The place was busy, but no one else stopped me for fashion advice. I pushed into Hy's office, plunked the boxes on the floor, and sat at Hy's desk, a small jungle of pins, needles, thread, and pieces of cloth. I started calling. Everyone should be home by now if home was where they were going.
I tried Shelly at the office. No answer. I tried Shelly at home. Mildred.
"Mildred, my love," I said. "Is your husband home?"
"What does she look like?" Mildred asked.
"Who?"
"The receptionist you hired, the one you insisted that Sheldon help pay for. You know who."
"Violet?"
"Her name is Violet?" "* "My business is booming," I said. "I can't keep up with the paperwork, billing, correspondence. Mrs. Gonsenelli is experienced and I've known her family since… well, she's like a daughter to me. Mildred, don't tell me you're jealous. Not Mildred Minck."
"Sheldon doesn't need a receptionist," she said. "Sheldon needs a leash. He's run through most of our money with bad investment advice from you and I don't want him to start spending money on some kid who winks at him and pats his bald head. I'm holding you responsible."
Hy opened the door, started to come in, saw. I was on the phone, and backed out.
"Reluctantly and with a full understanding of the enormity of the situation, I accept full responsibility. Now can I talk to Sheldon or do I have to have Brink's deliver a quart of my blood to your door as a sign of good faith?"
Mildred hung up. I called back. Shelly answered.
"Toby, you're going to have to apologize to Mildred."
"If it's that or sign on with the Japs as a kamikaze pilot, I'll pack my bags for the Orient."
"Good, I'll tell her you apologize and that you're going to send her flowers."
"You're wasting your money, Shel. Listen, good news. I've got your tux and we're going to the Academy Awards tomorrow night. We're going to keep an eye on Lionel Var-ney."
"Lionel Varney?"
"The actor who… I'll drop your tux off at the office. You come for it in the morning."
"The Academy Awards dinner, you said."
"Rubbing elbows with Kate Hepburn and Ronald Col-man," I assured him.
There was a scraping of objects and the vacuum sound of Sheldon putting his hand over the phone.
"Shel?"
He came back on with, "Mildred wants to go."
"No."
"Then I'm not going," he said.
"You mean that?"
"No," he said emphatically. "Besides, Mildred was planning to visit her brother Al in San Diego tomorrow and I have to clean the office."
"You'll pick up the tux in the morning and meet me in front of the Farraday at five?"
"Yes," he said. "That I will do."
He hung up. I got through to Jeremy after two rings.
"The best laid plans have run for the border," I said. Then I told him what had happened. He agreed to join Shelly and me.
"Did you absorb anything that I told you this afternoon about doing things like this?" Jeremy asked.
"Last time," I said. "Promise. The man needs our help. The police won't…"
"The conceptual impossibility and magic of infinity is that the human mind is incapable of imagining that beyond the final barrier of space there is something which can be called nothing."
"That a fact?" I said as Hy returned, gave me a two-shouldered shrug, and pointed to his watch.
"You are incapable of conceiving nothingness, Toby. If I am present, you will ask and I will answer. I will be in front of the Farraday in the tuxedo at five tomorrow."
"Thank you, Jeremy," I said. "One more thing. Is there a phone in that model apartment you gave me the key for and do you know the number?"
There was a phone and he knew the number. I thanked him, hung up, and called Gable's house in Encino.
Gable answered on the twelfth ring just as I was about to give up. I told him about Varney, the tuxedos, the police, and the plan.
"And you want me to get you into the Academy Awards dinner?" he asked when I was done.
"You've got it," I said.
Long pause at the other end and then, "Give me numbers where I can reach you. Half hour, maybe an hour from now."
I gave him my office, home number, and the number in Jeremy's model apartment. Hy was standing there patiently above me.
"Want to say hello to Clark Gable?" I asked.
"You kiddin'? I've sold dresses to Spring Byington and three suits in twenty minutes to John Garfield. Star struck I am not. He wants a good discount, he can stop by and I'll see what I'll see."
"Good-bye," I told Gable and hung up.
When I got back out on the street in front of Hy's a uniformed policewoman was just plunking a ticket under my windshield wiper for double-parking.
"I was picking up tuxedos for the Academy Awards dinner," I explained.
She was not young and she was not impressed. "Writer? Actor? What?" she asked, holding the car door open for me.
"Security," I said, working my packages over the seat into the back of the Crosley. No mean task.
"Then you should know better than to double-park," she said.
"Excitement," I said.
She removed the ticket from under the windshield wiper, handed it to me, and said, "Reminder."
I closed the door and drove to Jeremy's model apartment after stopping at the Farraday and leaving the tuxes. When I got to the apartment and opened the door to the smell of freshly sawed wood and new carpet, I searched for the phone and found it in the kitchen. I wasn't going back to Mrs. Plaut's, not till I knew for sure what Spelling had in mind for me, Varney, Gable, and who knows who else.
Two more calls, one to Gunther, who said his tux was pressed and ready. Another to Varney, who still wasn't back in his room. I figured he was reasonably safe, at least if Jeremy was right and Spelling's clues did mean that he would go for Varney at the Oscar dinner.
It was after six by now, at least that's what I guessed. My father's watch said it was two.
I went out to a neighborhood diner for a pair of BLTs and a couple of Pepsis and talked to the waitress about her nephews in the army and the sorry state of her legs. Armed with a full stomach, the remainder of Clark Gable's advance, and the prospect of a hell of a time the next night, I got back in the Crosley, made a stop, and then drove to Anne's apartment building and rang the bell.
Anne and I had been married for five years. We'd been divorced for seven years. She had remarried Howard, an airline executive who met a death which some people thought was not untimely.
Nothing. I rang again. Beyond the glass door I could hear footsteps coming down the stairs and then I saw Anne peek around the dark-wood banister at me. She took another step and stood on the landing behind the door, about five steps up, hands on her ample hips.
I grinned and gestured at the locked knob. She didn't grin back. I pulled the bouquet of mixed flowers from behind my back and held it up to the door.
"Annie, Annie was the miller's daughter," I sang softly in a not-bad baritone. "Far she wandered from the singing water. Idle, idle Annie went a-maying. Up hill down hill went her flock a straying. Hear them. Hear them calling as they roam. Annie, Annie bring your white black sheep home."
She mouthed something. I think it was "shit," though Anne was always a lady. Then she came down and opened the door. I held out the flowers. She took them.
"Toby," she said. "We had an agreement. You call if you have to see me."
"And you say no," I reminded her.
"My right," she said.
"It's Phil's birthday," I said.
"So?"
"Can I come in?"
"I've got company," she said, blocking the way, posies in the port-arms position.
"I don't think so," I said.
"What makes you think I'm lying?"
"You're not dressed for company. You're dressed for a night in the bathtub, reading a book, listening to the radio, thinking about old
times. Five minutes."
"It's never five minutes, Toby," she said, still barring the entrance.
She was wearing makeup but not much, just what she must have had on during the day. Her hair was dark and billowy and soft, but combed for comfort, not to impress.
Her blue blouse was clean but not new and she was wearing slacks.
"We talk here," she said. "We talk fast."
"You look great," I said. "You smell great. I miss you. How about dinner, breakfast, lunch, a hot dog, an ice cream, a walk on the beach, a movie? That cover everything fast enough?"
"Stop, Toby," she said.
"Did I say you smell great?"
"Yes."
"Looks like we're out of conversation."
"Looks like," she said, folding her arms, the flowers dangling. "Toby, please. I've got a new job, long hours, and I'm going to night school."
"School?"
"Law school," she said. "Ridgely Law in the valley."
"Ridgely Law?"
"I'm a little older than the others but I'm told veterans will be coming back and…"
"How did you?…"
"Marty Lieb knows some people, the dean," Anne said, shifting her eyes past me to the street behind my back.
"Marty? My lawyer?"
"I've gone to him for advice since Howard died and he's been…"
"You've been seeing Marty Lieb?" I asked.
Anne didn't answer.
"I need to make it on my own," she said. "And I don't need to go back to reminders of you or Howard. Now, I've got to go."
"Is Marty up there?" I said, pointing to the stairway.
"I told you I have company," she said. "What am I doing here? What am I hiding and apologizing for? Go, Toby.
Say happy birthday to Phil for me. Take your flowers back."
She held up her hand with a pushing motion to show that she wanted to close the door.
"I still love you, Anne," I said.
"That was never the problem, Toby. The problem was and is that you are a klutzy Peter Pan, an adult who won't grow up. A… oh, what is the use. We've been through this at least four hundred times. I've wasted too many days and nights in the forest about this. Good night."
"Ice cream at Ferny's," I tried as she pushed the door and I backed away. "What can it hurt?"
"I'm too fat now," she said.
"You are voluptuous," I said, holding out the flowers as she continued to ease me through the door.
Before the door slammed shut, she took the flowers.
"I'll call you," I said as the door clicked shut.
She stood there for an instant, eyes moist, or was that my imagination? Then she shook her head, turned, and hurried up the stairs and around the bend.
"Marty Lieb," I said aloud.
If I were a drinking man, I'd have gone out for a couple. If I had the heart for it, I would have called Carmen the cashier for a last-minute date for an Abbott and Costello and a late dinner, even if it meant bringing her son. Instead, I found a shop on Ventura where they sold radios and phonographs and albums. It was almost ten when I got to Ruth and Phil's house in North Hollywood. Ruth answered the door, gave me a hug, and touched my cheek. I was always careful when I hugged my sister-in-law, even before she had gotten sick. There wasn't much of her but heart.
"Kids are asleep," she said. "Phil's not home. Still at work. Some kind of problem."
"You feeling all right, Ruth?"
"Not bad," she said.
And she was right. More pale than usual. Thinner than I remembered. Three kids to take care of and my brother Phil for a husband.
"Come in for a coffee," she said.
She was wearing a robe and was definitely ready for bed and needing it.
"No," I said, handing her the package I was carrying, an Arvin portable in leatherette for Phil's office, if he still had one after the investigation.
"He'll be sorry he missed you," Ruth said, taking the package.
"I'll give you a call tomorrow," I said, taking a step back. "Maybe we can all go out to Levy's for dinner Monday or Tuesday. On me. Good night, Ruth."
The phone was ringing when I returned to Jeremy's model apartment. It was Clark Gable with the news that Jeremy, Shelly, Gunther, and I were to meet Mame Stoltz in front of the Coconut Grove at six-thirty.
"You'll be there?" I asked.
"I will not be there," Gable said. "But I won't leave town till you let me know what happens."
He wished us luck and I hung up, brushed my teeth with the spare toothbrush I carried in my glove compartment, and shaved with a Gillette razor I'd picked up on the way back.
And then I went to sleep. It had been a long day.
Chapter 13
Saturday, March 4,1943, was the fifteenth and last tune the Academy Awards were given at a more or less intimate banquet for about 200 people. It was also the last and only time someone was murdered at an Oscar-night celebration. The next year, the Academy would move to Grauman's Chinese Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. More than two thousand people would fill the theater. The next year, not only the best actor and actress would receive Oscars, but so would the best supporting actor and actress, who still had to be content with plaques this year.
Next year it wouldn't be an insiders' event anymore, but in 1943 it was still the way it used to be.
I woke up late, wondering what time it was, and realized I had a backache from sleeping in a bed instead of on the floor. I rolled off the side of the bed, sat up, considered cursing the massive Negro gentleman who had given me the bear hug that sent me sleeping on floors. The man who had given me the bear hug was a Mickey Rooney fan. My job had been to keep fans away from Mick at a premiere. I succeeded. It cost me a healthy back and I was paid twenty bucks for the night I crawled to the bathroom, wiggled out of my shorts, turned on the shower, hot and hard, and climbed up the wall. I didn't feel much like singing the score of No, No Nanette, but I did manage a medley of "It Seems to Me I Heard That Song Before" and "Always in My Heart."
There are four things I can do when my back goes out. Any one of them has a fifty-fifty chance of helping. I can take a handful of pills Shelly supplied me with about a year ago. But that makes me sleep. I can have Jeremy put his knee in my back. But that hurts. I can sit on the floor, close my eyes, and visualize my pain floating away. Gunther's contribution. But that takes too long. Or I can go see Doc Hodgdon, the orthopedic surgeon who beat me almost every time we played handball at the Y on Hope Street. Doc is pushing seventy and he favors heat, massage, concentration, and pain pills. But Doc Hodgdon was visiting one of his sons back east.
One of the great and terrible things about living alone is that you can groan as much as you want in the shower without worrying about who it might worry. I tried to let that thought carry me past a sudden wave of Anne-itis, a wave that included a glimpse of Attorney Martin Lieb, who deserved to be disbarred for alienation of something.
After ten minutes, I turned off the shower and found that I could walk, not the way I had the night before, but movement was possible. I was struggling into my shorts when the doorbell rang. I considered ignoring it. It rang. And it kept ringing. I ached my way back to the bedroom, forced my legs into my wrinkled pants, and headed for the door, which was four or five miles away.
The doorbell stopped ringing, but I kept moving.
To the extent that I figured at all, I figured that it was Jeremy coming to show the apartment but unable to get hi because I had the key. Or it was a would-be renter. Or it was a plumber, painter, steam fitter, carpet cleaner, carpenter, or lost woodpecker. I opened the door. Spelling was standing there in a blue mechanic's uniform carrying a large gun in his right hand.
"I'm not dressed yet," I said. "If you can come back hi about ten minutes…"
Spelling looked over his shoulder into the courtyard. There was no one in sight. He motioned me back with his gun and I stepped back as he came in and kicked the door shut.
"How long have you been at this?" he a
sked. — "This?"
"The detective business," he said. "Twenty years? More? And you can't tell when someone is following you? You're in the wrong career."
"A little late for me to change," I said. "Mind if I put my shirt on."
"Go ahead," he said, looking around the room.
I put on my shirt and considered my options. There weren't many. My back was bad. My gun was in the glove compartment of the Crosley. I had to resort to persuasion.
"Have you figured anything out yet?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. "My clues weren't very subtle."
"We've got some ideas," I said.
"You picked up three tuxedos at some place called Hy's for Him. And you went to see a lady who didn't want to see you. I'll give you one thing. You didn't look sorry for yourself."
My shirt was a little fragrant from a day of wear and a night draped over a chair, but I didn't think it mattered.
"It gets worse," I said. "My back went out this morning."
"Lower, upper?" Spelling asked.
"Lower."
"Turn around. I know a way to end your pain."
"I can live with it," I said.
"Turn," he ordered.
I turned.
"Take it easy," he said softly. "Easy."
I felt the steel of the gun against my shoulder and two hands digging into my shoulders. Then something drove into my lower back and I thought I'd been done in by a silencer. I doubled forward on the floor, feeling sick to my stomach.
"Don't go into a ball," Spelling ordered. "Stay loose.
"I'm loose," I groaned. "I'm loose."
"You and your friends are going formal tonight, right? Any place I might know?"
"No," I said. "Birthday. My brother's."
"In soup and fish?"
"His fiftieth," I said. "Big cele…"
"Shut up."
I shut up and rolled to a semisitting position with my elbows on the floor.
"You can't stop me, Peters," he said, pointing the gun at my face. "They killed my father and then they went on with their lives, just did what they wanted. Until I showed up and killed them."
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