Frameshift

The days of profits in the health-insurance industry are numbered. Christ, if we could get the bottom line up enough, I’d sell my thirty-three percent and get the hell out.” Danielson sighed again, and looked up. “Was there something you wanted to see me about?”

“Yeah,” said Bullen, “and it’s apropos in a way, too. We got a letter from a geneticist at” — he consulted the sheet he was holding — “the Ernest Orlando Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory. He objects to our clause that encourages terminating genetically flawed pregnancies.”

The old man gestured with a bony hand for the letter. Once he had it, he skimmed its text. “ ‘Bioethics,’ ” he said contemptuously. “And ‘the human side of the equation.’ ” He harrumphed. “At least he didn’t mention Brave New World.”

“Yes, he did. That’s what the bit about ‘Huxleyian nightmare’ refers to.”

“Tell him to go to hell,” said Danielson, passing the letter back to his protege. “Ivory-tower guy — doesn’t know the first thing about the real world.”

Pierre had had the copy of Chuck Hanratty’s rap sheet that Helen Kawabata had given him for eight weeks now. He’d been eager to talk to Bryan Proctor’s widow, but couldn’t bring himself to disturb her until a decent period had passed following her husband’s murder.

But now he regretted waiting — she seemed to have moved in the interim. He checked the address on the piece of fanfold paper again. No doubt about it: this dingy apartment building, a few blocks south of San Francisco’s Chinatown, was the place where Bryan Proctor had lived before Chuck Hanratty had shot him dead. But although there were twenty-one names on the buzzboard in the lobby, not one of them was Proctor. Pierre was about to give up and go home when he decided to try the superintendent. He pressed the button labeled super and waited.

“Yes?” said a female voice through a very staticky intercom.

“Hello. I’m looking for Mrs. Proctor.”

“Come on in. Suite one-oh-one.”

He heard a clunking going on inside the door, followed by an annoying buzz. It dawned on Pierre — of course! Bryan Proctor must have been the super; that’s why his buzzer wasn’t labeled by name.

He made his way through the lobby. It was a run-down building, with worn and stained carpeting. Suite — if it deserved that term — 101 was next to the single elevator. A large woman with one of those golf-ball chins fat people sometimes have was standing in the open doorway. She was wearing old jeans and a tattered white T-shirt. “Yes?” she said, by way of greeting. “The vacancy’s on the second floor. We need first and last months’ rent, plus references.”

Pierre had seen the sign for the two-bedroom apartment when he’d pulled up to the building. “I’m not here about the apartment. Forgive me for coming by without calling first, but you’ve got an unlisted number, and I… well, I don’t know where to begin. I’m terribly sorry about the loss of your husband.”

“Thank you,” she said guardedly, her eyes narrowing. “Did you know Bryan?”

“No, no, not at all.”

“Then if you’re trying to sell something, please leave me alone.”

Pierre shook his head in wonder; he must look like Willy Loman.

“No — no, it’s not that. It’s just that — well, see, I’m Pierre Tardivel.”

Her face was blank. “Yes?”

“I was the last person Chuck Hanratty attacked. I was there when he died.”

“You killed that bastard?”

“Umm, yes.”

She stood to one side. “Please, come in. Can I offer you a drink? Coffee?

Beer?”

She led the way into the living room. It had only two bookcases, one holding bowling trophies and the other mostly CDs. There was a paperback book splayed open facedown on the coffee table — a Harlequin romance. “A beer would be nice,” said Pierre.

“Have a seat on the couch and I’ll get it.” She disappeared for a few moments, and Pierre continued to look around. Copies of the National Enquirer and TV Guide sat atop a television set that looked about fifteen years old. There were no framed pictures, but there was a poster of the Grand Canyon held up with yellowing tape. There was no sign that the Proctors had any kids. Sympathy cards were lined up along the lid of an old record turntable.

Mrs. Proctor returned and handed Pierre a Budweiser can. He pulled the tab, took a swig, and winced. He’d never get used to this cow piss Americans called beer.

“It’s better this way,” said Mrs. Proctor, sitting in a chair. “Even if they’d caught Hanratty, he’d have been back on the streets in just a couple of years. My husband’s dead — but he wasn’t anyone important. They wouldn’t have given Hanratty the chair for that.”

Pierre said nothing for a time, then: “Hanratty attacked me — me in particular. It wasn’t just a random mugging.”

“Oh? The police told me—”

“No, he was after me. He, ah, he said so.”

Her piglike eyes went wide. “That a fact?”

“But I’d never met him before in my life. Heck, I’ve only been in California for a year now.”

“Color me surprised,” said the woman.

“Sorry?”

“You got one heck of an accent.”

“Oh, well, I’m from Montreal.”