Undercurrent

By Bill Pronzini

Newlywed Judith Paige hires anonymous to determine if her husband is having an affair. anonymous follows Walter Paige to a inn room in Cypress Bay, the place Paige is murdered. anonymous needs to figured out who murdered Paige, and investigates. As he investigates, the record of suspects grows.

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I regarded away whereas she made out the money. during the window i may see the emerging spans of the Bay Bridge within the distance. someplace in the market, at the bay itself, a ship's whistle sounded. i presumed: Freighter going out, all the way down to Panama, probably, or off to the a long way East. God, how great it needs to be available in the market at the sea! Wind and spray washing over you, washing you fresh. you cannot get fresh within the urban; there is an excessive amount of dust, tangible and intangible, literal and figurative . . . She positioned the fee on my blotter, and that i obtained it into the guts drawer with no taking a look at it. Then I stood up and he or she stood up, and there has been not anything for both folks to assert within the method of parting. I went along with her to the door, and held it for her, and she or he gave me her shy, wistful little smile and went out hugging the suede jacket tightly round her, as though she have been very chilly. while she was once long past, I closed the door and went again to my table and opened the guts drawer and checked out her money mendacity inside of. Twenty-five cash increase. Seventy-five overall, plus costs, if the task lasted simply the only day. Seventy-five dollars to turn into part of the non-public lifestyles and personal feelings of a pleasant younger woman. How does it make you're feeling, man? Like a gigolo, possibly? Like a goddamned heel? I closed the drawer back and bought my hat and my light-weight overcoat from the place of work alcove and locked the door at the back of me and went out into the light. It appeared faintly grey one way or the other, even if the sky was once cloudless, and there has been no heat in it. The younger women of their spring models jogged my memory of Judith Paige, and there has been no heat in that both. I left my flat in Pacific Heights at seven-fifteen the next morning, and drove out to the deal with Judith Paige had given me—on Sussex road, in Glen Park. It was once a kind of borderline neighborhoods that by no means appear to be capable of make up their minds which option to move. The streets ran in twisting confusion—climbing sharply, losing sharply, dead-ending with out caution at all—and on each one of them you observed particularly great, if previous, middle-class houses, and tacky unpainted tenements, and new low-rent house constructions, and outdated low-rent duplexes. The company district, off Monterey street, was once produced from grim-visaged outlets and constructions that gave you the ordinary feeling of getting regressed thirty or 40 years into the dim, melancholy previous. The Paige’s lived in a single of the condo dwellings on higher Sussex—a two-story, four-unit factor with an ocher-colored plaster facade and tiny balconies railed in black iron. in the street in entrance, parked dealing with downhill, was once a dark-blue Cutlass with the license quantity TTD-679. I drove as much as the head of Sussex, circled in somebody’s driveway, and got here all the way down to park at the top fringe of a convex hook on the street, sixty yards or so above the Cutlass. i'll see the doorway to the house development from there to boot. My watch stated that it was once seven-fifty. I acquired my cigarettes out and checked out them and positioned them away back. My chest felt tight and scorching, and that i had coughed up a wad of gray-flecked phlegm over my breakfast espresso.

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