Fadeout: A Dave Brandstetter Mystery

5

Phil Mundy looked at Dave through a bright aluminum screen door that was the only new thing about the shack. Shack was the word. Part bat and board, part tar paper and chicken wire, it squatted in the middle of five weedy acres of dying fruit trees and abandoned chicken coops on the outskirts of Pima. Near the tracks. Waiting, muddy-footed, on the sagging wooden stoop, with the night rain leaking cold down the back of his neck, Dave realized that Mundy looked like Fox Olson, the photo in Medallion's files, the photo distributed now to police departments across the country. Even to the thinning blond hair. Except that Olson had a good mouth. Mundy's there was something wrong with. A little too small, a little too tight. "Who is it, Phil?" A woman's voice, raucous, the speech slurred. She stood back inside the room, squinting. Not old. Not more than fortyfive . But badly worn. Uncombed dyed blond 33 hair. Soiled flower-print kimono. In her puffy hand a glass of oily-lookingyellow liquid. "It's the man from the insurance company," Phil said without turning. He worked the latch, pushed the screen. "Come in, Mr. Brandstetter. Gretchen will be right back." Dave stepped inside. "I'm running out of vino," the woman giggled at him. Bad teeth. She was trying to flirt. Not trying. It was a reflex. "Gretchen's gone to get me 'nother fifth." Her mouth was poorly painted. She twisted it into a smile that lied. "She alwaysgets me anything I want." "This is my mother," Mundy said. He shut the front door. It was swollen with damp. He had to shoulder it. "Mom, why don't you go see if Buddy needs anything?" "He's all right," she said. "I just gave him his bath. He's watching the TV." "Well, why don't you go watch it with him?" Mundy had a gentle, patient voice. He was very young but he acted as if he'd managed her forever. Her eyes were big, heavy-lidded, slightly protuberant. They rolled at him sullenly. "Pushed around in my own house," she grumbled. But she left, remembering to sway her hips even though it made her stagger. "Let me take your coat," Mundy said. "I'm sorry Mom's like this tonight." His smile was feeble. "She's not always. We try to keep her from getting it, but-" "Don't apologize for her," Dave said. Phil winced and his voice went adolescent. "I'm not. I wouldn't do that. I just want you to understand. " "I understand." Dave made his voice kind. 34 "Thanks ... Well, look, why don't you sit down?" Mundy took the coat away. Dave sat. Somebody had worked hard to make the room cheerful. New cottagey wallpaper. Creamy new paint on the woodwork. Chintz curtains to match the new slipcovers on the lumpy old furniture. The warped floorboards painted and waxed. Throw rugs braided out of bright rags. Fox Olson still lifes on the walls-golden squashes, green peppers , tomatoes. Somebody had worked hard, but too much hopelessness and defeat had shaped the room. It wouldn't smile. Phil came back and stood with his hands in his pockets. "Gretchen didn't go after wine," he said. "She wanted to offer you a drink. We'd like one ourselves. But we can't keep it around." "I understand," Dave said. "It's awkward, but the only time to buy it is just before the guest arrives." "It's very kind," Dave said. There was a splash of tires in the muddy yard, steps on the porch, the shudder of the wet front door. Gretchen came in, untying a transparent rain cape, giving it a noisy shake. She slid the bottle out of its damp brown paper sack and set it on the telephone stand. "Hello!" She smiled, crumpling the sack. "I'll be back in a minim. I hope you like rye." "Fine." She was damn cheerful for a new orphan. She came back with glasses, ice in a bowl, a pitcher of water. She was small like her mother, and had her mother's brown hair and eyes. She even wore brown like her mother, brown 35 turtleneck sweater, cable-knit, bulky on her slightness, brown tweed miniskirt, brown tights. But the personality wasn't Thorne's any more than were the' bright orange...