Vixen

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Authors: Bill Pronzini
selling something—”
    â€œNo. I remembered your name, I looked in the phone book.…”
    He recognized the voice then. “Ken Beckett?”
    â€œYeah. I … I have to talk to somebody, Mr. Runyon. I don’t know anyone else.”
    â€œWhat’s on your mind?”
    Pause. Then, “Not on the phone, okay? I can’t talk about this on the phone.”
    â€œAre you home? I can come there—”
    â€œNo! Cory’s out now, but she might come back any time.”
    â€œMeet me somewhere, then.”
    â€œI can’t do that, either. She locks me in at night when she goes out.”
    â€œEvery time?”
    â€œYes.”
    Runyon said, “Can you get out during the daytime?”
    â€œI think so. She lets me go down to the yacht club in the morning if she’s in a good mood. On the bus.”
    â€œWhich yacht club?”
    â€œWhere I used to work. The St. Francis.”
    Runyon thought it over. He had a case interview scheduled in the morning, but it could be postponed. From the stressed-out sound of Beckett’s voice, whatever he had to say was important.
    â€œAll right, Ken. What time in the morning?”
    â€œTen o’clock, is that okay?”
    â€œName a place to meet. I’ll be there.”
    â€œJust you? Nobody else?”
    â€œJust me.”
    More silence. Then, “I have to be careful. If she finds out, I don’t know what she might do.…”
    â€œYou can trust me. I don’t betray confidences.”
    That satisfied Beckett. “You know the big green clock in front of the St. Francis, right by the parking lot?”
    â€œI can find it.”
    â€œThanks, Mr. Runyon. I’ll see you at ten.” Then, as if to himself before he broke the connection, “I can’t be alone anymore.”

 
    10
    JAKE RUNYON
    Even on a weekday morning, the Marina Green and the area along the West Harbor yacht basin was packed with joggers, women pushing baby strollers, adults and children on benches and grass taking advantage of the warming sun. Runyon had driven down early because parking at the only part of the Green he’d been to before, near Gashouse Cove and Fort Mason, was at a premium and he’d figured the same might be true at the opposite end. Not so. There were plenty of spaces in the lot on Yacht Road near the St. Francis. So he had twenty minutes to kill until ten o’clock.
    The big green clock Beckett had mentioned was easy to spot—a Roman-numeral Rolex atop an old-fashioned standard a dozen feet tall, standing between the parking lot and the tan, Spanish-style yacht club. A rocky seawall ran behind the club on the bay side; stretched out in front was the West Harbor basin where club members’ boats were berthed, a thin forest of masts extending out to Marina Boulevard. In that direction you could see the Golden Gate Bridge and the big sunlit dome of the Palace of Fine Arts.
    Runyon was too restless to stand waiting there for twenty minutes. He went the other direction, through a break in the seawall and along a bayfront walkway. From there, if you cared, you had a clear look at the wide sweep of the bay where a few sailboats tacked along and a tourist boat was headed out toward Alcatraz. He paid little attention. Scenic views and panoramas didn’t interest him anymore; hadn’t since Colleen’s death. He noted landmarks to orient himself or for future reference. Otherwise, places were just places, colorless, void of any distinction or attraction.
    He got rid of fifteen minutes on the bayfront walk. Beckett still hadn’t showed when he returned to the clock, so he crossed to the concrete strip that ran along the harbor’s upper edge. Wandered a short distance past sailboats, yachts, other large craft in their slips, then back again.
    A little after ten, and Beckett still hadn’t put in an appearance. Runyon did some more pacing around under the clock.
    Five

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