by Alice Duncan
He turned to stare at me again, only this time he concentrated on my face. “My career?”
“Yes.”
“What career?” He gave me a look that should be outlawed, it was so scathing.
Only slightly daunted, I went on, “Your career as a bounty hunter. It must have been terribly exciting.”
“Exciting?”
“Yes! Exciting!”
“Exciting,” he muttered as if the word tasted bad.
“Exciting.” This time the word left my mouth a miniature of its former full-bodied self. Sort of like women’s fashions, I decided on the spot. Women’s fashions had no shape to them, and neither had that word, “exciting”, as I’d just spoken it. If I were to bet, I’d bet Mr. Lou Prophet preferred women in the olden days, when a harlot wore nothing but one of those short, old-time corset things and maybe some pantaloons. Nowadays, unless a woman was quite chubby—Mrs. Pinkerton springs to mind—you couldn’t tell a boy from a girl unless you looked at the person’s hair. Even then, now that women were getting their hair bobbed, sometimes you couldn’t determine the sex of the person.
“Ain’t a whole lot to tell,” said Prophet after I’d decided he wasn’t going to answer my question.
“I’m sure that’s not true. Why, I read in…Well, I can’t remember the title of the book, but you were in it, and you were working with Wyatt Earp!” The name Wyatt Earp conjured all sorts of images in my mind.
“That sumbitch? Never worked with him.”
“Oh.” How disappointing. “You didn’t like him?”
With a shrug, Prophet said, “What’s to like? He was stiffer’n an iron rod and about as humorous.”
“Oh. I thought he was a famous lawman who helped tame the old west.”
“Tame the old west?” Prophet gazed at me as if I’d lost what was left of my mind.
It was my turn to shrug. It hurt. “Well…Yes. I mean, you helped round up those bad guys like Jesse James and people like that.”
“Never had nothin’ to do with the James boys,” said Prophet.
“But—” I got no further, because Prophet suddenly stood up. I gaped at him, hoping he wasn’t going to walk out and not have anywhere to lay his head for the night. “Where are you going?” I asked, feeling panicky, wanting to leap up and follow him. As we all know by this time, however, I was unfit to leap and follow.
“Just outside. Gonna build a quirley.”
“A quirley?” What in heaven’s name was a quirley?
“Yeah.”
I didn’t have time to ask Prophet what a quirley was, because he took off limping to the door. I thought about following him, but I hurt all over, so I didn’t. It did occur to me that Johnny Buckingham might be able to put Prophet up for the night. But what about Flossie?
Flossie had turned her life around and was now as firmly committed to the Salvation Army as was her spouse. After all, as a captain in the Salvation Army, Johnny saw people who were worse off than Lou Prophet—and, what’s more, helped them—practically every day of his life. And I didn’t really think Flossie would mind. After all, she and Mr. Prophet were at least one generation apart in age, and he didn’t have to know her history.
And then it occurred to me to wonder if Lou Prophet, who didn’t seem to hold a high opinion of churches, would countenance staying at the Salvation Army. But heck, he was coping with the Odd Fellows, and the Salvation Army folks were much less odd than they. That’s just a joke. I don’t know why they called themselves the Odd Fellows, but it seems a strange name to me.
Do I sound crazy? I don’t think I am, but you may be right. I can report for a fact that I was worn out and in physical agony by the time Lou Prophet went outside to build his quirley. Whatever that was.
And was Wyatt Earp still living? I know Bat Masterson, another hero of the old west, had died only four years earlier, and several lawmen and outlaws had lived well into the twentieth century. Why, I think Frank James had died only a few years before 1925. I’d have to ask Regina about Earp. And what a name that was. I’d always thought Gumm was a stinky name to tag onto a child, but Earp? Egad.
You know, it might be interesting to interview a bunch of people who had actually lived in the old west. Not that you could get much more westerly than California unless you wanted to go for a swim in the Pacific Ocean, but California couldn’t hold a candle to places like Tombstone, Arizona; Lincoln, New Mexico; Deadwood, South Dakota; Cheyenne, Wyoming and hellholes of a like nature. California was, unfortunately, civilized. Maybe San Francisco in its early days was a trifle wild, but it certainly wasn’t any longer, unless you count a Tong war every now and then. Gee, I was missing the good old days, and I hadn’t even lived through any!
Maybe I really was crazy.
Fourteen
My state of lunacy or lack thereof didn’t matter, however, because just then Sam walked into the waiting room. I would have risen to greet him, but…Well, you can end that one on your own.
His limp wasn’t as heavy coming out of the cells as it had been when he went in. Guess the aspirin tablets he’d downed at the bungalow had worked. I wished I’d thought to have taken some when we’d stopped there. Oh, well.
The first thing he said to me was, “Where’s Prophet?”
And how-do-you-do to you, too, darling, I thought. I didn’t say it, knowing my peevish mood to be prompted by pain. “He went outside.”
“Criminy. He coming in again?”
“Um, I think so.”
“Crap.” Sam strode to the door as well as he was able—I was pleased to see his stride was getting much stronger as his wound healed—and flung the door open. A cloud of acrid smoke blew inside the building, and he waved it away from his face. “You ready to find a place to stay for the night, Prophet?”
I saw Prophet draw what I presumed to be a cigarette from his mouth, throw it onto the ground, and stomp in it with his peg leg. Littering. Huh.
Sam bent, picked up the squished cigarette, and put it into the receptacle that had been placed outside the police station for just such a purpose. Prophet frowned at him as he did so.
The two men came inside the building, Prophet saying, “Didn’t see that thing.”
“It’s all right,” said my beloved upon a deep sigh. “Lots of folks manage not to see it. But we do like to keep Pasadena looking nice.”
Prophet’s nose wrinkled. But Sam was correct. Pasadena is a beautiful city, and those of us who live in it and love it, do want to keep it that way.
On the other hand, I guess I now knew what a quirley was. I decided to make sure. When the men drew close to my chair, I said, “Mr. Prophet, is a quirley the same as a cigarette?”
“Eh?” He scowled down at me for a moment. Merciful heavens. The man might be old, and he might have only one leg, but he had a presence about him that could cow a person in no time flat. At least he managed to cow me with one look and that “Eh.” I’m not normally a coward, either. Oh! I wonder if that’s how the word, coward, came into being. Cow. Coward.
Never mind.
“Quirley?” he said. “Yeah. A coffin nail. Least that’s what some folks call ’em. Don’t know why. I ain’t ready to be fitted with no wooden overcoat yet.”
Coffin nails? Wooden overcoat? Clearly, I had to learn a new language. I asked again, “Um, so a quirley and a coffin nail are both cigarettes?”
He looked at me as if I were as dim a bulb as Frank Pagano. “Ain’t that what I just said?”
“Um…not in so many words.”
He gave me a really you’ve-gone-’round-the-bend look then. I gave up trying to communicate with him for the nonce.
Then I wanted to know what Frank had told Sam that might justify his trying to murder me with that knife. I didn’t believe Frank would go so far as to kill me just because I was neither Italian nor Catholic, although with Frank, who could know? However, I decided to wait until we’d found sleeping quarters for Mr. Prophet before I asked Sam about Frank. “Are you going up to s
peak with the Odd Fellows, Sam?”
“Figured I might as well.”
“Shit, they won’t let me in! They already want to kick me out of that place.”
“Have you been…unruly or something there?” I asked, pretty sure I shouldn’t.
“Unruly? Hell, no! How the hell can a one-legged man with no money get unruly? They just don’t like me, is what.”
“Oh.” What the heck. He might be right. I said to Sam, “Do you think Johnny Buckingham might be a better choice?”
“Why don’t we try the Odd Fellows first,” said Sam.
“Who’s that Buckingham galoot you know?” asked Prophet suspiciously.
Humph. The man must have had some harrowing experiences if he could be suspicious of Johnny Buckingham upon merely hearing his name. Not that he knew Johnny, but for pity’s sake!
“He’s a very good friend of mine,” I told Prophet in as cold a voice as I could achieve. “He’s the captain of Pasadena’s Salvation Army organization, and he’s accustomed to finding sleeping quarters for people who are down on their luck.”
“Down on my luck, eh?” muttered Prophet.
“Well, you are, aren’t you?” I demanded. Pushy of me, I know, but he was annoying me.
“Yes, dammit!” he said, fury fairly radiating from him. “I was livin’ the good life until that broad drove that car off that damned cliff in Santa Monica!”
Puzzled, I said, “I beg your pardon?”
“Goddamn woman drove me, another whore, and a crate of booze off a hill in Santa Monica. I’m the only one who lived to tell the tale, but I lost my damned leg. So, yeah, I reckon I am down on my luck, dammit!”
“Oh,” I said, hornswoggled (I think that’s an old-west word). “I didn’t know that’s how you lost your leg. It must have happened fairly recently.”
“Yeah. Six months ago. Put paid to my working on western flickers. Dammit. Made good money doin’ that. Better’n bounty-hunting. Hell, you oughta go into the pitchers. You’re pretty, and if you get in the pitchers, you don’t have to do nothin’ but look good and swan around.”
“Um…” Very well, I didn’t know what to say.
I knew some picture folks, and some of them did considerably more than swan around. Some of them didn’t. But I had learned, both from personal experience and through Harold Kincaid, who had worked as a costumer in the moving pictures since forever, that it didn’t matter what you looked like on the street. What mattered was what you looked like on celluloid. It’s an unforgiving medium; some people look good on celluloid and some don’t. I didn’t bother explaining that to Lou Prophet. I doubted he’d have believed me, being somewhat grumpy about his condition, although what he’d been doing in an automobile with two women—whores? Good heavens—and a crate of liquor, I had no idea. I also had no idea why he was so crabby about it. I mean, he’d been breaking the law, hadn’t he? He probably didn’t look upon his accident in that light. I’d already concluded that the law and Lou Prophet didn’t always see eye-to-eye.
“I’ll bet it hurt a lot,” I said in a small voice.
“What? Losin’ the leg? Yeah, it hurt. No worse’n getting shot, I reckon, but it hurt.”
“Getting shot?” Good Lord!
“We’re here,” said Sam in a voice meant to carry above Prophet’s and mine. Made me jump. Didn’t have the same effect on Prophet, which figured. I’d be willing to bet not much startled him.
“They ain’t gonna let me in,” said Prophet in a dead tone.
“Yes, they will,” said Sam in a positive tone.
I believed Sam on this one. Nevertheless, since I couldn’t know for sure unless I saw for myself, I said, “May I come with you?”
“Can you move?” asked Sam in a not-very-lover-like voice.
“Probably,” I said, having momentarily forgot about my various injuries. Maybe Lou Prophet was good for me! Interesting notion. I’d have to think about it another time.
“Ain’t gonna work,” said Prophet. Nevertheless, he opened the back door to Sam’s Hudson and hobbled out onto the sidewalk.
Greatly daring, I too opened my door. Unlike Prophet, I didn’t hobble from the automobile. I sort of plopped. But I landed on my feet! I figured that was good enough, so I shuffled after the two men.
Lou Prophet grumbled non-stop on the way to the front door of the Odd Fellows’ charity home. It was a bleak-looking place on South Fair Oaks Avenue. I’d read in the Pasadena Star News that the Odd Fellows planned to build a new temple (that’s what they called it) on North Los Robles Avenue in the future. How far in the future, I had no idea, but I hoped the new building would appear more welcoming than this one.
Sam got to the front door ahead of Prophet and clanged the bell hanging outside really loudly. I winced but didn’t stop walking. Sort-of walking. Shambling, I guess is a better term for my movements at the time.
I heard Lou Prophet say, “Kee-rist.” Guess he didn’t approve of loud bell-ringing any more than I did.
When the door opened, I could tell the opener thereof was peeved about the bell, too. A small man with a shiny bald head and a miserly frown, he said, “What is the meaning of this?“Then he saw Prophet and said, “You,” in a voice that told the listener precisely what he thought of Lou Prophet.
“Me,” said Prophet.
“I’m Detective Sam Rotondo, with the Pasadena Police Department,” Sam said in his official voice, which was quite intimidating to some people.
The little man wasn’t one of the some. “If that creature has been in trouble with the law—”
“He hasn’t,” said Sam, his voice a trifle more deadly now. “In fact, he helped save a woman’s life and capture a wanted criminal. He’s been of material help to the Pasadena Police Department and he feared, since it’s after nine p.m., you wouldn’t allow him into his room here.” Just in case the little man wanted to argue some more, Sam reached into his pocket and brought out the leather case in which he kept his badge and other police credentials.
The little bald man stared from the leather case to Sam and then to Lou Prophet, and his nose wrinkled. “Well…”
“Mr. Prophet has a room here, has he not?”
“Well…Yes, he has, although—”
“Fine then,” said Sam, stomping on Baldy’s words as if they were pesky bugs. “See him to his room. I’ll want to talk to him again tomorrow, so keep his room available to him.”
“Mister Ro—”
“Detective. Detective Sam Rotondo, with the Pasadena Police Department, and you will do what I say or be in violation of the law.”
“What?” the little man squeaked.
I squinted at the nametag sewn on to his coat. I think it said his name was Elmer J. Crimstone. Funny name. Then again, I’d been saddled with the last name Gumm for seventeen years of my life, so I shouldn’t talk.
“You heard me. Now, do you want me to accompany Mr. Prophet to his room, or will you let him in and keep him here until we need him?”
“They gonna keep me in this hellhole?” asked Prophet. I wished he hadn’t, since I wanted to get home sometime soon.
“What do you mean ‘hellhole,’ you old reprobate?” squeaked the little bald man.
“They won’t keep you, in that you won’t be allowed out and about,” said Sam, this time softening his voice a little for Prophet. “But they’ll keep your room available for you.” He turned to Baldy. “Won’t you, Mister Crimstone?”
Fuming, Mr. Crimstone finally seemed to have to force himself to say, “Very well. But I don’t like this!”
“You don’t have to like it. All you have to do is keep the man’s room available for him. If you don’t, I’ll be back.”
“Thought you was comin’ back anyways,” said Prophet.
I couldn’t see him do it, but I’d bet Sam rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. I’ll be back to talk to you some more. Tomorrow, in fact.”
After pursing his lips and looking as if he might erupt and spew all over Sam—and the
rest of Pasadena, too—for a few moments, Mr. Crimstone stepped back. “Oh, very well. But I will countenance no disturbances of the peace in this facility. Mr. Prophet has been a source of noise and confusion more than once during his short tenure here.”
Sam turned on Prophet. “Stop making a pest of yourself, Prophet. You’ve got a bed to sleep in and food to eat. Maybe we can work out a better arrangement for you if you have to stick around for my nephew’s trial.”
“Stick around?” Prophet spat on the front porch of the Odd Fellows’ Home.
“That’s so rude!” I told him.
He turned and scowled at me.
“Daisy’s right,” said Sam.
“Shit,” said Prophet.
“Humph!” said Crimstone.
I decided then and there his name should be Brimstone rather than Crimstone.
But Prophet pushed past the little bald beast and stomped into the Odd Fellows’ Home. I didn’t envy him. If all the staff were like Crimstone, I’d have rebelled, too. On the other hand, it was nice to know people like those belonging to the Odd Fellows and the Salvation Army were available to people who needed help.
The Odd Fellows might take a page from Johnny Buckingham’s book and at least be nice about it, though.
Sam held my arm as we made our way back to his Hudson. I was mighty achy just then and wanted my bed more than I wanted about anything else. However, I also wanted to ask Sam some questions, so I did as he drove me home.
“What kind of coat was Mr. Prophet wearing?” I asked Sam. I’d been curious about that long, battered coat of Mr. Prophet’s since I first set eyes on him.
“His coat?”
“Yes. Gentlemen in Pasadena don’t wear coats like that.”
“In case it’s escaped your attention, Mr. Prophet isn’t a gentleman, Daisy,” Sam said, not unkindly, but as if Mr. Prophet’s rough edges were merely part of his personality.
“I guess you’re right about that. But his coat. It looks…I don’t know. Old-fashioned or something.”
“It is,” said Sam. “It’s a good, old-fashioned frock coat. I understand all the best villains in the old west wore them.”
