Murder on a Yellow Brick Road tp-2

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Cimaglia’s,” she said. “Cimaglia’s Gym on Main.”

  I said thanks, forced myself to finish my coffee slowly, overtipped, and went out onto La Brea. There was a drug store on the corner. I went in and headed for the phone booth.

  The first call was to Andy Markopulis at M.G.M. I described Grundy and told him Grundy was probably our man. He said he’d get the word to Woodman and Fearaven, who were still keeping an eye on Judy Garland.

  Then I called my brother.

  “Toby,” he said too calmly, “I’ve been looking for you. I’d like you to come over to my office for a little talk.”

  “I’ll be over as soon as I make a stop,” I said just as calmly. “I know who killed Cash. He also killed another midget named Peese about an hour ago.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Toby,” Phil’s voice said slowly. “We’ve got a desk clerk who gave us a pretty good description of you. Seems you were in Peese’s room when he took the fall. A cop saw you, too. Now I remember you saying you were looking for a midget. I’d like to have the officer take a look at you. You mind coming down here?”

  “I wasn’t in the room when he was tossed out,” I said. “I was on the sidewalk watching a woman spill her Chinese dinner. I’ve got a witness.”

  “Fine,” said Phil, the familiar edge coming back. “You just come in here, and we’ll talk it over.”

  “The killer is Grundy. Barney Grundy. Your witness who saw Wherthman talking to Cash on Friday. Grundy, Cash, and Peese were in something together, something to do with movies.”

  “This town is running out of midgets,” said Phil. “It’ll be a lot safer for little people if you come in here. Now I’m getting tired of asking you.”

  His voice was up to its familiar level of rage, and I was glad he didn’t know where I was.

  “I’ll be right there,” I said.

  “You’ve got thirty minutes,” he said, and hung up.

  I looked up an address in the phone book, found my Buick, pulled into traffic, almost hitting a new Chrysler, and headed in the opposite direction of my brother’s office. Santa Monica wasn’t far, and I wanted to talk to Barney Grundy.

  Cimaglia’s was a one-story white brick building a block or so from the beach on Main. This Main Street was not related to the Main Street where Peese had flopped until his sudden wealth. Los Angeles is a jigsaw puzzle of over 140 towns jammed next to each other. There are over 800 duplications of street names. After forty-four years I still got lost once in a while. Cimaglia’s didn’t look like a gym from the outside, but inside it looked like a training center on Krypton. Behind the small counter stood a guy about five-six. He was about fifty and built like a smaller version of Grundy. He wore a blue tee shirt over his muscles, and his black hair was cut short like a field of grass. He had a towel over his shoulder and identified himself as Cimaglia. Beyond Cimaglia was a big open room with about ten guys built like Grundy. Some were pumping chucks of iron on pulleys; others were lifting weights. There wasn’t much sound other than some panting and the clank of metal. Whatever they were doing, they were serious about it.

  “What can I do for you?” said Cimaglia. I didn’t see Grundy among the grunters in the room.

  “I’m looking for Barney Grundy,” I said. “I’m a friend of his, and he has something for me.”

  “Left about five minutes ago,” said Cimaglia. “Didn’t stay long. Just did the weights.”

  “Did he say where he was going?” I asked.

  Cimaglia said no.

  “Did he have anything with him?” I tried.

  “Just his bag,” said Cimaglia, who saw something in the room beyond that he didn’t like, so he shouted, “Slower Rocco, slower! A lot slower.”

  Cimaglia watched Rocco for about a minute, and when he was satisfied he turned to me.

  “Wait,” he said. “Barney had something else with him. A big round tin box.”

  “He brought it in here?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I think he left it in his locker.”

  The locker room door was behind Cimaglia, and my mind moved fast. I had figured Grundy for a cool killer who had calmly thrown a man out of a window and then went to his favorite gym for a workout. It didn’t fit with the nervous killer who kept botching attempts on my life. Grundy had come to Cimaglia’s to hide the film he had taken. For some reason, possibly the fear that the cops or I might search the place, he hadn’t taken it back to his studio home. He probably didn’t trust anyone to hold it for him. A locker at Cimaglia’s would be a perfect place to put it.

  The problem was getting into that locker.

  “Thanks,” I said, turning for the door.

  “Want to leave a message in case Barney comes back?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Tell him Peese is looking for him.”

  “Will do,” he said, turning to watch Rocco.

  There was a window in the outer door of Cimaglia’s, and from the street I could see the counter and Cimaglia looking back into the gym. I hung around for ten minutes, keeping an eye on Cimaglia and trying not to look too suspicious to the guy in the gas station who stared from across the street.

  One of the muscle builders came out, and I said hello to him. He said hello back and headed down the street. I looked back through the window, and I could see Cimaglia moving into the gym. I went back in, holding the door so it wouldn’t make noise, and watched Cimaglia move to a far corner to show a sweating Hercules how to curl a bar of steel.

  I moved along the wall near the door and ducked into the locker room. It was smaller than I expected. Just enough room for two benches and two rows of lockers. There was a toilet in the corner and a stall with two showers. The locker room was clean and empty with a few spots of water on the floor where someone had dripped after showering.

  The lockers had pieces of adhesive tape on them and a name in ink on each piece of tape. Grundy’s locker was in the corner near the shower. I moved fast, not wanting to be caught in there, but I knew I had to deal with the lock. I put the barrel of my. 38 into the loop of the lock and tugged. Nothing much happened, but the top of the locker did give a little. I pulled again with one hand and got a few fingers into the space at the top of the locker. I pulled some more and wormed a few more fingers in. The locker snapped against my hand but I kept the space open. I put the. 38 away so I could have two hands working. In about twenty seconds I had worked up a sweat, but I had a good two-handed grip on the top of the locker.

  The locker bent a little when I pulled. Luckily for me the lockers weren’t built for high security, just for privacy. I did my best to violate that privacy and finally did with a grunting tug that snapped the latch. The lock didn’t break, but the door banged open. It made a lot of noise. The can I was looking for sat on top of a pair of shorts behind an orange towel that had been drapped over it. I tucked the can under my left arm and stood up.

  There was one door to the locker room. I had come in through it, and now Cimaglia stood in it. Behind him stood Rocco and there was another bulky body behind him.

  “What’re you doing?” asked Cimaglia.

  I was fresh out of lies. I pulled out my. 38 and pointed it at him. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Grundy stole this film,” I said. “Now I’m stealing it from him. If you want to take a bullet for someone else’s can of film, that’s your choice.”

  “That’s not much of a gun,” said Rocco. The sweat was still on his forehead and darkening his tee shirt. He was right. In that space and with his bulk it wasn’t much of a gun.

  “If you shoot it right,” I said softly, “it can make a nice little hole in someone’s face. And I can shoot it right. Now just back away from the door, and I’ll leave. You can tell Grundy what happened, but I don’t think he’ll call the cops.”

  They didn’t back away. Charlie and Rocco took a step forward. I wasn’t about to shoot two citizens trying to keep me from stealing something, but I had a sudden vision of what that small army of m
uscle could do to me. I leveled the gun and shot. The bullet crackled next to Cimaglia’s ear and slammed into the plaster wall behind him. Cimaglia stopped moving.

  “I meant to miss,” I said, “but I’m running out of bullets and getting nervous.”

  “I can see that,” he said. A slight grin touched his face, and I think he liked the way I was handling the situation. “O.K.,” he said with a lift of his hand. “Back up and let him out.”

  They backed up reluctantly and I moved through the door. I could see that Rocco didn’t like to back up for anyone.

  “If you’re lucky, you’ll never meet any of us again,” Cimaglia said.

  “I’ll try to be lucky,” I answered, backing out of the front door. My car was a few feet away, and I got into it, dropping the can on the seat next to me. Cimaglia stepped out of his door, but he was in no hurry. He just watched me pull away. I waved to him, but he just stood there with his hands on his hips, shaking his head.

  After a mile or so, I pulled over and put the film in the trunk. It was getting late, and I had some choices to make. I could get to my brother fast and tell him I had car trouble. Or I could just turn the film over to him and let him find out what was on it. I could go back to Grundy’s place and talk to him. I could do a lot of things, but I headed for M.G.M.

  I wanted to see what was on the film.

  The faces at the gate were unfamiliar, but I gave my name and they called Cassie James, who was on the lot. She vouched for me, and I drove in and over to Judy Garland’s dressing room, where Cassie met me, wearing solid green. She touched my arm and gave me a soft kiss.

  “I’ve got some film to look at,” I said. “Where can we set it up?”

  While she arranged for a projectionist and a projection room, I told her about Peese and Grundy and the film. She asked me what it all meant. I told her I didn’t know, but maybe the film would tell us. Cassie went to tell Judy where she’d be, and I tried to hold up the film to the light, but I couldn’t tell anything.

  She came back, held my arm, and stayed close while we walked around a few buildings and into a small one with a projection booth and a couple of armchairs.

  An old projectionist Cassie called Lyle threaded the film in the booth and sat back. We turned off the lights and looked at the screen. Blank white film shot through, and Lyle focused on some numbers. There was no sound. The first image was a scene from The Wizard of Oz, with Judy Garland in a yellow wig.

  “They shot a few weeks of Judy in the yellow hair,” Cassie explained, “but they decided it looked too phony.”

  The next shot was of two male Munchkins holding hands and walking into a house. The Munchkins were dressed as a soldier and a lollipop kid. The film was in color, but the quality of the color was nothing like the first shot. The two Munchkins went into a house and saw a girl lying on her stomach in bed. The girl was wearing the Dorothy costume and had long yellow hair.

  The Munchkins leered at each other and began to take their clothes off. The girl on the bed turned and covered her face with her hands. She didn’t look anything like Garland, but the hands across the face hid enough of her to make it clear that the girl in the first shot and this one were supposed to be the same.

  The Munchkins leapt on the bed and began to undress the girl.

  They hadn’t gotten very far when Cassie James said, “Stop.”

  I flipped on the lights and shouted to Lyle to turn off the film. Lyle was obviously not watching. I stepped in front of the screen, and the image went over my body. A naked Munchkin was on my chest. Cassie looked at me frantically, and I shouted again. This time Lyle heard and turned off the projector. He came out of the booth as I took Cassie’s hand.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “Nothing,” I said. “We’ve seen enough. Just wind it back and give it to me.”

  Cassie shuddered next to me. “It’s horrible.”

  And that, I thought, was only the beginning. We had seen no more than a few minutes of what looked like fifteen minutes or more of film.

  “It explains a couple of things,” I said. “Grundy, Cash, and Peese were in business together making pornographic movies. They stole film, used sets when they could. Cash must have wanted more money, and they killed him, trying to blame Wherthman. I was getting too close so Grundy tried to kill me. When I got onto Peese, Grundy knew he might accidentally spill something, so he threw him out the window and grabbed this film. Grundy told me he wanted to be a cameraman. This is how he was doing it.”

  Cassie said nothing, just held my hand. Then she spoke.

  “But why did he call Judy to find the first body? And why did he try to poison her?”

  I didn’t have an answer, but it was a good question; and I’d put it to Grundy when I found him.

  Lyle gave me the film and I thanked him. It was almost dark and Cassie led me to her office, which was really more like a workroom full of costumes, measures, scissors, and drawings. There was a couch in the corner. The room wasn’t really very big and it was among a series of similar rooms, but the rest of the building seemed empty. She turned out the lights and came close to me, leading me to the couch.

  We sat in the dark on the couch for a long time saying nothing. Then we made love. I forgot Grundy and my brother for a while, but the while was too short.

  “I’ve got things that have to be done,” I said.

  “I know,” she said.

  “You want me to take you home first?”

  “No,” she said, taking my hand. “I’ve got my car. Call me when something happens, and take care of yourself.”

  I walked her down to her car, which was parked on the side of the building, and I headed back to my own, parked near Judy Garland’s dressing room. It was dark. There were lights in a few offices and the sound of activity on a stage not far away. I passed two women in fluffy costumes talking about someone named Norman.

  I opened the trunk of my car and dropped the film in. When I closed the trunk I heard something behind me.

  “Just open it again,” said Grundy.

  I faced him. He was wearing a thin jacket and a. 45 automatic. He stepped toward me. I opened the trunk and pulled out the can.

  “Meant to ask you something the next time I saw you Barney. Is Nimble really your middle name?”

  He didn’t answer, just reached out for the can after shifting the gun from his right to his left hand. The gun was in the wrong hand and he was a rotten shot. If I didn’t do something, I was sure I’d be joining Cash and Peese. His hand was almost touching the can when I brought it down as hard as I could on the gun. The. 45 flew into the dark, and the can rolled after it. Grundy was nimble. He was on me before I could get the. 38 out. I bounced back into the trunk and kicked up at his face. He stumbled backward. As I came up I lost my. 38 in the trunk. I groped for it, but Grundy pulled me out and my back cracked against the ground.

  He stood over me, breathing heavy. Blood was trickling out of his nose, and he didn’t look too pleased with me.

  “Let’s talk,” I gasped.

  He shook his head no and picked me up as if I were a Shirley Temple doll. He was going to kill me with his hands and fists, and he was going to enjoy it. I punched him low in the stomach, but nothing happened. I threw a knee at his groin, but he twisted and took it with his calf. His right hand tightened around my throat, and he pushed me back hard against a nearby wall. My head screamed in pain, and I went out.

  There was a tunnel in front of me, and I jumped into its darkness, followed by grinning flying monkeys. My old pal Koko the Clown took my hand and led me tumbling into the darkness to a little black and white shack. A cartoon version of Grundy, bouncing muscles, lifted the top of the shack, exposing me and Koko. Behind Grundy was a skyful of flying monkeys. Koko took my hand again, and we raced across a frozen lake with Grundy and the monkeys in pursuit.

  Koko and I jumped into a bottle of ink and pulled the top over us. We swam in cool darkness, safe and protected.

  8
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  The moon was swaying gently in the sky. It was a dull red against the darkness. I watched it, almost hypnotized. Something was behind the moon, but I ignored it. I had never seen the moon swaying before. The thing behind the moon became clearer. It was a face. Not only did I have a murderer to deal with, I had to figure out why the moon was swaying and why there was a face behind it.

  A streak of pain hit my head and I moaned. I was lying on my back and the floor was cold under me. I pushed myself up in pain and touched my head where Grundy had banged it against the wall. My hand came away wet and sticky.

  The moon was red because my own blood was dripping into my dazed eyes. I looked at the moon again and the face behind it became clear; it was Clark Gable. Then more of the moon mystery was solved. The moon was a small light bulb dangling from the ceiling, rocking gently in front of a portrait of Clark Gable. The bulb didn’t give much light, but I could see a sky full of paintings in front of it and behind it.

  The pain and blood told me I probably wasn’t dead. By straining with the information I was getting, I figured out that I was on the floor of a big prop room.

  When I tried to stand, I went back on my knees and leaned against something that was not quite a prop. It felt like a human knee. My hands found the rest of the body, and I could tell from what I felt that it was Grundy or someone else who had spent a lot of time worrying about his body. Whoever it was had no more earthly worries. A knife was sticking firmly in his chest.

  With a lot of effort and some help from a table, I pulled myself up and held the light bulb toward the body. It was Grundy. His eyes were opened and startled. As far as I could see, there was no trail of blood on the floor. It looked as if he had been killed where he sat.

  In contrast, there was plenty of blood where I had been lying on the floor. It was my blood. My mind was working well enough to tell me to get the hell out of there, but my head wouldn’t cooperate. There seemed to be a kind of aisle going past Grundy’s body. I made my way along it, feeling past furniture and props as I went.