Buried Caesars

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  I parked in a space on the street and met Seidman in the lobby. The desk sergeant was a young balding guy named Rashkow who’d had his brains shaken and his left leg peppered with shrapnel defending some small island in the Pacific a year before. He was back now and doing desk duty.

  I waved at him and he waved back. Rashkow was busy with an angry little woman in a cloth coat and an enormous fat man with a baby face. The fat man was rocking from one foot to the other like a kid who had wet his diaper.

  “Lindsey,” Rashkow was saying, “you were told that you couldn’t sit on Mrs. Wiskler’s dogs, now weren’t you?”

  Seidman let me lead the way up the narrow dark stairway and around to the left, past the squad room, to my brother’s office. I knocked and went in when Phil grunted. Seidman stayed outside.

  “I’m in a good mood, Toby,” Phil said, looking up at me from his desk. He was clearly packing. There were two cardboard boxes on his desk, botrffilled. The drawers of his desk were open. His tie was open wide and he looked at me and ran his thick right hand through his short steely gray hair. Phil pulled his gut in and stood up with a deep sigh.

  “That’s good, Phil,” I said. “You’re moving?”

  “Back to the old office,” he said, face pink. “No more administration. I’ll have a case load, regular squad. No more being nice to old ladies and storekeepers.”

  “Back to head bashing,” I said. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

  “I told you,” Phil said, pointing a finger at me. “I am in a good mood. Don’t provoke me. And before you can ask, Ruth is fine. Nate and Dave and Lucy are fine. Now, what’s going on with this crap in Pacific Palisades. Why’d they call me?”

  “I …”

  “I think we’ve got a pair of gatekeepers who can identify you,” he cut in. “So don’t give me any of your cockeyed stories.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” I said. “I just found the body.”

  “I know that,” Phil said, emptying a drawer into one of the boxes. Paper clips, broken pencils and pieces of paper fluttered. Some of it got into the box. “Medical examiner just called. Hower was killed last night. You didn’t get there till this morning. What the hell were you doing there? Who was the guy you were with? Why is someone calling me and trying to nail you with murder one?”

  “I’m on a case,” I said. “Missing wife. Thought she might be with Hower. Faked my way in and found his body. So I got the hell out.”

  Phil grunted and opened another drawer before he spoke.

  “Hower didn’t like wives or girls,” Phil said. “He liked husbands and boys. And who was with you?”

  “An ex-Pink I hired to give me a hand, name’s Dain.”

  Phil paused again and pursed his lips.

  “Two men on one case. Husband must have a few bucks.”

  “He’s all right,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” said Phil gently, stretching the words out to fill the room. “We’ve got a murder and a missing roommate named Lansing. We’ve got a call trying to nail you. Any idea of who that call might be from?”

  “None,” I said. “Some people don’t like me.”

  “Impossible,” Phil said, shaking his head. “Not like my little brother?”

  “Incredible,” I agreed, “but sadly true.”

  “See these two boxes?” Phil said, picking up the nearest one.

  I had a feeling we were going to play a game I didn’t like. My nose had been broken three times, twice by Phil. Phil had been known to use whatever he had in his hands to attack lawbreakers and his brother. Phil had no imagination. The shortest distance to make a point was right through your head.

  “I see it, Phil,” I said.

  “Good,” said Phil. He lifted the box and hurled it over the desk toward my head. I ducked as it grazed my shoulder and slammed against the wall.

  Seidman stuck his head in, no expression on his face. He looked around, saw the mess and Phil’s red face, understood and closed the door.

  “Who’s going to clean that up, Toby?” he said, trying to control himself.

  “I’ll be happy to help, Phil,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he said, and hurled the second cardboard box at me. This one was heavier and I wasn’t ready for it. It caught me in the chest and fell at my feet, breaking open like a ripe pinata. I had a great remark on my lips but I couldn’t catch my breath.

  “Have a seat. Tell me what happened and we’ll both clean up. What do you say?” He slammed his now-empty drawers closed.

  I nodded, unable to speak, and sat in one of the two battered wooden chairs across from Phil’s desk.

  There was a knock at the door and a tall, thin man with a sad face stepped in carrying a large box in his arms. He looked at the mess on the floor, Phil’s red face, and me sitting and trying to breathe.

  “I thought you’d be moved out by now,” the sad man said.

  “A little accident, Captain,” Phil said. “My brother’s helping me clean it up.”

  “Can I just leave this here and come back later?” he asked.

  “Sure thing,” Phil said amiably.

  The tall man put the box on the second chair and had second thoughts. “Maybe I’ll just take it with me,” he said.

  “It’ll be safe here,” Phil said.

  I shook my head no. The new Captain looked uncertain, but he left the box and headed for the door.

  “I can’t tell you, Phil,” I panted. “I’ve got a client who … I just can’t tell you. You can throw boxes, throw me, have a heart attack, break my fingers … Wait, I’m not giving you any more ideas. I just can’t tell you.”

  Phil moved around the desk and opened his tie even more. The shirt under his open jacket was stained with sweat.

  “I want the son of a bitch who called me and said you did it,” he said.

  “Brotherly love,” I said, sitting up as well as I could. I didn’t think any ribs were broken.

  “The case isn’t mine,” he said. “It belongs to Pacific Palisades, but this … this …”

  “Very bad person,” I suggested.

  “Asshole,” Phil continued, rubbing his hands together, “wants you in it, me in it, wants to jerk me around. I don’t like being jerked around, Toby.”

  “That’s not new information for me, Phil,” I said, trying to get up.

  Phil reached over to help me.

  “I don’t like it when you jerk me around especially, Toby,” he said. “I’ve had half a century of it. You’re breathing funny. Did you break a rib?”

  “Did I break a rib?” I asked, letting him get me to my feet while I demonstrated a hell of a lot more pain than I felt. “You threw the box at me.”

  “Let’s not play with words,” Phil said.

  “You going to finish the job, throw me in the tank, invite me for dinner or let me go?” I asked.

  “How many days do you want before I come back at you?” he asked.

  “Four,” I said.

  “Three,” he countered. “Three and I get answers or you go in the tank.”

  “Three days,” I agreed. “I’ll give you a hand with this mess.”

  “Get out,” Phil said with a wave. “You ruined my mood. I’ll do it myself.”

  “I’ve got something to improve your disposition. You want a cat?” I asked from the door. “Kids love cats.”

  Phil was looking at the mess on the floor and leaning against his desk, his hands folded in front of him.

  “I ate cats when I was in the army, in the trenches,” he said. “I ate worse than cats. I can’t think of them as pets for kids. I can only think of them as stringy food.”

  “The good old days in the Rainbow Division,” I said.

  “Three days,” he said, and I was out the door and into the hall.

  “He’s in a good mood or you’d be in the tank or the hospital,” Seidman said, walking with me to the stairway.

  “Well, I know he charmed me,” I said. “You know where to find me.”

&
nbsp; “I know how to find you,” Seidman corrected.

  I arrived at Hammett’s hotel on Beverly almost an hour late. He was sitting in the lobby, small overnight case at his feet, cat in his lap. A girl, young, pretty, blonde, made up and no more than twenty, was leaning over Hammett and admiring the cat.

  “He’s cute,” she said.

  As I moved forward, I could see him looking at the girl’s breasts as she leaned forward. “How long are you staying at the hotel?” Hammett asked.

  “A few days. Till my mother comes up from San Diego to drive me back to school,” she said, taking me in as I stepped into the conversation.

  “Perhaps we could have dinner tomorrow night, Cindy, and discuss feline futures,” Hammett said softly, looking at her with great sincerity.

  “Maybe,” she said, blushing. “Might be fun. I’ve got to go. Bye, kitty.”

  And off she went. We both watched her head across the lobby and out into the night.

  “Hooker,” I said.

  “No doubt,” he agreed. “But I’ve learned it doesn’t hurt to indulge a young girl’s fantasies. The cat and I will do our best to entertain Cindy when we get back tomorrow.”

  Hammett got up, handed me the cat, picked up his overnight case and started across the lobby.

  “Don’t you want to know why I’m late?” I asked.

  “The police or a woman,” he said.

  “Both,” I acknowledged, cradling the cat as we walked. “Someone called saying I’d killed Hower.”

  “And the police didn’t buy it?” he asked as we followed Cindy the Hooker into the night. “Do they know about my being with you?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Right. Then let’s go find a killer.”

  We got into my car and headed east. Hammett went quiet as the Crosley bumped through the Los Angeles evening traffic. He sat with the sleeping cat on his lap and looked out of the window, dreaming. He was wearing a tweed jacket a little too warm for the Southern California afternoon but just right for the desert evening. I had on my Windbreaker and a grim expression.

  By the time we hit the highway outside the city, it was getting dark and Hammett was still looking out of the window, rocking with the roll of the road and petting die cat.

  “Stop for something?” I asked.

  “If you like,” he said.

  I grunted and found a truck stop with a diner. We sat at the counter and Hammett put the cat in front of us. I ordered a couple of burgers and a Pepsi. Hammett had some soup and a Green River. The cat had his own bowl of artichoke soup and a lot of attention from a small bull of a waitress in a faded orange uniform, who went mushy over him.

  “Cute cat,” she said.

  Hammett agreed. The place wasn’t too crowded. A lone craggy-looking trucker with a gut sat in a corner, eating silently and reading the newspaper. A couple of guys in overalls and boots came in right after us and sat together at the end of the counter. The radio, a little white Arvin, belted out the news. The waitress cooed at the cat.

  “A communiqué issued by General MacArthur’s headquarters in Australia indicates that a Japanese landing force of seven hundred has now been practically destroyed at Milne Bay in southeastern New Guinea,” came the rapid-fire voice of the newscaster.

  “You have a friend in Angel Springs,” I reminded Hammett.

  “I have a friend,” he confirmed, drinking his beer. “The trouble with beer is that it is near enough to drinking to keep the memory alive and far enough from it to be a little dissatisfying.”

  “… said the Japanese still were held on the north side of the Owen Stanley mountain range about two thousand feet below ‘the gap,’ which is virtually the only pass trail through the rugged mountains,” the newscaster went on.

  “Beer is fine with me,” I said. “Your buddy in Angel Springs …”

  “We’ll stop and see him,” Hammett agreed, watching the plump waitress whisper to the cat. The waitress’s name, according to the little name tag on her uniform, was SHEILA.

  “I had a cat when I was a kid,” she said, looking up at us. “His name was Greenbaum on account of my sister thought he had a Jew nose. You know what I mean?”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Hammett said. “You think Jews have funny noses.”

  “I didn’t mean …” she said, taking a new interest in our faces in case we had Jew noses. My unaltered nose might have caused her confusion, but the mashed flesh between my eyes and over my mouth had no shape to give an ethnic clue. Hammett’s nose was movie-star perfect.

  “You didn’t think,” Hammett corrected her.

  “No need to get highbrow on me, mister,” the box of a waitress said, straightening up and adjusting her uniform.

  “Let it go,” I said, finishing my burger.

  “You are Jewish, aren’t you, Mr. Peters?” Hammett asked.

  “I guess,” I said.

  “Are you offended by Miss Olympia’s comment?” Hammett asked, scratching the cat’s head.

  “It’s not worth it,” I said.

  “… German tanks, infantry and planes have made a frontal assault on Stalingrad from the west and have forced the Russians back to new defensive positions, according to the Soviet high command,” the radio voice went on, in the same tone of panic.

  “It’s always worth it,” Hammett said gently.

  “I’m sorry,” the waitress said.

  “It’s okay,” I moved in. “I’m finishing this burger and the fries and we’re off.”

  “Guys giving you trouble?” one of the two overalled customers called over to the waitress.

  “No trouble,” Sheila said. “I just sometimes don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.”

  Hammett pursed his lips and tugged gently at the cat’s ear. The cat kept lapping at the soup.

  “Just the same,” the overalled customer said, getting off his stool. “These guys are giving you trouble.”

  The man on the radio said that the British and Americans had dropped three thousand tons of bombs on Tobruk and given Romqiel something to think about along with the new assault of American tanks.

  “No trouble,” Sheila said. “No trouble. Just sit down and finish your blue plate, will you?”

  But the two men, who looked much bigger when standing, were moving behind me and Hammett. I kept eating the second burger.

  “You upset Sheila,” one of the men said to us behind our backs.

  Hammett looked up from the cat to examine Sheila’s face seriously.

  “Could be,” he finally said.

  “We’ll just call it our contribution to improved harmony among all the great contributors to the American melting pot,” I added.

  “Don’t play smart with me. I’m not stupid,” he said angrily.

  “I appreciate the information,” Hamm’ett said, downing the last of his beer. “Without it I’d have gone through life in the belief that I’d run into Clifton Fadiman in a diner.”

  “I’m gonna smash your face,” the man behind us said.

  “Forget it, for chrissake, will you?” Sheila screeched.

  The lone old trucker in the corner went on eating and reading and pretending none of this was happening. The guy on the radio seemed to be getting more and more excited as he ran out of news.

  “… bombers hit Crete … U-boats sink two Allied merchant ships …”

  “Get up,” the bigger guy in overalls said to Hammett and me.

  In the stainless-steel coffee pot behind the counter I could see the distorted reflection of the two big men, walking ads for how to abuse the products of Oshkosh B’Gosh. They were not only bigger than Hammett and me, they were younger, quite a bit younger.

  Hammett looked over at me with a smile, a strand of the white hair curving down his forehead. Before I could return his smile, Hammett threw his elbow back, a sudden, sharp jab. It hit the nearest man, the one who had been doing the talking, just below his chest and just over a rivet on his overalls. The man staggered backward t
o the sound of Sheila screaming, “No, no, no, you’ll get me canned.”

  The second man, who looked something like a bulldog, put his hand on Hammett’s neck as I spun half a turn on my genuine leatherette-covered stool and threw the cat in his face. The man tripped back with a dull bleat as the cat bounced off him. I could see now that the two men had their names neatly sewn over their pockets. The one Hammett had hit, WYLIE, had pulled himself together and was looking for something lethal. He picked up a wooden chair from a nearby table. By now Hammett and I were on our feet, with our backs to the counter. The cat jumped back on the counter and went for the remainder of the soup while we waited for the denimed duo to come at us again. There were cat scratches on the face of Wylie’s buddy, CONRAD, and a look on that bloody face that I couldn’t figure out. Conrad, panting, saw the chair in Wylie’s hands, thought it a great idea, and went for one of his own.

  Hammett had the heart, but I didn’t think he had the staying power. He coughed a couple of times at my side while Wylie and his friend Conrad moved forward. I wasn’t even sure why we were fighting, but I knew mere was no sense in pointing this out to the boys. Wylie raised his chair as he came nearer and I was sure he meant to bring it down on whichever one of us was in range. He meant to but he never did. A shot pierced the air and the two men in denim froze and looked at our hands. Neither Hammett nor I had a gun. The cat didn’t have one and Sheila, who was blubbering behind the counter, had nothing in her hands but a sopping paper napkin.

  We all looked over at the craggy trucker in the corner. He had his newspaper in one hand and a pistol in the other. He was chewing something and looking dyspeptic.