Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) by Bill Pronzini Page A

didn’t look blond to me.”
    Runyon said, “Good. That helps. What about the other one?”
    “Tallish, slender. Average-looking. That’s all I remember about him.”
    The white cat reappeared and began to wind itself around Zalesky’s legs, purring, making little burbling noises in its throat. Zalesky said, “What’s the matter, baby? You need a little love?” He bent, slowly and with evident pain, and scooped the cat up with his good hand and hugged it against his chest. The purring got louder. And louder still when Zalesky buried his face in the animal’s thick fur.
    Private moment; Runyon looked away. The cat wasn’t the only one who needed a little love right now.
    He was looking at the wall tapestry, trying to make out what the scene depicted on it was all about, when Zalesky put an abrupt end to the private moment. “I keep having the feeling I’ve seen him someplace before.”
    “Who?”
    “The tall, slender one.”
    “Before that night? Where?”
    “That’s just it, I can’t quite recall.”
    “Someplace around here, this neighborhood?”
    “No.”
    “Near where you work?”
    “The Transamerica Pyramid . . . no, not there.”
    “Try it this way,” Runyon said. “Day or night?”
    “I’m not . . . Night. It might’ve been at night.”
    “Where do you go nights? Public places, I mean.”
    “That’s not an easy question to answer. I go out frequently. Concerts, plays, the cinema. Dinner with friends. The Castro scene, too, of course—bars, clubs. I’m not really into cruising, but now and then . . . well, never mind, you’re not interested in that.”
    “Could that be where you saw him? Over in the Castro?”
    “He’s hardly the type to frequent gay bars, Mr. Runyon.”
    “Maybe not the bars themselves, but the neighborhood’s a good possibility. The two of them have to know the general area well enough to go hunting for victims. That might include the sections where the bars and clubs are.”
    “I suppose so, but . . . it wasn’t in a car or pickup that I saw him. I’m sure of that much.”
    “On foot, then. Walking the area alone or with his buddy.”
    Zalesky nuzzled the Angora again. It was still purring, but making twitchy movements now as if it had had enough attention. “I don’t think so,” he said, and kissed the cat on top of the head and then let it jump down.
    “All right.” Runyon wrote his home phone number on the back of one of his agency business cards. “If it comes back to you, give me a call, would you? Office or home.”
    “I will. If you think it might be important.”
    “The more information I have, the easier it’ll be to find them.”
    Zalesky nodded. And then frowned again, tapping the business card against his lower lip. “Outside one of the clubs,” he said abruptly.
    “Say again?”
    “That’s it, that’s where I saw him. Outside one of the clubs. He was arguing with somebody . . .”
    “How long ago was this?”
    “Two or three weeks, maybe a little longer.”
    “Do you know the person he was arguing with?”
    “Well . . . uh . . . I’m not sure . . .”
    “Not sure?”
    “I’ve seen him around, but I don’t know his name.”
    Lying, Runyon thought. Why?
    “Seen him around where?”
    “In the Castro. Here and there.”
    “Describe him.”
    “In his twenties, blond, an angelic face . . .” Zalesky seemed nervous now, ill at ease. “I’m not very good at describing people.”
    “This argument. What was it about?”
    “I . . . don’t know, I was just passing by.”
    Another lie. Falsehoods and deception weren’t natural to him; his eyes slid sideways, a little flick of guilt, when he wasn’t telling the truth.
    “So it wasn’t a violent argument.”
    “No. The guy was in his face, the blond’s face, but not touching him.”
    “Doing all the talking?”
    “Yes.”
    “Was anyone with you at the time?”
    “With me? Oh . . . no, I was alone.”
    One more lie.
    “That’s all I can tell you,” Zalesky said.