Death Benefits Read online

  On the seventh day of Stillman, as Walker put his analysis of the quarter’s performance bond figures into the drawer, out of sight, and took a step toward the coat hanging on the single hanger in his cubicle, Max Stillman’s body suddenly filled the opening. “Time for lunch?” asked Stillman.

  “I was thinking about it,” said Walker. “But if you need help or something, I can go later. My schedule’s pretty flexible.”

  “No,” said Stillman. “Come on. I’ll buy.” He had turned and started off down the side aisle of the bay, toward the elevators, before Walker had managed to snag his coat.

  Stillman’s body seemed to project around it a zone of silence. It took Walker a few seconds in the seventh-floor hallway to see that it was because whenever he was in a crowd, the people who worked at McClaren’s were acutely conscious of him, and the strain of thinking of small talk that was small enough to be said in his hearing made talk vanish altogether. During the ride down in the elevator, Walker became aware of sounds he had never noticed before: the distant groan of the electric winch that unwound the cable to let the elevator down, the sixty-cycle hum of the overhead lights. Everyone in the elevator assumed the same strange pose, facing the doors with the head tilted slightly upward to gaze at some distant, invisible point. People he had observed a dozen times chattering in the elevator as they left for lunch together appeared never to have seen one another before. He began to be aware that the people around him had taken note that he was with Stillman, and while he was wondering what they were thinking, he began to sweat.

  It was almost a relief to follow Stillman across the lobby to the garage. He was going to find out what this man wanted. Stillman’s car was a big Chevrolet that looked like the same model the police used, but when Walker got in, he saw the keys Stillman turned to start it had a tag from a rental company.

  The day was bright and clear, and Walker tried to feel pleased about the novelty of sitting in a passenger seat while someone else maneuvered through the crowded and frustrating San Francisco streets. He watched the route Stillman took, from Telegraph Hill to Lombard, down Stockton across to Sacramento, but then he somehow made it to Sutter and Grant above the mess at Market Street and below the place where Grant became one-way in the opposite direction. The car stopped in front of a hotel where loud reggae music blared from the lobby, and Stillman got out of the car to make room for a parking attendant to get in and take it away in a flash of metal and squealing tires.

  Walker looked toward the hotel, but Stillman was walking up the incline between the two stone lions that guarded the entrance to Chinatown. When Walker caught up, Stillman explained, “I have deals with a lot of parking attendants. This way, the kid gets a few extra bucks, and you get back to work on time.”

  “What about you?” asked Walker. He regretted the clumsiness of it, but he pressed forward. “You have to be back too, don’t you?”

  Stillman shook his head. “I’m working now.”

  Walker silently turned that statement around and around to study it, but Stillman said, “That’s the good part of being in business for yourself. You get to start and stop when you feel like it.”

  “What’s the bad part?”

  “Your boss is an asshole, and he knows that you feel nothing for him but contempt. Of course, I wouldn’t enjoy those compartments they put you in. It’s not that I can’t sit still or something.”

  “I noticed.”

  Stillman glanced at him. “Yeah, I guess you would have. But those little cubbyhole things . . . ” He shook his head sympathetically. “The problem with them is that they’re insulting. You’re locked up, but there’s no door to close, so people can look in on you.” He paused. “Ever been in prison?”

  Walker’s head turned toward Stillman, but Stillman’s expression had not changed. This was just part of the breezy conversation. “No. Have you?”

  “It’s like that, sort of. It’s about who has the options. Prisons are set up so there’s no question in the prisoner’s mind that he’s not going anyplace, but so he knows he can be watched—not that he is, but that he can be.”

  Walker had not missed the fact that Stillman had not answered his question. He said, “The cubicles aren’t quite that bad. The wall cuts the noise and helps you keep your mind on what you’re doing. On a good day I look down, then look up again and it’s time for lunch. I come back, same thing. When it’s time to go home, I print a hard copy of what I’ve done, and the amount I’ve done surprises me.”

  Stillman didn’t seem convinced. “How long have you been at it?”

  “Almost two years; a year and a half in my cubicle.” It was almost reassuring that the questions were so transparent and simple. If Stillman were investigating Walker, he would already know all of this.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Stillman. “That’s right. You were in the training class with Kennedy and Cardarelli and Snyder and Wang and those people.”

  Walker nodded, then stared ahead as they walked farther into Chinatown, past shops that were as big inside as department stores had been when he was a child in Ohio, but filled with a jumble of cast-resin imitations of carved smiling Buddhas, T-shirts that said GREETINGS FROM ALCATRAZ, genuine antiques, and cases of jewelry that looked as though it might be spectacularly expensive. Stillman took him past restaurants on both sides of the street with oversized double bronze doors, but showed no interest in them. Walker decided that it was time to face the difficult part. He said, as casually as he could, “What are you doing at McClaren’s?”

  Stillman showed no surprise. “Once in a while they call me in when something’s bothering them. I’m doing some investigating.”

  Walker felt his heart begin to pump harder. The job at McClaren’s that he had liked shrunk and withered in his imagination. Enough, he thought. “Are you here to investigate me?”

  “Hell no,” said Stillman. “I’m here to eat lunch.” He walked on more quickly, then turned a corner.

  Walker followed him a few steps, then stopped abruptly.

  Stillman turned in surprise, cocked his head, and waited.

  Walker said, “I want to know whether I’m some kind of suspect.”

  Stillman took two steps toward him, and Walker remembered that he didn’t know this man at all. From the beginning, Walker had noticed an air of barely suppressed violence about him, a permanent tension. Walker felt instinctively that if Stillman wanted to attack him physically, his best chance would not be to remain immobile and hope to fend him off. Stillman’s face was only two feet from his own now, and he looked enormous. Walker got ready, his eyes on Stillman’s and his arms tightening to strike first if he saw a sudden movement.

  “Mr. Walker. John,” Stillman amended. “I hereby swear, what I’m investigating is not you. If you’ve done something, it might be me that catches you at it, but I give you my solemn oath that I don’t know about it now, didn’t come to your office for that purpose, and don’t give a shit about it. Now let’s eat lunch.” He remained motionless, like a wall across the sidewalk, his eyes holding Walker in place.

  Walker stared back into his sharp, brown eyes. “If you were investigating me, would you tell me the truth?”

  Stillman’s face tightened into a happy grin. “Fuck no,” he said, then turned and hurried into a doorway.

  Walker followed Stillman into a dim alcove, then up a long flight of stairs lit only by a chartreuse and magenta neon sign in Chinese characters. When Walker reached the top and carefully pushed the door inward, he found Stillman in a bright yellow room where waiters bustled back and forth under sunlit skylights carrying large zinc-colored trays loaded with covered dishes. There were about thirty fashionably dressed customers sitting at black metal tables, eating and talking. A restaurant, thought Walker, and it was only then that he realized he had been convinced it would be something else.

  They sat at a table near a window, and Stillman unabashedly amused himself by staring down at the pedestrians on the sidewalk below. When the waiter appeared wit
h menus, Stillman said distractedly, “Just bring us whatever Mr. Fo had today.”

  The waiter said, “Very good, Mr. Stillman,” and scurried off.

  Walker said, “How do you know the owner didn’t have seagull brains sautéed in rancid yak butter?”

  Stillman shook his head. “Fo’s not the owner. He’s just a friend of mine who comes here on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It took him twenty-eight thousand meals to learn to pick out the best Chinese food, but I’m hungry today, so I don’t have time for experiments.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “Life is too short to screw around trying to rediscover what somebody else knows already, so don’t waste your time with it. On the small stuff, find somebody who knows, and then give him the courtesy of humbly admitting it. That way you’ll avoid fifty years of heartburn and bad hangovers and stall-outs on freeways.”

  He slipped into another topic. “So, do you hang out much with the people at work?”

  “Not really,” Walker said. “Once in a while one of us will invite another to dinner or have a small party. But most of the time, to tell you the truth, we bore each other. I mean, we all smile and talk at the coffee room, but we all know the same things.” What he had just said was true, but saying it aloud made it worse.

  Stillman nodded. “How about women? You’re not queer.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Walker kept himself from looking around to see if anyone had heard. Stillman caught the expression and said, “Hey, it’s San Francisco. Anybody here look shocked? A lot of people from Ohio come here just to sign up for the parade. You didn’t. So why aren’t you married?”

  “I haven’t met any woman I want to live with until I die,” said Walker. “Unless I could be sure of dying in a month or so.” He congratulated himself on saying the lie so fluently. He had met somebody, and he had let her slip away, but his life was none of Stillman’s business.

  Stillman nodded. “Yeah. I saw you gaping at Cardarelli when she left your cage the other day. Don’t just ogle and wonder. Make a move on her. You might find that you wouldn’t want the month to end.”

  Walker shook his head. “She’s nice to look at, all right . . . .” Walker stopped himself, shocked. He had almost been lulled into telling this stranger something that might harm her.

  “But?” Stillman prodded.

  Walker said carefully. “I guess sometimes relationships go that way, and sometimes they don’t.”

  Stillman sighed happily. “Not with me. They always go that way. I’ve had three really poisonous marriages, and I still hope to have one that lasts long enough to be fatal. Since you’re young enough to learn, that’s another thing I can give you a shortcut on. So far, the only thing I can think of that’s worth any unpleasantness at all is a woman who’s amenable to your favorite pastimes, and whose voice doesn’t set your teeth on edge. Would I trade everything I’ve got for it? Sure. I’ve done it about four times.”

  “I thought it was three.”

  “I’m counting one who didn’t let it get that far. I loved her. I even learned to make martinis for her—spent several evenings watching the bartender at the Mark Hopkins and asking him questions. It cost more than medical school on a per diem basis, and nearly ruined my liver. One night she was at my place, and I went to the kitchen to make some drinks. When I came back, she had bolted. The door was open, swinging on its hinges. Later, I asked her why she didn’t want to marry me. She said, ‘The martinis weren’t strong enough for that.’ I always count her.”

  He stared at the table for a moment in a reverie, then seemed to remember Walker. “Never judge people by what they have. That’s mostly luck. Judge them by what they want.” He waved his hand. “Do they want to mind their own business and be somebody decent, or do they never quite feel right unless they take what they get from somebody else and leave them bleeding so they can savor the contrast?” He lifted his eyes. “Ah, David,” he said. “What have you brought for us?”

  The waiter happily rattled off a group of unfamiliar Chinese phrases as he set plates on the table and proudly whisked the tops off. Walker could see dumplings, pieces of chicken and meat that he suspected was pork but could conceivably have been duck, and vegetables that he had seen before. None of it looked particularly unusual.

  “Wonderful, David,” said Stillman. “Thank you very much.” He heaped various things from the serving dishes onto Walker’s plate, and they began to eat.

  Walker spent most of the meal wondering what Stillman was up to. If he had invited Walker here in order to get him to incriminate himself or someone else, he was doing a poor job of it. He continued to do two-thirds of the talking, and showed far less interest in McClaren Life and Casualty than in women, weather, the behavior of passersby on the street below them, or food.

  Walker had been deceived by the appearance of the food. He took two bites and decided it was the best food he had tasted in two years in San Francisco, and he felt bereft at the thought that he would never come to this restaurant again. If he tried, he would probably run into Stillman. Even if that didn’t happen, he couldn’t imagine ordering whatever Mr. Fo had ordered. It occurred to him that he had no idea what the place was called. He assumed it was on the menu, but he had not seen a menu.

  On his way out, he made one last try. He pointed to the neon sign and said to Stillman, “What does that say?”

  “Good luck,” Stillman said. “They always say ‘Good luck.’ ”

  On the eighth day of Stillman, at five minutes to twelve, as Walker was trying to compose the concluding paragraph of his interpretation of sea-loss figures for the quarter ending June 30 in time to go to lunch, he caught a shadow in his peripheral vision, and looked up to see Stillman in his doorway.

  “Come on, kid. Time to go.”

  “One second,” said Walker. He decided to skip some of the preliminaries and rapidly typed the words “Recommmend no action at this time,” then saved the report and let the terminal return to the main menu. He looked up again, but Stillman was gone. He supposed “Time to go” had been Stillman’s way of saying he wanted to go to lunch again. Walker took his coat from the hanger and stepped out in time to catch a quick almost-glimpse of Stillman turning the corner into the hallway near the elevators, just a vague impression that a charcoal-gray coat had been there an instant ago.

  When he reached the hallway, Stillman was standing in an elevator holding the door open for him. The rest of the McClaren people were streaming into elevator number three, possibly too impatient to wait, but probably relieved at the excuse for staying far from Stillman. He released the door as soon as Walker was in, and the elevator began to descend.

  Walker said, “Where do you want to eat today?”

  Stillman looked up at the strip of black above the door, where the floor numbers were lighting up, one by one. “If the traffic’s moving, we might have time to pick something up at the airport.”

  3

  Walker’s head spun to look at Stillman. “Why would you want to go to the airport for lunch?”

  Stillman said, “I said we’ll try to get lunch. We may not have time. Our plane leaves in a little over an hour.”

  “Wait. Hold it,” said Walker. “Our plane? I can’t get on a plane.” His thoughts unexpectedly clarified. “I don’t even want to. What’s this about?”

  “If you need somebody to feed your goldfish or something, I can make a call.” He added, “And don’t worry about not leaving your key. The people I’ll call are used to that kind of thing. They’ve evolved beyond the need for keys.”

  “I don’t have a goldfish. I do have a job. I have—”

  “You do,” said Stillman. “And this is it.” He glared at Walker for a moment, then sighed. “All right. I guess we’ll have to make time for this.” The elevator door opened, but Stillman pressed the button for the twelfth floor. The door closed, and the elevator began to ascend.

  Walker gaped at him for a moment. He remembered Joyce Hazelton handing Stillman the phone and asking him obsequio
usly whether he had time to talk to Mr. McClaren. Walker had never even seen McClaren. He tried to determine whether Stillman was bluffing. They were already passing the tenth floor. If it was some kind of joke, he would have to stop the elevator in a second or two.

  The doors opened and Stillman stepped out. Walker hesitated, followed him, then stopped just outside the doors. When they hummed shut he felt as though his retreat had been cut off. There was a woman in her thirties with perfectly arranged honey-colored hair and a cashmere dress walking toward the elevator as though she were a hostess going to answer the door. Walker had never seen her before. She met his eyes, a look of puzzlement appearing on her face. It stayed there just long enough to make Walker’s heart stop beating: if she asked what he was doing here, he wouldn’t know the answer. She gracefully turned on her high heels, opened a big oak door at the end of the room, and disappeared.

  Walker looked toward Stillman, but he wasn’t where Walker had expected him to be. He had moved off across the floor, and he was settling into a big wing chair under a painting of a clipper ship. Walker was distracted by the room. It was different from the rest of the building. It was like a men’s club in an old movie about London. The chairs and tables were antique, and even the walls up here had somehow been contrived to have the solidity of things made by hand a long time ago.

  The door opened silently, and seemed to open only a crack, but the woman miraculously slipped out and quietly closed it again. “He’s just wrapping something up,” she said. “He asked if you could give him a minute.” Stillman nodded.

  She turned and glided past Walker, and he had a chance to look at her without getting caught. He was comparing her to a fashion model in a magazine, then changed his mind. Her movements were designed to convey efficiency and polish rather than allure, as though her job was to warn people that everything up here was different, more professional, better.

  A phone rang quietly as she was passing a desk in an alcove that looked like the set for the television news. She paused without diverting her course and snagged it from the front of the desk. “Mr. McClaren’s office.” Even her voice was beautiful, but it was perfection rather than warmth, like a voice broadcast from a great height. “I’m very sorry, sir, but he’s just going into a very important meeting. We’ll get back to you in about fifteen minutes.” She replaced the receiver, and her eyes passed across Walker without a hint of a smile.