping sound behind me as I crossed the office, but I did not turn around to see what it was. I didn’t want to know.

It takes all kinds, sure. But some kinds are harder to take than others.

I hadn’t been to Yuba City in twenty years. As with Vacaville, there was little reason to go there unless you had friends or relatives or business in the area. It is forty miles or so north of Sacramento, across the Feather River from Marysville, and to get to it you take arrow-straight Highway 99 through a dozen miles of rice fields—a crop that isn’t usually associated with California agriculture but that grows well in that part of the state—and then either a continuation of 99 or the quicker Highway 70 through Marysville. The countryside around Yuba City nurtures crops of a different kind: peaches, nectarines, apricots, walnuts. Mile after mile of orchards extend away to the south, west, and north.

Yuba City has two other claims to fame. One is provocative: In a couple of quality-of-life polls to determine the most desirable place in California to live, it had come in dead last. The other is notorious: In the early seventies it had been the scene of one of the more shocking mass-murder cases—the one in which Juan Corona was convicted of cold-bloodedly slaughtering twenty-five migrant workers after having had homosexual relations with them.

Visually, Marysville is a Cinderella compared to its stepsister across the river. Its downtown is filled with attractive old buildings and it sports a huge shady part with a lake in the middle. Yuba City, on the other hand, has an unaesthetic downtown area sans park and lake, plus a couple of miles of southern California-style shopping centers and fast-food joints. But looks can be deceiving where cities are concerned, too. Marysville also harbors a well-populated skid row and has larger crime and substance-abuse problems than its neighbor. Despite Yuba’s tarnished image, if you had to live in one town or the other, and you weighed the pros and cons carefully, Yuba City would be the one to pick.

The Toyota’s buy-gas light was on when I drove into Marysville a little past noon. I took the bridge across into Yuba City and stopped at an Exxon station off Bridge Street to fill the tank and to look up Elmer Rix and the Catchall Shop in the local directory. No entry for Rix; but the Catchall Shop was listed at 2610 Percy Avenue. According to the kid working the pumps, that address was less than a mile from here, out past the nearby Del Monte packing plant. “You’ll find it real easy,” he said. And for once, somebody who told me that was right.

The building at 2610 Percy Avenue was big, sprawling, and on the brink of condemnation as a fire hazard. A cyclone-fenced yard to one side was full of things like claw-foot bathtubs, random lengths of pipe, car parts, pottery urns and ceramic garden statues, rusty stoves, a twenty-foot-high carved oak likeness of a snarling grizzly bear. On the warped wood front of the building were several signs, some large and some small, some metal and some wood, all hand-painted by somebody with not much of an artistic eye.
THE
CATCHALL
SHOP
, over the double-doored entrance.
SECONDHAND
ITEMS OF ALL
KINDS
.
BURIED
TREASURES. TOOLS
OUR
SPECIALTY. PAPERBACK
BOOKS
, 25¢.
IF
WE
DON
’
T HAVE IT, YOU WON
’
T
FIND
IT ANYWHERE ELSE. BROWSERS WELCOME. CASH ACCEPTED FROM ANYONE
.

But the most interesting thing about the place, at least externally, was the car parked inside the yard gates—a cream-colored Cadillac Seville, no more than a few years old and probably a 1985 model.

I made a U-turn and parked in front of the building. Walking inside was like entering an incredibly cluttered hermit’s cave: gloomy, dank-smelling, jammed to the exposed rafters with shelves and piles and tiers of every imaginable kind of junk. There was nobody moving around in there; but through an open side door I could see someone maneuvering an ancient forklift in the adjacent yard. I could also see what happened to be a dimly lighted office over that way.

There were no aisles as such; I had to blaze a roundabout path to the office. Along the way I saw the remains of an ancient buckboard, a beat-up Chinese gong with a faded dragon painted on it, at least a thousand dust-laden and mildewed paperbacks on bowed shelves, a wine cask that somebody had made into a child’s playhouse, bins overflowing with age-crusted hand tools, a Rube Goldberg machine with arms and legs and wires and a use I couldn’t even begin to guess at, horse collars and pickle crocks and rows of cobwebbed mason jars and radios with broken cases and a Stop sign that had been used for target practice and a mannikin with a crumbling maroon velvet dress draped over it. The whole place had the look of a madman’s museum filled with exhibits that made no sense and that had lain unattended and unviewed for decades. There ought to have been another sign on the front of the building:
WE HAVE IT, BUT NOBODY IN HIS RIGHT MIND WOULD WANT IT.

The office was a wallboard and glass affair, small and as cluttered as the rest of the place, the glass so fly-specked and grime-streaked that it was mostly opaque. One of the jumble of objects inside was a desk; another was a man in the chair behind it. “Fatter than me and that’s
fat,
” Mrs. Ruiz had said of Frank Tucker’s last visitor in Vacaville. Her description and the Cadillac Seville outside made that man and this one the same. He must have weighed close to 350 pounds, and in the weak light from a gooseneck lamp he looked like nothing so much as a huge toad sitting on a stump. Bald brown head, rutted and warty brown face, little half-lidded eyes that looked sleepy but would miss little or nothing of what they surveyed. When he opened his mouth I would not have been surprised to see a long, thin tongue flick out and snag one of the flies that moved sluggishly through the air around him.

The only part of him that moved when I walked in was his mouth: It curved upward at the corners in a professional smile—a moneylender’s smile. He said in a deep, throaty toad’s voice, “Howdy, friend. Thanks for stopping in. Tell you right off you picked a good day. Bargain specials galore, no reasonable offer refused. What-all you interested in?”