“That kind of thing work?” Anita asked as we moved out of the squad room.
“Almost never,” I said. “But he did enough nutty stuff to make a jury stop and think if it gets to a jury and if he gets a good criminal lawyer like Marty Leib.”
Going down the stairs was harder on my ankle than going up had been. I grimaced. Anita put my arm around her shoulder.
“I guess this means our date is off for tonight,” she said.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Going out for dinner and a movie?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
She drove me to Mrs. Plaut’s and helped me up the front stairs and through the door. We were four steps up the stairs to the second floor when Mrs. Plaut emerged from her rooms, blue robe wrapped around her with a purple sash, hands on her hips.
“Mr. Peelers,” she said sternly.
How is it, I wondered not for the first time, that a woman as deaf as Irene Plaut could sense even a deep breath three rooms away through the walls but not hear someone knocking at her door?
“Mrs. Plaut,” I said, turning to face her.
“You are drunk,” she said, looking at Anita who was still holding my arm over her shoulder.
“No, Mrs. Plaut,” I said. “I am hurt.”
“What’s wrong?”
“My ankle,” I said. “Twisted.”
She reached up and touched her ear. God was on my side. She was wearing her hearing aid, the one I had bought her, the one that spent most days and nights in a kitchen drawer next to her sterling silver.
“Twisted,” she repeated with suspicion. “How?”
“I fell in a grave,” I said.
“And who is this?” she went on, looking at Anita and apparently accepting without question the reason for my injury.
“Anita Maloney,” I said. “A friend in need.”
“She’s not planning to stay the night,” said Mrs. Plaut.
“There’s almost no night left,” I said.
“I’m not staying,” Anita said. “I’ll just take Mr. Peters to his room.”
“Three minutes,” said Mrs. Plaut.
“Less than two,” answered Anita with a smile.
We started up the stairs again.
“You shouldn’t be playing in graves at night,” Mrs. Plaut said behind us. “You shouldn’t be playing in graves at all. My great-uncle, Robert Stillwell, almost died in a grave in Remington, Kansas, during the War Between the States.”
“Write it in your memoirs,” I said.
“I will,” answered Mrs. Plaut. “Breakfast is at 7:45.”
We were at the top of the stairs now. I turned, my hands on the railing.
“I think I’ll skip breakfast,” I said.
“Southern pork fritters and eggs O’Bannion,” she said. “I’ll wake you.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Mrs. Plaut stood there, waiting.
“I can make it from here,” I said to Anita. “Take my car. I’ll pick it up in the morning at your place.”
“Don’t wake me,” she said, leaning over to kiss my stubbly cheek.
“Mrs. Plaut is watching,” I said.
“We’ll have to live with the consequences,” said Anita, starting down the stairs.
“You work for a living?” Mrs. Plaut asked as Anita neared the bottom of the stairs.
“Waitress,” Anita said.
“Honest living,” said Mrs. Plaut with approval. “I waited tables in Prescott, Arizona, for almost two years. Hard work. Rough talk. Bottom pinchers. Good tips. Long hours. Sore feet. I must inform you that sometimes Mr. Peelers is a scamp. At his age he should have chosen a steady job.”
Anita looked up at me and said, “Maybe he’ll pick one when he grows up.”
“I doubt it,” said Mrs. Plaut.
I went to my room, opened the door, flicked on the light, and managed to drag out my mattress and unroll it.
Dash sat watching me.
“Hungry?” I asked.
Dash, as usual, said nothing. I hobbled to the refrigerator, got some milk out, rinsed his bowl, filled it, and found a can of Spam. I opened the can, scooped some of it out, and put it on a plate for Dash who approached, smelled it, and started to eat. I put what was left in the refrigerator and staggered to the light switch.
That was all I remembered till Mrs. Plaut burst through the door at, according to the Beech-Nut clock on the wall, seven in the morning.
“Breakfast,” she said.
I groaned.
“You have half an hour to shave, shower, put on clean clothing, and be at the table.”
She closed the door and disappeared. I sat up. I was still wearing Anita’s ex-husband’s clothes. Somehow I had taken my shoes off. My ankle was numb. My mouth felt like someone had scrubbed it with dry steel wool. I managed to get on my one good foot and one bad one and to kick off the clothes I was wearing. I found my ancient robe in the closet, put it on, and headed for the shared bathroom, hoping it wasn’t occupied. It wasn’t. Twenty minutes later, I was at Mrs. Plaut’s table eating pork fritters, eggs O’Bannion, and drinking coffee.
Emma Simcox, Ben Bidwell, and Gunther all looked at me and waited. Mrs. Plaut had obviously said something about my early morning arrival with Anita.
“I fell in a grave,” I explained.
“None of my business,” said Bidwell, the one-armed car salesman. The customer was always right at Mad Jack’s in Venice.
Miss Simcox smiled and bent her head.
“Toby, did you …?” Gunther asked.
“We got him,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about it later. Doing anything for lunch?”
“I have an article to finish, Hungarian, very interesting. Something about using the sun as an energy source for automobiles instead of gasoline.”
“Won’t work,” said Bidwell, the auto expert. “Mark my word. When the war is over, no one’s gonna be interested in anything but cheap gas and fast cars.”
“I shall mark your word,” Gunther said politely. “I will be ready to lunch at one if that is not too late.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Pork fritters are great,” said Bidwell.
Mrs. Plaut was not wearing her hearing aid this morning.
“Everything,” she said solemnly, nibbling a slice of toast, “is fate. We simply trust in the Lord, do our best, and join the war effort.”
“Amen,” said Emma Simcox.
“Amen,” I added.
Westinghouse in the other room cackled something. It didn’t sound like “amen.”
After breakfast, I called for a cab and waited on the porch under Mrs. Plaut’s framed autographed photograph of Eleanor Roosevelt. The sun was shining today. I should have gone to Doc Hodgdon for my ankle. I could do it later. First I had to pick up my car and get it to No-Neck Arnie.
Forty minutes later, I had managed to drive the one-eyed Crosley into Arnie’s.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Someone shot the lamp out with my gun,” I explained.
“I’ll take a look,” he said. “Give me ten minutes. You can wait around or give me a call.”
“I’ll call,” I said.
I made my way slowly toward the open garage door.
“What happened to your leg?”
“Fell in a grave,” I said.
“Got a pair of crutches in the office,” he said. “When Nick fell in the grease pit the first time. I’ll get ’em. No charge.”
He came back with the crutches and handed them to me.
“Thanks, Arnie,” I said.
“Stay out of open graves,” he said and headed for my Crosley.
I waved a crutch at Manny as I passed Manny’s Taco’s. Manny waved back, showing no curiosity that I could see about my crutches. I continued on my pilgrimage to the Farraday Building. If my ankle had been up to it, I might have ducked Juanita, who was coming through the Farraday door humming something. I continued.
&n
bsp; She didn’t look any more surprised at my crutches than Manny.
“Was I right?” she asked.
I thought about her prophecy in the elevator when the whole thing had started. She had been right about everything but, as usual, it hadn’t done me any good.
“Anything else to tell me?” I asked.
“You don’t have to see a doctor. Your ankle’s not broken. Just a sprain. Don’t take the tape off for two days.”
“As clear a prophecy as you’ve ever given me,” I said.
“No prophecy,” she answered, taking a compact out of her purse and examining herself in the mirror. “Remember the Vasquella brothers, the twins who come to see me on Tuesday mornings?”
“No.”
“Well,” she went on, touching her nose to smooth something out, “Manuel limped just like that. No swelling. Kept the tape on. He was fine in two days. How’d you hurt it?”
“Stepped on a dead woman in a grave,” I said.
“Told you,” she said with a wink before she jangled off.
The usual office noises and echoes greeted me in the Farraday lobby along with the familiar and comforting smell of Jeremy’s Lysol. There was no possibility of my going up the stairs. I was happy to make it to the elevator, close the metal-grated doors, push the button, and lean back.
The sound of an off-key trombone slid by on the first floor. A duet of clacking typewriter and someone shouting in Spanish serenaded me on the second floor. By the time the elevator got to my floor, I had been treated to a symphony of less than pure delight.
When I opened the outer office, Violet looked up at me. So did a couple in the two waiting-room chairs. They were about seventy, looked scared, and were holding hands.
“What happened?” Violet asked.
“Tripped,” I said, not wanting to go over it again.
“Rocky’s coming home,” she said eagerly.
“He’s okay?”
“Perfect,” Violet said. “His time’s up. Says he doesn’t think he wants to box anymore. Got the letter right here.”
She held up a thin, blue, V-mail letter.
“Great,” I said. “How soon?”
She shrugged.
“Soon is all I know.”
“Soon is pretty good,” I said.
“Pardon me,” said the old woman. She had a European accent. “Are you Doctor Minck?”
“That’s …” Violet began, but I cut her off.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Mine husband. He has a tooth, a bad tooth. Maybe two bad teeth.”
The man said something softly in whatever their language was and the woman nodded her head.
“What made you pick this office?” I asked.
“We were visiting cousin who is making zippers on this floor,” she said. “We pass by, see the sign. I tell Max he must see tooth doctor now.”
“I don’t think I can work today,” I said sadly, looking at my crutches. “There’s a dentist two buildings down, across the street, name’s Zanderoff. I think you’ll be better off there.”
The woman translated. The man said something.
“You sending us to different tooth doctor?”
“It’s the right thing to do,” I said. “I think you’d better get him over there right away.”
The old man and woman got up, thanked me, and hurried out the door.
“You plan to tell Shelly?” I asked Violet.
She shook her head no.
Shelly came through the door and said, “Who were those two, the ones who just left here?”
“Foreigners. Wrong office,” I said.
Shelly looked at Violet for confirmation. She said, “Foreigners. Wrong office.”
Shelly walked past me through the door to his office. I followed him. He was wearing a green sports jacket, dark green slacks pulled high on his belly, and a fresh cigar. He adjusted his glasses and plucked an almost clean white dental apron from the rack near the door.
“We caught him, Shel,” I said.
He turned to look at me, blinked, and said, “Sawyer?”
“His real name is Pultman,” I said.
“You said ‘we caught him’?”
“Anita Maloney and me,” I said.
“Good. He shoot you in the ankle or kick you in the shin or something?”
“Something,” I said.
“I think I deserve some credit here,” Shelly said, moving his metal torture tool table and examining his weapons.
“You’re definitely a hero, Shel,” I said.
“A day’s work,” he said humbly.
“Fiona Sullivan was working with him,” I said. “She isn’t dead.”
This got his attention. He turned in my direction and pointed a sharp metal object with a thin wire at the end.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey. Then I’m not responsible for getting her killed.”
“She’s not dead,” I said again.
“I’ve got a feeling this is gonna be one hell of a great day. Two fillings at nine. An extraction at ten. Braces on a kid at two. Full plate. Life is good, Toby. Life is good.”
“It’s great Shel,” I said, heading for my office.
“I wanna show you something new I’ve been working on,” he said, reaching toward something at the end of the metal table.
“Later,” I said, not wanting to see what he was going to come up with. “I’ve got some calls to make.”
Inside my office I opened my window, sat down behind my desk, and pulled out a pad of paper, a pen, and my bottle of Carter’s Ink. My bill to Chaplin lacked only one thing, the price of fixing my headlight. I called Arnie. He told me what it would cost and I told him to fix it. Then I took out my notebook, looked at some of my expense notations, and composed my letter.
Dear Mr. Chaplin,
With the successful conclusion of the case for which you hired me, I herein submit my bill for services under our agreement of twenty-five dollars a day, plus twenty dollars a day for a protective agent.
Donation to the Eugene O’Neill Society of Southern California
$5
Two train compartments for San Francisco
$49
Four days of investigation
$100
One day of protective service (Al Woodman)
$10
Gasoline
$8
Cleaning of clothes (estimate soiled in cemetery)
$3
Replacement of headlight (shot by criminal)
$13.00
Miscellaneous (which I will itemize on request)
$10.12
TOTAL
$200.12
Since you gave me a $200 advance, I owe you twelve cents plus the cost of replacing the window in your house and the lamp that Woodman shot. Let me know the cost of the window. It’s been a pleasure knowing you.
Sincerely,
Toby Peters
I took out my wallet and dug into my pockets. I put twelve cents in an envelope, put Chaplin’s name on it, and licked it closed.
It was nine. I took a chance and called. A woman answered.
“Mr. Chaplin, please,” I said.
“He’s just getting out of the shower, but who should I say is calling?”
“Toby Peters.”
“Toby,” Chaplin said eagerly a few seconds later. “Any news?”
“We got him,” I said.
“Where?”
“Dressed in women’s clothes and about to get on a chartered plane at two this morning.”
“God, I wish I had been there.”
“I don’t think you’ll have to give a statement,” I said. “But I’m not sure.
“Can’t be helped,” he said with resignation. “This has been an amazing experience, one I’ll not forget. This adventure has given me the inspiration to write a complete screenplay. It is no longer Lady Killer, but in honor of Mrs. Plaut I am calling it Monsieur Verdoux. I think calling it Mister Voodoo would be more apropos for an Abbott
and Costello film, don’t you think?”
“I do,” I said. “I’d like to drop my bill off with you and ask you a favor.”
“Name it,” said Chaplin.
I told him.
“When?” he asked.
“This afternoon possible?”
“Can we make it tonight,” he said. “I must take my wife to a luncheon at Janet Gaynor’s. One can’t afford to slight friends when one has so few.”
“Tonight will be great. Name a time. I’ll pick you up.”
“No, I’ll have a driver. I’ll pick you up at Mrs. Plaut’s at, shall we say, six?”
“Six is fine.”
“Oh, by the way,” he said. “How much do I owe you? I’ll have it with me in cash.”
“You gave me a two-hundred-dollar advance. I owe you twelve cents,” I said. “Plus the cost of your window and lamp.”
“Let’s call it even,” he said.
“Let’s,” I agreed.
“See you at six.”
I hung up, tore open the envelope, pocketed the dime and two pennies, and sat back. Twenty minutes or so later, while I was picking through old mail and paying a few small bills, Jeremy came in.
“Sheldon tells me you caught Pultman,” he said.
“For once, Sheldon is right. Thanks for your help, Jeremy.”
“You are welcome. I’ve finished a poem about Juanita. Extraordinary woman. Would you like to hear it?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
He stood and read:
No-nonsense sanctum, four unmatched chairs and a table,
Behind a door that says “Juanita,” next to Albert Dew
A baby photographer who has no patience with children who
Find him unfunny and smelly too. His clients are few.
On the other side of Juanita are two brothers named Whales
Whose income is derived from whoopee cushion sales.
Maintaining class in company such as this
Is but a consummation devoutly to be wished.
But Juanita, born Jewish in the Bronx, has a long list
Of Mexicans, Negroes, Creoles, and others who exist
To hear her in Brooklynese unrepentant and pure
Tell their future in words and images obscure.
Juanita’s power came unbidden, gift and curse,
For her thoughts, images, fragments come in a burst
A Few Minutes Past Midnight Page 19
