A Few Minutes Past Midnight

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Toby,” he said. “A lunatic was just brought in here. Says he knows you.”

  “Chubby guy with thick glasses?” I asked.

  “The very one,” Francesco said.

  “Who has him?”

  “He’s going up for a talk with John C.”

  John C. was John Cawelti, a detective sergeant with something deeper than dislike for me.

  “Why’s he interested in a misdemeanor in the Square?”

  “Heard the guy using your name. John C. got very interested.”

  “I’m on the way,” I said.

  “Sounds like that might be a good idea.”

  I hoped Phil was back at the Wilshire Station. When I got there, Francesco was at the downstairs desk hunched over and talking to an old man who seemed to be whispering.

  Francesco was a patient man who looked like everyone’s favorite uncle or the favorite uncle everyone would like to have. He was round, around fifty, with a permanent understanding smile on his face.

  He motioned me over to him.

  “And so,” I heard the old man saying, “I can maybe buy one of those portable wire recorders, you know. Record what they say, bring it in. You find someone who understands Japanese and we catch ’em.”

  “Sounds like a good plan to me, Mr. Piano. A very good plan. Maybe you can pick up a recorder on the cheap side at a pawnshop. Don’t let those spies catch you recording ’em though.”

  “I’ll be careful,” the old man said.

  “And if they don’t come back,” Francesco said. “You can always record music or your favorite radio shows.”

  The old man nodded and shook the desk sergeant’s hand. He turned, looked at me with suspicion, and went away satisfied.

  “Phil’s not back,” Francesco said. “Cawelti’s got your chubby guy in interrogation on two.”

  “Thanks, Marty,” I said. “I won’t tell Cawelti how I knew about this.”

  Francesco smiled and said, “Toby, I don’t care if you tell him. He can curse and scream and threaten and give me looks that would make Boris Karloff back away and it wouldn’t get him anything but a tolerant smile from me. Hell, I’d welcome the diversion.”

  “Ayuda me,” a woman behind me said, her voice quivering.

  “En que le puedo servir,” said Marty.

  I got out of the way and headed up the wooden stairs.

  The interrogation room was up the stairs, to the right, and past the squad room. It was purposely chosen for questioning suspects because it was at the end of the corridor behind a thick wooden door, away from where pleas, cries, shouting, and groans could be heard unless they were machine-gun loud, which they sometimes were.

  My brother had a fondness for the room. It was probably John Cawelti’s favorite place in the world: small, single bulb, no windows, wooden table with two chairs, and a phone book on the table. The phone book was used on the heads of suspects.

  I didn’t bother to knock. I opened the door and walked in. Cawelti was standing with both hands on the table. Shelly was on the other side of the table seated and sweating, his eyes and mouth open wide.

  Cawelti’s sleeves were rolled up. He was having a good time. He hadn’t changed much in the years I had known him. He was about my height and weight but that was the end of the resemblance. John Cawelti had bright red hair parted straight down the middle. His face was pockmarked and angry and he always wore suspenders.

  “Get out,” he said, looking at me and standing back from the table.

  “What are you holding him for?” I said calmly.

  “You get a law degree or something?” Cawelti said, taking a step toward me.

  “You want Marty Leib down here,” I said. “I’ll give him a call.”

  Marty Leib was, when I needed and could afford him, my lawyer. Marty knew everyone, everyone worth knowing. He could smear a cop with two phone calls. Cawelti knew it. He’d been smeared by Marty before.

  “This man is a pervert,” Cawelti said. “He was caught in Pershing Square with his pants down. When an officer questioned him, a couple of the pervert’s friends tried to stop the officer. Description he gave was a guy who looked like an ex-pug and a dwarf. Sound like anybody we know?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Then this pervert assaulted the officer.”

  “I’m not a pervert,” Shelly whined. “Tell him I’m a dentist.”

  “He’s a dentist,” I said.

  “One count of public nudity and one count of assault on a police officer,” Cawelti said. “Make a nice story in tomorrow’s papers.”

  Shelly groaned.

  “He wasn’t nude,” I said. “Call in the arresting cop.”

  “I wasn’t nude,” Shelly said.

  “Report says he was nude,” said Cawelti.

  “I’d like to take a look at the report and talk to the arresting officer.”

  Cawelti laughed.

  “Okay,” I said. “Then maybe Phil will want to take a look at it and talk to the cop.”

  “I’m a respectable dentist,” Shelly said. “Just look at me.”

  Cawelti and I didn’t look at him. Our eyes were locked on each other’s.

  “You’ll be running to big brother till he retires, which I hear might be soon.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Maybe no nudity. Maybe I misread the report,” Cawelti said with a shrug.

  “And maybe Dr. Minck, a respected member of his profession, lost his glasses and accidentally bumped into the arresting officer.”

  “That’s right,” Shelly bleated. “Lost my glasses. Blind as a cat, I mean a bat, without them. Accident. I’m always losing them, bumping into things, wandering into the street. Anyone can tell you.”

  “What do you want, John?” I asked.

  “Read some notes,” he said. “Some crap about five murders. Your name was mentioned. And our sweaty pervert here mentioned Charlie Chaplin’s name.”

  “In passing,” said Shelly. “Just in passing.”

  “Six murders, Charlie Chaplin,” Cawelti said, shaking his head. “I’d like to know more. I’d like to know a lot more.”

  “Ask Phil,” I said.

  “I don’t think so. I’m asking you.”

  “You let Dr. Minck go, and if and when I find the killer, I give you the collar.”

  He thought it over.

  “And you forget he mentioned Charlie Chaplin,” I added.

  “Providing.”

  “Providing,” I agreed. “You get evidence and the collar.”

  “You’re cheap goods, Peters, but your word is good. You can have butterball.”

  “I can go?” asked Shelly.

  Cawelti nodded.

  Shelly got up and hurried behind me to the door.

  “Your word,” Cawelti reminded me.

  “And yours,” I said.

  He nodded.

  I thought I knew why he hated me. We had too much in common. He lived alone in a one-room apartment. No family. He didn’t drink though people thought he did, because of his pink face and because he hadn’t saved any money. Even if I handed him Sawyer and Chaplin, he would never be anything more than he was. And I would never be more than I was. The difference was that I didn’t fight my fate and Cawelti hated his. I wondered if he had anyone he could call a friend. I considered asking him but changed my mind.

  “This is just between us,” he said as I moved to the door.

  That meant I wasn’t to go to Phil. I didn’t intend to. Phil might ask questions I didn’t want to answer. Cawelti wanted the headline, the credit for catching the killer of six or more women.

  “Between us,” I agreed. “I hope this doesn’t mean we’re becoming friends.”

  “The first chance I get, I’ll ram a nightstick up your …”

  “One can’t have too many enemies in our business,” I stopped him.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” he said through his teeth.

  I got out.

  Shelly wasn’t in
the corridor. I found him outside the station waiting for me.

  “Did you hear, see … false arrest,” he sputtered. “He … I’m a dentist.”

  “Shel, you are a goddamn hero.”

  “He hit me with that phone bo.… That’s right. I saved you in the Square. You and Gunther.”

  I hoped this meant that he would quickly forget his guilt about losing Fiona Sullivan. I decided not to tell Shelly about her locket in my pocket.

  “You didn’t get him,” he said.

  “No, we didn’t,” I said. “But thanks to you we’re getting closer. I’ll drive you back to your car.”

  “What time …? I’ve got Mr. Kurtiser due in my office in twenty minutes for a file-down and four fillings.”

  “Let’s not keep Mr. Kurtiser from his fate,” I said, wondering where I was going to find Howard Sawyer and if I could do it before he dropped a rock on my head or Chaplin’s.

  Alice Pallis Butler was standing in the Farraday hall near the elevator on the sixth floor. Her arms were folded across her chest, and she looked as if she were ready for business. I hoped the business wasn’t with me. I smiled, said, “How are you Alice?” and headed for the stairs.

  Alice stepped in front of me. She was almost as big as Jeremy and nearly as strong. She had a pleasant, round face and short dark hair. Alice had a good smile. She wasn’t wearing it now.

  “Let’s talk,” she said.

  “I … let’s talk,” I said. “Where?”

  “Here is fine,” she said.

  She was wearing a blue cotton dress with an etched pink flower over her ample left breast. Her wide belt matched the flower.

  “Jeremy,” I said.

  “We’ve had this talk before,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “But this one is different.”

  I waited. I could see that she was trying to figure out a way to tell me something that wasn’t easy for her.

  “I’ll stop coming to him for help,” I said.

  “Because you’re afraid of me?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “Because I understand how you feel. The baby.”

  “Natasha? Yes,” she said, glancing down the six-floor drop to the lobby below. “But the problem is Jeremy likes helping you. It makes him feel … I don’t know, wanted. He’s at peace with himself. Don’t get me wrong. But there’s a part of him that … I’m not doing this very well.”

  “You’re doing fine, Alice,” I said.

  “He likes you,” she said. “I can’t keep saying ‘no’ to him. He’s sensitive, Toby. He’s a poet. But he’s not a young man.”

  “He’s a very strong old man,” I said.

  “Very strong in body. Very sensitive in soul. I didn’t talk like that before I met Jeremy. I’ve told Jeremy everything I was before he met me. I don’t think you want to hear it.”

  “Not unless you feel you have to tell me,” I said.

  “Only that I spent some time in prison,” she said so softly that I almost missed it. “Not long, but enough. I’m not going to try to keep Jeremy locked in anything. I love him and he loves me and the baby. So, just take care of him while he’s taking care of you.”

  “I will,” I said. “I promise.”

  She touched my shoulder and smiled. Her touch was amazingly light. The touch told me there was no threat behind what she had just said. Then she turned and walked down the stairs ahead of me.

  I listened to her footsteps go down two flights and turn down the corridor moving toward her office/apartment. When the door closed with an echo, I started down.

  On the street I went to the corner and stepped into Manny’s. There were no customers. Just Manny behind the counter with a cup of coffee and his newspaper. Manny had been looking gaunt with the strain of worrying about all of his relatives fighting the Nazis and the Japanese.

  He read every word of the newspaper every day and knew what was going on all over the world. He looked up at me with resigned eyes and said, “Burma.”

  “Burma,” I repeated, sitting at the counter. Manny poured me a cup of coffee. I added some sugar and waited for more about Burma, not wanting to think about Alice walking down those stairs in front of me, walking to a real home and family.

  “We pounded the Japs from the air in Burma while the Brits were fighting on the ground, but it’s not over. The Japs have more than eighty thousand men in Burma. It’s gonna take everything: planes, men, sea power. It’s not gonna be over for a long time. The Japs aren’t gonna give up easy. Our boys, lots of them, are gonna be in for it.”

  I knew he meant his own boys, his own family.

  “Yeah,” I said in a flash of brilliance.

  “I’m goin’ home,” he said, taking off his apron. “Finish up. I’m closing.”

  I knew what he meant. He wanted to be with his wife Rosie and his sister and brother-in-law who lived with them. He wanted to be with family.

  I gulped down the coffee and told Manny I’d see him tomorrow.

  “Right,” he said. “Coffee’s on me.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  I SHOULDN’T HAVE done it. I knew it then. I know it now, but there are loose ends that demand to be tied. They sit there in the back of our minds, reminding us when we least expect it that they won’t go away. There were places I should have been, things I could have been doing.

  For example, I could have taken on the job of watching Chaplin as soon as I left the Wilshire Station. I could have gone over the clippings Gunther had found in Sawyer’s drawer. I could have gone back to Blanche Wiltsey to try to find out what connection she might have to Sawyer. I could have consulted with Juanita though I knew she would just give me more questions and no understandable answers.

  Instead, I went to the travel office my ex-wife Ann owned and managed. She had started working for an airline when she left me and kept moving up her ladder while I sat on the lowest rung of mine. Since she had married Preston Stewart, the couple had made the newspapers from time to time with her described as a successful woman in business and him described as the dashing Preston Stewart.

  The office was on corner of Sepulveda and Mitchell, a renovated storefront building with a tasteful sign in both of the downstairs windows that proclaimed in flowing black script that the would-be traveler was about to enter the offices of Ann Stewart Travel. Before Ann moved in, the top floor had been leased to a bookie named Cyril Petrano under the name of Smith Enterprises. The bottom storefront floor had been The Culver City Bar. The windows had been painted black when it was a bar. They were now clear and always clean so visitors and passersby could see busy men and women on the phones, hurrying with papers in their hands, talking to customers seated by their desks.

  “Can I help you?” asked the receptionist, a thin girl with severe dark hair, large teeth and smile, and a well-pressed dark suit.

  You can help me catch a murderer, I thought. You can tell me you’re a specialist in whatever was going to kill my sister-in-law, Ruth. You can try to convince me that I am right up there with Gary Cooper or Robert Taylor or Preston Stewart.

  “Ann Stewart,” I said.

  “She’s with a client,” the girl said brightly. “Can someone else help you?”

  Anita Maloney was the most likely substitute, but Anita was behind a drugstore counter serving BLTs on white toast at Mack’s Pharmacy.

  “No,” I said, looking at my dad’s watch on my wrist. It told me that I didn’t know what time it was. “It’s important. Can you tell her Toby is here?”

  “I don’t think I can disturb her,” the girl said sweetly. “Mrs. Millbanks can …”

  “No,” I said. “Mrs. Millbanks can’t. Just tell her Toby is here.”

  “Toby who?”

  “The Toby who used to be her husband,” I said.

  “Oh,” said the girl. “Oh.”

  She picked up the phone and dialed a single number.

  Ann Stewart Travel looked like an office movie set with the agents and custome
rs as busy extras. Voices were low. There was no loud laughter.

  “I’m sorry,” the girl said softly into the phone, “but there is a gentleman here who says his name is Toby and that he wants to see you.” The girl nodded while Ann talked and then looked up at me. “What did you want to see her about?”

  “Matters of love, life, and death,” I said. “Urgent matters.”

  “He says ‘urgent matters of life and death,’” the girl said and then listened before saying, “Yes.”

  She hung up and looked at me.

  “At the rear of the office, up the stairs, first door on the left.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I think I just messed up,” the girl said.

  “How?”

  “This is my first day on the job. I was told not to disturb her.” She bit her lower lip. “Oh well, if she fires me, I can go back to being a carhop at Howie’s Drive-In in the Valley. Tips are good but the guys …”

  “She won’t fire you,” I said with a grin.

  The grin didn’t seem to reassure her.

  “I don’t make as much money here,” she said, “but I get to sit all day instead of standing most of the night.”

  “And wearing those little costumes,” I said with sympathy.

  “You know how many times a night you get your bottom pinched or touched at a drive-in?”

  “Me? None.”

  “I meant me. Six, seven times, and other stuff. I’m a high school graduate.”

  “Louise,” came the voice of a man at a nearby desk.

  “Yes sir,” said the former and maybe soon-to-be-again carhop.

  He had a sagging face with sad eyes and a head of black hair shining with Wildroot. He didn’t have to say more.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  The guy with the sagging face shook his head at the quality of help one could get nowadays. I winked at Louise the receptionist and moved toward the back of the office and to the stairway. Ann’s office was just where Louise had said it would be. Her name was on it in small, tasteful, black block letters. I knocked.

  The door opened and I let a fidgety little man clutching a briefcase to his chest pass by me and head for the stairs. Ann stood about four feet away. I could smell her. It was more than faint perfume.