Read Online Scenarios - A Collection of Nameless Detective Stories by Bill Pronzini - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bill Pronzini
Tags: Mystery & Crime
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surprised voice. "No wonder the people who live here don't want the place developed."
We had just angled between a couple of high forested cliffs, and down below the mountains had folded back to create a huge park-like meadow carpeted with wild clover, poppies, purple-blue lupine. The town lay sprawled at the back end, where the narrow line of Musket Creek meandered through the high grass and wildflowers. Most of the buildings were tumbledown—and off to the left I could see the blackened skeletons of the four that had burned ten days ago—but at a distance the sunlight and the majestic surroundings softened the look of them, gave them a kind of odd, lonely dignity. Far off to the east, you could see the immense snowcapped peak of Mt. Shasta jutting more than fourteen thousand feet into the dusky blue sky.
"Now why would anybody call a pretty spot like this Ragged-Ass Gulch?" Kerry asked.
"Somebody's idea of a joke, maybe. Miners had strange senses of humor."
"That's for sure."
She put her head out of the open passenger window and sniffed the air like a cat, looking off toward Mt. Shasta. She seemed to have begun to enjoy herself finally, which was a relief. She hadn't wanted to come because she was miffed at me, and I'd had to do some fast talking to convince her. Ordinarily I would not have considered bringing Kerry along on an investigation; my profession being what it was, it was seldom a good idea to mix business and pleasure. But in this instance, there were extenuating circumstances.
When we reached the meadow, the road deteriorated into little more than a pair of ruts with a grassy hump in the middle. It angled off to the right and eventually forked; one branch became the single main street of Cooperville , nee Ragged-Ass Gulch, and the other hooked up and disappeared into the flanking slopes to the west, where I had been told some of the townspeople lived.
The first building we came to was on the near side of the fork. It was one of the few occupied ones in the town proper, a combination single-pump gas station, garage and body shop, and general store. The garage and store buildings were weathered and unpainted, but in a decent state of repair; a sign that said Cooperville Mercantile hung over the screen- doored entrance to the latter, and the facing wall was plastered with old metal Coca-Cola and beer signs. Around back, to one side, was a frame cottage with a big native-stone chimney at one end. The folks who lived in the cottage and ran the businesses were the Coleclaws : one husband, one wife, one son.
I pulled in off the road and stopped next to the gas pump. A fat brown-and-white dog came around from behind the store, took one look at the car, and began barking its head off. No one else appeared.
"I'll go see who's here," I said to Kerry. "You wait in the car, okay?"
"Like a nice dutiful little wife?"
Here we go again, I thought. "Come on, babe, you know this is business."
"It wasn't supposed to be business. It wasn't supposed to be Ragged-Ass Gulch either."
"Kerry . . ."
"Oh, all right. Go on, I'll wait here."
I got out of the car, sighing a little, keeping my eye on the dog. It continued to bark, but it didn't make any sudden moves in my direction. I took the fact that its tail was wagging to be a positive sign and started toward the entrance to the store.
Just before I got there, a pudgy young guy in grease-stained overalls appeared in the doorway of the adjacent garage. "Be quiet, Sam," he said to the dog. He didn't say anything to me, or move out of the doorway. And the dog went right on yapping.
I walked over to where the young guy stood. He was in his middle twenties and he had curly brown hair and pink beardless cheeks and big doe eyes that had a remote look in them. The eyes watched me without curiosity as I came up to him.
"Hi," I said. "You're Gary Coleclaw , right?"
"Yeah," he said.
"I'd like to talk to your father, if he's around."
"He's not. He went into Weaverville this
We had just angled between a couple of high forested cliffs, and down below the mountains had folded back to create a huge park-like meadow carpeted with wild clover, poppies, purple-blue lupine. The town lay sprawled at the back end, where the narrow line of Musket Creek meandered through the high grass and wildflowers. Most of the buildings were tumbledown—and off to the left I could see the blackened skeletons of the four that had burned ten days ago—but at a distance the sunlight and the majestic surroundings softened the look of them, gave them a kind of odd, lonely dignity. Far off to the east, you could see the immense snowcapped peak of Mt. Shasta jutting more than fourteen thousand feet into the dusky blue sky.
"Now why would anybody call a pretty spot like this Ragged-Ass Gulch?" Kerry asked.
"Somebody's idea of a joke, maybe. Miners had strange senses of humor."
"That's for sure."
She put her head out of the open passenger window and sniffed the air like a cat, looking off toward Mt. Shasta. She seemed to have begun to enjoy herself finally, which was a relief. She hadn't wanted to come because she was miffed at me, and I'd had to do some fast talking to convince her. Ordinarily I would not have considered bringing Kerry along on an investigation; my profession being what it was, it was seldom a good idea to mix business and pleasure. But in this instance, there were extenuating circumstances.
When we reached the meadow, the road deteriorated into little more than a pair of ruts with a grassy hump in the middle. It angled off to the right and eventually forked; one branch became the single main street of Cooperville , nee Ragged-Ass Gulch, and the other hooked up and disappeared into the flanking slopes to the west, where I had been told some of the townspeople lived.
The first building we came to was on the near side of the fork. It was one of the few occupied ones in the town proper, a combination single-pump gas station, garage and body shop, and general store. The garage and store buildings were weathered and unpainted, but in a decent state of repair; a sign that said Cooperville Mercantile hung over the screen- doored entrance to the latter, and the facing wall was plastered with old metal Coca-Cola and beer signs. Around back, to one side, was a frame cottage with a big native-stone chimney at one end. The folks who lived in the cottage and ran the businesses were the Coleclaws : one husband, one wife, one son.
I pulled in off the road and stopped next to the gas pump. A fat brown-and-white dog came around from behind the store, took one look at the car, and began barking its head off. No one else appeared.
"I'll go see who's here," I said to Kerry. "You wait in the car, okay?"
"Like a nice dutiful little wife?"
Here we go again, I thought. "Come on, babe, you know this is business."
"It wasn't supposed to be business. It wasn't supposed to be Ragged-Ass Gulch either."
"Kerry . . ."
"Oh, all right. Go on, I'll wait here."
I got out of the car, sighing a little, keeping my eye on the dog. It continued to bark, but it didn't make any sudden moves in my direction. I took the fact that its tail was wagging to be a positive sign and started toward the entrance to the store.
Just before I got there, a pudgy young guy in grease-stained overalls appeared in the doorway of the adjacent garage. "Be quiet, Sam," he said to the dog. He didn't say anything to me, or move out of the doorway. And the dog went right on yapping.
I walked over to where the young guy stood. He was in his middle twenties and he had curly brown hair and pink beardless cheeks and big doe eyes that had a remote look in them. The eyes watched me without curiosity as I came up to him.
"Hi," I said. "You're Gary Coleclaw , right?"
"Yeah," he said.
"I'd like to talk to your father, if he's around."
"He's not. He went into Weaverville this
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