Read Online Death Claims by Joseph Hansen - Free Book Online
Authors: Joseph Hansen
Tags: Fiction, General, Gay, Mystery & Detective, Mystery Fiction, Hard-Boiled, Los Angeles (Calif.), Gay Men, Insurance investigators, Brandstetter; Dave (Fictitious character)
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phone and picked her up. "I promised," he told her, "and I will. Just as soon as I make one telephone call." He used a fingertip to wipe her tears away.
"I'll go," Dave said.
8
T HE SHOPPING CENTER was a cry of light against the hulking darkness of the hills. Its signs were crisply lettered sheets of milky plastic, its shopfronts naked glass, the interiors ice-white fluorescent. Brave but lonely. Safeway, laundromat, Kentucky Fried Chicken, liquor, Newberry's, hairdresser, drugs. Three cars waited on space enough for thirty. Dave left his pointed at the drugstore and pushed inside.
The silence was large, but a typewriter was snipping little holes in it. Slowly. At the rear. Dave went there between hedges of toothpaste, deodorants, laxatives. The counter was chin high and topped by old-fashioned glass urns filled with dried herbs, for cuteness, not use. The urns were labeled in Spencerian script. The sign overhead was Spencerian too, gold on a white oval: Prescriptions . A boy looked at him between the urns. His tightly curled black hair was parted in the middle and combed over his ears. His brown eyes dreamed and his mouth was a dark rose. He could have posed for a Rossetti drawing. He could have been Rossetti, young, before the bloat set in.
"McPhail?" Dave said.
"McSucceed," the boy said. "At least till now. What's wrong?"
"Does something have to be wrong?"
"You didn't say Mr. McPhail, you didn't say Jay McPhail. You said McPhail. For some reason, that sounds official. And you look official. Did I mess up on a prescription?"
"You're a friend of Peter Oats. I'm looking for him. I'm from the company that insured his father's life. His father's dead. Peter was the beneficiary."
"Just a second." The typewriter tapped some more. The platen ratcheted. The boy came to the end of the counter where its height dropped and there was a coral-color cash register and a flat glass-top display box of razor blades and small flashlight batteries. His white jacket was open. Under it was a pirate-stripe skivvy shirt. His pants were bell-bottoms, tie-dyed purple. A little bottle sparkled in his hand. He licked the label he'd typed and pasted it to the bottle that held cotton and some red-and-gray capsules. "I haven't seen Peter for a while. I'm going on with school. He's not. He's into acting. Would you believe?"
"Would it be difficult?"
"It's far out, man. I mean, he's so quiet. He taught himself guitar, you know? He's got a good voice. Would he sing for anybody? Hell, no. He liked lonely things, climbing, riding, swimming. He doesn't look strong, but he is. Mostly he read, listened to records, classical music. Then, all of a sudden, he's acting. With Whittington and the rest of those fags."
"Is he a fag?" Dave said.
McPhail's Pre-Raphaelite eyes hardened. "I was his best friend all through EMSC. Do I look like a fag?"
"I don't know what a fag looks like," Dave said. "And neither does anyone else. You took him sailing Christmas week. With his father and Dr. De Kalb."
"In my folks' boat. That was the last time I saw him. Except around town with Whittington. Always with Whittington. Jesus!" He scrawled a name on an envelope that was printed with a yellow mortar and pestle, dropped the pill bottle into it, tucked it away under the counter. "Too bad about his father. I really grooved on him."
"Was it the last time you saw him too?"
The boy straightened, wary, turned his head, watched Dave from the corners of his eyes. "I said — "
"I heard what you said. But John Oats was on morphine. Morphine is a prescription drug."
"He didn't have any prescriptions. He bought shaving cream here. Tooth powder. That's all."
"Bought isn't what I'm talking about. You liked him. He was your best friend's father. Did you give him what he needed?"
"Shit!" The boy hit the release bar on the cash register with his fist. The drawer opened with a jingle. He slammed it shut. "Okay. I guess it can't hurt him now.
"I'll go," Dave said.
8
T HE SHOPPING CENTER was a cry of light against the hulking darkness of the hills. Its signs were crisply lettered sheets of milky plastic, its shopfronts naked glass, the interiors ice-white fluorescent. Brave but lonely. Safeway, laundromat, Kentucky Fried Chicken, liquor, Newberry's, hairdresser, drugs. Three cars waited on space enough for thirty. Dave left his pointed at the drugstore and pushed inside.
The silence was large, but a typewriter was snipping little holes in it. Slowly. At the rear. Dave went there between hedges of toothpaste, deodorants, laxatives. The counter was chin high and topped by old-fashioned glass urns filled with dried herbs, for cuteness, not use. The urns were labeled in Spencerian script. The sign overhead was Spencerian too, gold on a white oval: Prescriptions . A boy looked at him between the urns. His tightly curled black hair was parted in the middle and combed over his ears. His brown eyes dreamed and his mouth was a dark rose. He could have posed for a Rossetti drawing. He could have been Rossetti, young, before the bloat set in.
"McPhail?" Dave said.
"McSucceed," the boy said. "At least till now. What's wrong?"
"Does something have to be wrong?"
"You didn't say Mr. McPhail, you didn't say Jay McPhail. You said McPhail. For some reason, that sounds official. And you look official. Did I mess up on a prescription?"
"You're a friend of Peter Oats. I'm looking for him. I'm from the company that insured his father's life. His father's dead. Peter was the beneficiary."
"Just a second." The typewriter tapped some more. The platen ratcheted. The boy came to the end of the counter where its height dropped and there was a coral-color cash register and a flat glass-top display box of razor blades and small flashlight batteries. His white jacket was open. Under it was a pirate-stripe skivvy shirt. His pants were bell-bottoms, tie-dyed purple. A little bottle sparkled in his hand. He licked the label he'd typed and pasted it to the bottle that held cotton and some red-and-gray capsules. "I haven't seen Peter for a while. I'm going on with school. He's not. He's into acting. Would you believe?"
"Would it be difficult?"
"It's far out, man. I mean, he's so quiet. He taught himself guitar, you know? He's got a good voice. Would he sing for anybody? Hell, no. He liked lonely things, climbing, riding, swimming. He doesn't look strong, but he is. Mostly he read, listened to records, classical music. Then, all of a sudden, he's acting. With Whittington and the rest of those fags."
"Is he a fag?" Dave said.
McPhail's Pre-Raphaelite eyes hardened. "I was his best friend all through EMSC. Do I look like a fag?"
"I don't know what a fag looks like," Dave said. "And neither does anyone else. You took him sailing Christmas week. With his father and Dr. De Kalb."
"In my folks' boat. That was the last time I saw him. Except around town with Whittington. Always with Whittington. Jesus!" He scrawled a name on an envelope that was printed with a yellow mortar and pestle, dropped the pill bottle into it, tucked it away under the counter. "Too bad about his father. I really grooved on him."
"Was it the last time you saw him too?"
The boy straightened, wary, turned his head, watched Dave from the corners of his eyes. "I said — "
"I heard what you said. But John Oats was on morphine. Morphine is a prescription drug."
"He didn't have any prescriptions. He bought shaving cream here. Tooth powder. That's all."
"Bought isn't what I'm talking about. You liked him. He was your best friend's father. Did you give him what he needed?"
"Shit!" The boy hit the release bar on the cash register with his fist. The drawer opened with a jingle. He slammed it shut. "Okay. I guess it can't hurt him now.
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