Jackpot (Nameless Dectective) by Bill Pronzini Read Free Book Online Page B

an office at the far end. Cadillac—dark gray and shiny new, with nobody inside. I went on down to the office. One door, with a sign on it similar to the one on the gate; one long window with venetian blinds pulled down on the inside. I tried the door. Locked. I leaned over to see if I could get a squint past the blinds, but they were drawn tight.
    I was thinking about knocking on the door when a voice behind me said, “Looking for something, soldier?”
    It startled me, brought me half around in a crouch. Since Deer Run, I have been overly sensitive to sudden noises, unexpected movements. The man standing ten feet away on the dock walked soft for a big guy; he hadn’t made a sound coming along. He was a couple of inches over six feet, wide at the shoulders and hips, with brown hair cut long and in puffy wings so that he seemed not to have any ears. Wearing a chocolate-brown business suit and a plaid shirt open at the throat.
    He stood still, hands down at his sides, watching me out of eyes that did not blink. Pale eyes, without expression. His whole face was expressionless, almost a blank, like one of the half-formed pod creatures in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. One good look at him was enough to make me edgy again, to put a coldness on the back of my neck. Hardcase. Not one of the swaggering macho types that frequent bars on the weekends, looking for ways to prove their manhood. The genuine article.
    “Man asked you a question, soldier.”
    Another voice, behind me again. This time I was not startled. I turned and backed up two steps, doing it slow, until my back was against the building wall and I could see the other man. Shorter, leaner, with blond hair that grew light on top and streaky dark at the temples; dressed in a tan suit and a blue sport shirt. Same blank expression. Same mold. He was a soft walker, too: if he had come out of the office door, I would have heard it click open.
    The blond one said, “Well, soldier?”
    “I’m looking for Manny.”
    “Manny who?”
    “I don’t know his last name.”
    “Nobody here named Manny,” the dark one said.
    “I thought there might be.”
    “What made you think that?”
    “Somebody I know had his name and this address.”
    “Who would that be?”
    “David Burnett.”
    The blond one said, “We don’t know anybody named David Burnett. Or anybody named Manny. You must have the wrong address.”
    “Maybe.”
    “No maybes about it.”
    “We’re closed today,” the dark one said. “Closed weekends. Couldn’t you tell that from out front?”
    “The gate was open—”
    “No, the gate was closed. It just wasn’t locked.”
    “Then you should lock it if you don’t want anybody to walk in.”
    “That’s right,” the blond one said, “we should lock it. Usually we do. Today we forgot. We won’t forget again.”
    “What’s your name, soldier?” the dark one asked.
    I told him.
    “What do you do for a living?”
    “I’m a private investigator.”
    “That so?” the blond one said, but not as if he cared. “What would a private investigator want to come here for?”
    “I told you, I’m looking for Manny.”
    “What for?”
    “I want to ask him a few questions.”
    “What about?”
    “His relationship with David Burnett.”
    “Why?”
    “Burnett killed himself last week. His sister wants to know the reason.”
    “That’s too bad,” the dark one said. “We’d help you out if we could but we can’t. You must have got the wrong address.”
    The blond one said, “Tell you what, though. You give us your business card and we’ll keep it on file, just in case we hear anything about somebody named Manny. You got a card, don’t your?”
    I took my wallet out, slow, and removed one of my business cards. The blond guy made no move to come and get it; neither did the dark one. There was anger in me now, like a low, pulsing heat, but it would be foolish to act on it, or even to let any of it show. They were tougher than I could ever be and