Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) by Bill Pronzini Page B
Authors: Bill Pronzini
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like her, with the additional attributes of character and intelligence. She was going to be a knockout by the time she was fifteen or sixteen. Boys were sure to swarm around her, and that worried me already. When she started dating, I was going to have a lot of sleepless nights and a lot more gray hairs. Served me right for becoming a father at my age, with my jumbled code of contemporary and neo-Victorian ethics.
Traffic wasn’t too bad after we got past the toll plaza; we were in the quiet little town of Larkspur before six o’clock. Redwood Village, the seniors’ complex where Cybil had lived the past few years, was tucked back against a grove of ancient redwoods—five acres of duplex cottages, plus a rec room, dining hall, swimming pool, and putting green set among rolling lawns and other greenery. Pretty nice place for those who could afford it. And Kerry’s father, Ivan, who’d made a lot of money writing radio and TV scripts and books on occult and magic themes—and who’d been something of a jerk—had left her well fixed after his death a few years ago. Not even the shaky state of the economy had harmed her finances much; Ivan’s stock portfolio had been extensive and conservative, built and nurtured to weather just about any economic downturn.
She’d been in a bad way for a while after his death. Depressed, lonely, obsessed with a feeling that her own life was all but over. Kerry had talked her into selling her L.A. home and moving in with her—this was before our marriage—but that hadn’t worked out too well for any of us logistically, or improved Cybil’s mental health. Enforced dependence for a woman who had been independent-minded for seventy-some years was not the answer. The answer was for her to take control of her life again, and the move to Redwood Village hadaccomplished that. In a way it was like a rebirth. She’d flourished in the new environment; she was past eighty now and still going strong.
In the forties and early fifties she’d been almost as prolific a contributor to the detective pulps as Russ Dancer; her Samuel Leatherman byline had appeared on dozens of stories, the bulk of them about a tough L.A. detective named Max Ruffe. When paperback novels and the emergence of television killed off the pulp markets, she’d decided to abandon fiction writing altogether rather than make the transition to full-length novels. Writing had been an avocation with her; Ivan’s success meant she didn’t need to make a living and she’d preferred to devote her time to her family and other pursuits. So Kerry and I were both amazed when Cybil announced one day, six months or so after taking up residency in Redwood Village, that she was writing again. Her first novel, no less. And she hadn’t just dabbled at it; she’d worked as intensely as she had in the old days and produced a finished manuscript in seven months. Eroded skills after a forty-year layoff? Not Cybil’s. The novel,
Dead Eye
, set in the fifties and embroiling Max Ruffe in the Communist witch hunts in the Hollywood film industry, was pretty good; it had sold on its fourth submission, to a small New York publisher. Strong reviews and decent sales had brought her a contract for a sequel,
Glass Eye
, which she’d finished in November and which was scheduled for publication this coming fall.
Quite a woman, Cybil Wade. She had my admiration and gratitude, not only for her accomplishments but for producing her one and only offspring. Kerry was her mother’s daughter, thank Christ. If there’d been more than a hint of Ivan the Terrible in her makeup, I might’ve had second thoughts about marrying her.
I revised that thought a little when we reached Cybil’s cottage: there was some of her father’s contentiousness in Kerry after all. When Cybil opened the door she may have been surprised to see Emily, but she wasn’t surprised to see me. There isn’t much guile in her; she doesn’t try to hide her feelings. One look into
Traffic wasn’t too bad after we got past the toll plaza; we were in the quiet little town of Larkspur before six o’clock. Redwood Village, the seniors’ complex where Cybil had lived the past few years, was tucked back against a grove of ancient redwoods—five acres of duplex cottages, plus a rec room, dining hall, swimming pool, and putting green set among rolling lawns and other greenery. Pretty nice place for those who could afford it. And Kerry’s father, Ivan, who’d made a lot of money writing radio and TV scripts and books on occult and magic themes—and who’d been something of a jerk—had left her well fixed after his death a few years ago. Not even the shaky state of the economy had harmed her finances much; Ivan’s stock portfolio had been extensive and conservative, built and nurtured to weather just about any economic downturn.
She’d been in a bad way for a while after his death. Depressed, lonely, obsessed with a feeling that her own life was all but over. Kerry had talked her into selling her L.A. home and moving in with her—this was before our marriage—but that hadn’t worked out too well for any of us logistically, or improved Cybil’s mental health. Enforced dependence for a woman who had been independent-minded for seventy-some years was not the answer. The answer was for her to take control of her life again, and the move to Redwood Village hadaccomplished that. In a way it was like a rebirth. She’d flourished in the new environment; she was past eighty now and still going strong.
In the forties and early fifties she’d been almost as prolific a contributor to the detective pulps as Russ Dancer; her Samuel Leatherman byline had appeared on dozens of stories, the bulk of them about a tough L.A. detective named Max Ruffe. When paperback novels and the emergence of television killed off the pulp markets, she’d decided to abandon fiction writing altogether rather than make the transition to full-length novels. Writing had been an avocation with her; Ivan’s success meant she didn’t need to make a living and she’d preferred to devote her time to her family and other pursuits. So Kerry and I were both amazed when Cybil announced one day, six months or so after taking up residency in Redwood Village, that she was writing again. Her first novel, no less. And she hadn’t just dabbled at it; she’d worked as intensely as she had in the old days and produced a finished manuscript in seven months. Eroded skills after a forty-year layoff? Not Cybil’s. The novel,
Dead Eye
, set in the fifties and embroiling Max Ruffe in the Communist witch hunts in the Hollywood film industry, was pretty good; it had sold on its fourth submission, to a small New York publisher. Strong reviews and decent sales had brought her a contract for a sequel,
Glass Eye
, which she’d finished in November and which was scheduled for publication this coming fall.
Quite a woman, Cybil Wade. She had my admiration and gratitude, not only for her accomplishments but for producing her one and only offspring. Kerry was her mother’s daughter, thank Christ. If there’d been more than a hint of Ivan the Terrible in her makeup, I might’ve had second thoughts about marrying her.
I revised that thought a little when we reached Cybil’s cottage: there was some of her father’s contentiousness in Kerry after all. When Cybil opened the door she may have been surprised to see Emily, but she wasn’t surprised to see me. There isn’t much guile in her; she doesn’t try to hide her feelings. One look into
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