Crazybone by Bill Pronzini Read Free Book Online Page B

seen any. You’ll have to ask my aunt.”
    “I’ll do that,” I said. “When will she be back?”
    “On Sunday.” Ms. Kiley’s sunny smile reappeared. “Is there anything I can show you before you leave? We have some really nice pieces of Mrs. Hunter’s if you’re into pottery.”
    “No, thanks. I couldn’t afford it.”
    “Well,” she said, “do you want me to tell Aunt Anita you stopped by?”
    “Not necessary. I’ll surprise her.”
    Ms. Kiley nodded, smiling. She was still standing there, still smiling, when I went out.
     
    The Emerald Hills Country Club was just what you’d expect to find in an affluent enclave like Greenwood. Walled, pillared, gated, manicured, tree-shaded, and overlain with a mossy patina of rustic charm, snooty exclusivity, and very old money. A long drive flanked by poplars led in from a road that ran along the base of the hills. None of the cars in the two-tiered parking area where the drive ended was older than five years or cost much less than I made in a year. Mercedes and BMWs predominated; I spotted a Ferrari, an Aston-Martin, even a Rolls. The scattering of Detroit products seemed almost out of place. Nobody around here paid much attention to the Buy American slogans, it seemed.
    The main building was of native stone; I judged its age to be close to the century mark. It had an English manor house look, though some turrets and ramparts and maybe a tower or two were all it would’ve needed for a castle effect. Behind it to the right I could see outbuildings and some of the greens and fairways, ponds and sandtraps, of the golf course. The grass out there was of such a dazzlingly bright and healthy hue, the grounds keepers might have been giving it daily injections of chlorophyll.
    I found a place to park in the designated visitors area on the lower tier. From force of habit I locked the car when I got out, and then smiled wryly to myself when I realized it. Nobody here was going to steal anything out of an old bolt-bucket like mine. If any of the staff or patrons even looked at it twice, it would be to wonder what Emerald Hills was coming to, letting such shoddy merchandise clutter up the grounds.
    Well-worn stone steps led up to a wraparound veranda and a double-door entrance. Inside was a security desk with a discreet placard on it requesting that all members and visitors sign in. A beefy guy in a white polo shirt with Emerald Hills stitched over the pocket looked me over and asked with perfect grammar and diction whom I was there to see. He knew I wasn’t a member and didn’t belong in such a rarified atmosphere, and it showed in his face; employees in places like this can be even bigger elitists than the patrons. Snobs by association. But I was respectable enough in my suit and tie not to be either an anarchist or a tree-hugging rabble-rouser, so when I gave him Trevor Smith’s name he nodded and said, “Would you please sign the visitor’s book, sir,” with the faintest emphasis on the last word. I was tempted to put down somebody else’s name — Harry Bridges, for instance, a true rabble-rouser in his day — but I resisted the impulse. It would’ve been a feeble and petty joke, and he wouldn’t have gotten it anyway. Bridges was long dead and so were his longshoremen who’d taken part in the Bloody Thursday labor-management riots in ’34, and people nowadays have no sense of history. Except for musty relics like me a stone’s throw from being history ourselves.
    I walked through the lobby, past entrances to bar and restaurant, a sign that said Ballroom, people in golf outfits and expensive casual wear, older couples in dresses and suits. All the faces were WASP; the only ethnics you were likely to find at Emerald Hills were behind-the-scenes staff members. It was like walking through a small, fancy resort hotel fifty years ago. And I felt as out of place there as a puckered old hound in a kennel full of groomed and pampered show dogs.
    Another arrow sign