Death Claims by Joseph Hansen

Death Claims by Joseph Hansen

Author:Joseph Hansen [Hansen, Joseph]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Tags: Los Angeles (Calif.), Gay, Gay Men, Mystery & Detective, Insurance investigators, Hard-Boiled, General, Brandstetter; Dave (Fictitious character), Mystery Fiction, Fiction
ISBN: 9780299205645
Publisher: Terrace Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00


13

THE MEDALLION BUILDING on Wilshire was a sleek tower of glass and steel. On its tenth floor Dave used a slab door that had his name on it, trapped behind Plexiglas. The office he stepped into was wide. Its far wall was glass. A woven hanging covered another wall—rough, undyed wool yarns, earth colors, Norwegian. The chairs were slices of hide racked on frames of brushed steel. Two of them were goatskin, the fur on, white fur. Those were for visitors. Not that there were many visitors—he wasn't here that much. The chair back of the desk was saddle leather. The desk itself was oiled teak slabs in another brushed-steel framework.

He liked it to be clear. He even kept the phone in a drawer. Now a stack of papers lay on it. Frowning, he let the door whisper shut behind him, crossed deep tobacco-color carpet to the desk. He sat down, put on the reading glasses, shuffled the papers. No problems. Routine. They only needed his initials. He slid open a silent drawer, took out a pen sheathed in rosewood, slender but heavy, twisted out the ballpoint, signed. This set, the next, the next. Old men dying. Old women dying. A child dying. Seven deaths since he'd been here last, day before yesterday.

And in that time how many deaths had there been that didn't need his initials, that with all the initials in the world would pay no one in any terms but grief? He thought of Biafra. He thought of Southeast Asia. He thought of Ingalls moving gray and dutiful through that fine old house, to and from a rented hospital bed that held his maimed and fading wife, fetching this, taking that away—days, nights, months, years. Who could number the errands of mercy, the errands of despairing love? To what end? A red truck rattling off with the empty remnants of a life.

He put the pen back, shut the shallow drawer, opened a deep drawer, took out the telephone. From his wallet he slipped a business card he'd picked up beside a rococo cash register yesterday. He punched a button on the phone and dialed the number on the card, a long number. As the ring signal repeated itself in his ear, the door opened. His father stood there, handsome, erect, white-haired. Dave threw him a quick smile, lifted his chin. Carl Brandstetter came in and moved to a wood-grained metal cabinet where bronze chrysanthemums stood in a flame-colored jar. He took from the cabinet a frosted pitcher, frosted glasses, ice cubes. He shut the top door, opened a lower one for gin, vermouth, olives. His white brows queried Dave. Dave nodded.

"Oats and Norwood," the phone said in his ear.

"David Brandstetter, Mrs. Oats," he said. "You were right: John Oats was an addict. I'm in your debt for telling me. He was getting morphine from a hospital orderly. What I need to know now is where the cash came from to pay for it. Prices run high."

"Well, it certainly didn't come from me.



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