Bindlestiff (The Nameless Detective) Read online

  “He got my license back, didn’t he?”

  “He also got you shot.”

  I sighed. “Let’s not talk about that. I’ve been doing enough brooding about the past as it is.”

  “Okay. But things are finally turning around for you. Try to enjoy it, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Will do.”

  “Why don’t you meet me after work? We’ll go out and celebrate—have dinner, maybe see a show or something. All right?”

  I didn’t feel much like celebrating, but I did feel like seeing her. “All right.”

  “Good.” She paused. “Hey, you’ll be a working detective again next week. That’s what counts, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what counts,” I said. And it was.

  So I went down to the Hall of Justice two days later and talked to the Chief of Police, at his summons, and got things more or less patched up there. Two days after that, I drove up to Sacramento and had my interview with the State Board of Licenses. They seemed satisfied that I’d “learned my lesson,” as one of the Board members put it, and the vote to reinstate was unanimous; the Chief must have written them some strong letter at Eberhardt’s behest. They did not even place any restrictions on me, other than to stress that I cooperate fully with all public law enforcement agencies in the future.

  And on Wednesday, the first of October, I was back in business.

  Hunting the hobo, for starters.

  Chapter 2

  The fact that I landed a client that same day was not much of a surprise, really, considering there had been a fair amount of publicity attached to the reinstatement of my license. Not that I minded the publicity in this case; it was just what I needed, and I had spoken freely to the half-dozen media people who’d contacted me. Some of the news stories were good-natured and the rest were straight reportage; nobody seemed to think a menace to society or to the city’s finest was being turned loose again. The consensus appeared to be, at least by implication, that an injustice had been righted and it was okay for me to be back in the detective game.

  A gratifying number of people I knew, and a couple I didn’t know, agreed with that. After the news stories appeared, I received maybe two dozen calls over a three-day span—six from friendly cops who hadn’t agreed with the Chief’s original stance; one from another private investigator, a lady named Sharon McCone whom I’d met once and who was a friend of Eberhardt’s police crony, Greg Marcus; one from a claims adjustor at an insurance company and three from attorneys, all of whom I’d worked for in the past; one from a Chinese photojournalist, Jeanne Emerson, who wanted to do a feature article on my trials and tribulations; and the rest from a variety of acquaintances.

  The call I’d most been waiting for, that first new client, came at a little past two o‘clock. It was from a woman who identified herself as Miss Arleen Bradford. She said she’d read about me in the papers, and could I come down to her office at Denim, Inc. right away to discuss a job she wanted done. It had to do with locating a missing relative, she said. She also said she had a meeting at four o’clock, so I would need to get there by three-fifteen. I told her I would be in her office by three-ten at the latest. And I caught myself grinning a little on my way out the door.

  Denim, Inc. was a clothing manufacturer—jeans and denim jackets, for the most part. Their main offices were located in an old brick building on Mission Street, on the fringe of the Hispanic district. It was just three when I parked in the front lot, five past when I got up to the fourth floor, and not quite ten past when one of a battery of secretaries ushered me through a door that bore the lettering: A. BRADFORD, PRODUCT MANAGER.

  Arleen Bradford turned out to be a thin, wiry, prim-looking type in her mid-thirties. She might have been attractive if she’d put on about fifteen pounds, done something to her dark brown hair other than have it cut with a bowl and a pair of hedge clippers, and worn something besides a mannish gray suit and a blouse with so many frills and ruffles on the front that you couldn’t tell whether or not she had breasts. As it was, she looked like an uneasy combination of successful modern businesswoman and budding old maid. She sounded and acted that way, too. On the phone she had been crisp and businesslike, but she had also made a point of referring to herself as Miss Arleen Bradford, not Ms.

  She gave me a brief appraising look, and her eyes said I was about what she’d expected a detective to be: one of those big, hairy brutes with dubious ethics and not many morals. She let me have her hand for about half a second and then took it away again as if she were afraid I might do something unnatural with it. She didn’t have a smile for me, and I didn’t have one for her, either.

  “Thank you for being so prompt,” she said. “I have a meeting at four, as I told you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please sit down.”

  I sat in a plain chair with gray-frieze cushions. Judging from the surroundings, “product manager” was a title that carried relatively little weight in the company. The office wasn’t much, just a twelve-by-twelve cubicle containing her desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet, and a window that looked out over Mission Street.

  From one corner of the desk she picked up a newspaper folded into thirds and handed it to me without speaking. Then she went around and sat down. I looked at the paper. It was a copy of the Examiner, the afternoon tabloid, and it was folded open to a story on page three that was headlined: THE NEW GENERATION OF HOBOES. There was also a photograph of four men gathered around an open fire in a field; in the background, you could see railroad tracks and what appeared to be a freight yard.

  I started to skim the story. It was one of those human interest features you see more and more of these days, about people who have fallen on economic hard times. Specifically, in this case, about out-of-work men who ride the rails from one place to another looking for menial jobs— men otherwise known as hoboes, tramps, vagabonds, bindlestiffs, knights of the open road. That sort of individual was supposed to be an anachronism, the story said, that had pretty much disappeared with the end of the Great Depression. But with unemployment at its highest rate since the thirties, and government cutbacks in a variety of job programs, there was a whole new generation of bindlestiffs out there riding the rods, sleeping in boxcars or in hobo jungles, eating mulligan stew and canned pork and beans, drinking cheap wine to chase away the cold and, sometimes, to keep their sad and painful memories at bay. The bunch of hoboes pictured were stopovers in Oroville, up in Butte County, one hundred and fifty miles northeast of San Francisco, where the Western Pacific Railroad had a switching station and freight yards. They had come off a cannonball freight from Los Angeles and were waiting to board another freight bound for Pasco, Washington, where they would pick fruit—

  “The man on the far left is my father,” Arleen Bradford said.

  I glanced up. “Pardon?”

  “In the photograph,” she said in a flat voice, as if she were confessing some sort of unpleasant family secret. “My father, Charles Bradford.”

  I studied the photo. The quality of reproduction was pretty good; you could see the faces of the four men clearly. The one on the far left was around my age, early to mid-fifties, with a gaunt, beard-stubbled face bisected by a thin blade of a nose. He wore a perforated summer cap with a wide visor, and an old work shirt open down the front. Around his neck was something that looked like a pendant, elliptical in shape and hanging from a thin chain.

  “Are you sure it’s your father?” I asked her.

  “Of course I’m sure. I haven’t seen him in three years, and he’s changed quite a lot, but there’s no mistake. Besides, he’s wearing the pendant I made for him when I was in high school.” Her mouth quirked bitterly. “Daddy never cared much for me, but he was always fond of that silly pendant. I can’t imagine why.”

  I didn’t want to get into that sort of thing with her, unless it was relevant to the job she was hiring me to do. “You want me to find your father, is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  �
�Why? If it’s to convince him to give up the hobo life, I’m afraid that’s not in my—”

  “What he does with his life is his own business,” she said. Her voice was full of cold disapproval, like a spinster schoolteacher discussing a wayward child. “I want you to find him and deliver a message, that’s all.”

  “What sort of message?”

  “That he contact me immediately, regarding his Uncle Kenneth’s estate.”

  “I don’t understand, Miss Bradford.”

  “His uncle died ten months ago,” she said. “No one in the family thought Uncle Kenneth had any money, but it turned out that he did—all in stocks and bonds. Hardly a fortune, but enough to make several bequests. One to me, one to my sister Hannah, and one to my father, among others: twenty thousand dollars to each of us. The attorneys handling the estate made every effort to locate Daddy at the time the will was probated, but they were unsuccessful.”

  “When was it that he dropped out of sight?”

  “A year and a half ago, not long after he lost his job with the Office of Minority Business Enterprise.”

  “That’s a Federal agency, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And a productive one before that idiot in Washington started his massive cutbacks. My father had been with the Los Angeles branch of OMBE for eighteen years—he worked in Procurement, obtaining construction contracts for minority firms—but this administration has no respect for minorities or for individuals. He was given a month’s notice and thrown out on the street.”

  “Did he try to find another job?”

  “Of course. The last time I spoke with him on the telephone, just before he . . . went away, he said he’d been jobhunting almost daily. But he wasn’t qualified for anything except bureaucratic work, and he has no particular skills. No one would hire him.”

  I knew all about that. And all about the state of the economy and the high rate of unemployment. Nobody had been willing to hire me during the past two and a half months either. But I said, “Why would he have decided to become a hobo? I mean, he could have taken on menial jobs without traveling around in boxcars. Riding the rails isn’t the kind of thing you expect of an ex-government bureaucrat.”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s degrading and disgusting, and I think he’s a fool.” She sounded a little angry now, as if she’d taken the fact that he was hoboing as a personal insult. “But that’s neither here nor there. I suppose he did it because he considers the life of a tramp adventurous.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He has always been fascinated by trains,” she said. “And by hoboes, God knows why. His favorite book was that dreadful thing of Jack London’s, The Road. He collected books on trains, and he belonged to a model railroad club in Los Angeles. Our flat was always full of tracks and miniature cars and grown men wearing engineer’s caps. Pure nonsense.”

  “Mmm.”

  “He’s a fool,” she said.

  Maybe he is, I thought, but you’re a pip yourself, lady. I said, “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you going through the expense of locating him?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You don’t seem to like your father very much, and you consider him a fool. Why pay a detective to hunt for him so he can claim his inheritance?”

  “He is entitled to the money,” she said stiffly. “My sister may not care if he gets it, but I do; I know my duty.”

  “Why doesn’t your sister care?”

  “Because she doesn’t care about anyone except herself. She never has. Besides, she’s greedy.”

  “Greedy?”

  “There is a stipulation in Uncle Kenneth’s will that if any of us were to die before the estate cleared probate, or if any of us fails to claim his bequest within two years, that person’s share is to be divided among the remaining two. Hannah would like nothing better than to get her hands on another ten thousand dollars.”

  “She’s not very well off, is that it?”

  Miss Bradford’s mouth turned bitter again. “No, that’s not it,” she said. “Hannah doesn’t have to worry about money. Her late husband left her a house in Sonoma—her third husband, and she’s only thirty-three. She ran off to Nebraska with some man when she was eighteen, left him and married a rock musician, and then left him and married Joe Peterson, a man older than Daddy. And now she’s engaged to be married again, to a well-to-do businessman. Thrills and money, those are the only things she’s ever been interested in.”

  “I see,” I said. And I did see; Arleen Bradford disliked her sister a hell of a lot more than she disliked her father. Sibling rivalry, maybe. Or maybe she just didn’t like anybody very much.

  “That twenty thousand dollars belongs to my father,” she said. “I intend to see that he gets it.”

  “It might get expensive, you know,” I said, “my tracking him down. That photo was taken sometime yesterday, and the article says he was on his way to Washington to pick fruit; he’ll probably be long gone by the time I can get to Oroville. If that’s the case, I’d have to go on up to Washington myself . . .”

  “Do whatever is necessary to find him,” she said. “Within reason, naturally. I’ll expect regular telephone reports and an itemized list of your expenses.”

  Uh-huh, I thought. I decided not to do any more pursuing of her motives. Whatever kind of screwy love-hate feelings she had toward her old man, and however she felt about her sister, it was really none of my business. She wanted a job done, and I was back in the profession; that was the bottom line. The fact that I didn’t like her worth a damn had nothing to do with it either.

  I said, “All right, Miss Bradford. It’s a little late for me to accomplish much today; I’ll leave for Oroville first thing in the morning. And I’ll call you as soon as I have anything to report.”

  She nodded. And then got out her checkbook, without my having to ask for a retainer, and wrote out a check for a hundred dollars. I took it in exchange for her signature on one of my standard contract forms. She read the contract twice before she signed it; I would have been surprised if she hadn’t.

  Then she said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s almost time for my appointment. I’ll expect a call from you or my father sometime tomorrow. If it’s after business hours, I’m sure I’ll be home; my home number is on the check.” And that was all: I was dismissed. She didn’t get up, she didn’t offer me her hand again, she didn’t even look at me as I stood and went over to the door and let myself out.

  Some daughter, I thought on my way to the elevator. Fifteen minutes with Arleen Bradford made me feel relieved that I had never married and had kids of my own.

  But I was still in pretty good spirits. Even the likes of Miss A. Bradford hadn’t been able to put a damper on them.

  God, it was good to be working again!

  Chapter 3

  It was four-thirty when I got back to my flat. I had taken the telephone answering machine out of the box of stuff I’d brought home when I gave up my office, and hooked it up here, and I checked that first thing. There was one message, another call from Jeanne Emerson. Would I ring her back as soon as it was convenient?

  I frowned a little, thinking about her. This was the fourth or fifth time she’d called over the past six weeks—a persistent young lady. An attractive young lady, too; I remembered the long, glossy black hair that hung like a curtain down the small of her back, the perfect oval of her face, the olive-black eyes that slanted only a little. One of the most attractive Oriental women I had ever seen, in fact. I might have been interested in her if it hadn’t been for Kerry—not that she would have been interested in me that way. As it was, Kerry would have been upset if she’d known the sort of male fantasy I was indulging in just then.

  I got a beer out of the refrigerator, took it back into the bedroom, and dialed Jeanne Emerson’s number. She answered right away. After I told her who was calling I said, “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “No,” she said, “I don’t. I intend to keep pestering you until you
agree to let me do that feature.”

  “I’m not that interesting a subject, believe me.”

  “I think you are. You represent the common man’s struggle to maintain his ideals while working within a restrictive system.”

  “Hah,” I said.

  “No, I mean it. You’ve overcome terrific odds; you’re still in there fighting. You’re a throwback to a different era, when people cared about others and heroes were important. That’s what you are—a full-fledged hero.”

  She was making me feel self-conscious. I was no hero; I screwed up too much and had too many problems to be one. And I was no selfless saint either. Those were lofty standards I could never live up to.

  I said, “If that’s the sort of article you want to do, I guess you’d better find somebody else. I’m just not your man.”

  “But you are. You’re exactly the man I want.” There was something in her voice, a faint inflection, that hinted at more than an impersonal, professional meaning to that. Or was I just imagining it? “Besides, it would be good publicity for you.”

  “Well ... how would you do the article?”

  “As an intimate personal portrait; the fact that you’re a detective would almost be secondary. Emphasis on your pulp collection and how it relates to your way of life. It really could be good, you know.”

  I had seen some of her photographic work; it probably would be very good. “Where would you publish it?”

  “That depends. I have an editor friend who works for California magazine; he might be interested. That would give you a lot more exposure than if it’s published locally.”

  “Uh-huh. When would you want to start?”

  “Right away. Whenever you’re free.”

  “I’ve got to go out of town tomorrow,” I said; “I picked up my first new client this afternoon. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”