Lost Things

by Graham, Jo

  Mitch had gotten directions from the bell captain, and led them down Hollywood Boulevard as though he belonged there. He was careful to keep at a pace Jerry could manage comfortably, though, and Lewis hung back a little himself, enjoying the feeling of Alma’s hand on his arm. There were palm trees everywhere, tall and exotic, and he craned his head as they passed, wondering if there were coconuts in them. Surely that would be too dangerous, but he couldn’t see for sure.

  Ahead of them, Mitch paused, pointing to something across the street. “Or we could just take in a movie.”

  On the far side of the boulevard, a line of palm trees in stone planters led back toward a square-pillared concrete-colored building. There were painted columns on the left, and paintings like in an Egyptian tomb lined the long walls. The sign above the entrance read, in enormous fake-historical letters, Grauman’s Egyptian. Alma reached across and whacked him with her purse. From the way he hunched his shoulder, she hadn’t pulled her punch, and Lewis couldn’t really blame her.

  “I think we’ve had enough Egyptian theater on this trip,” Jerry said.

  The dinner club was like something out of a movie, with a huge doorman in a brass-buttoned uniform who examined the card Mitch handed him with great care before touching his peaked cap and allowing an underling to open the door. There was a hat check girl in a short-skirted uniform that showed the tops of her rolled stockings, and an orchestra in white dinner jackets playing respectable jazz. A discreet tip got them a pleasant table toward the side of the dance floor, and Lewis was glad to see Alma relax a little. A waiter in a red jacket took Jerry’s drink order, and returned with glasses and a coffee pot, from which he proceeded to pour a round of gin sours. Lewis tasted his cautiously, decided that the gin had come from a clean bathtub, at least, and Jerry lifted his glass.

  “A semi-successful trip, anyway.”

  “Which is about all you can hope for with Henry,” Alma said, and they touched glasses.

  The food was good, too, and they ordered a second round of drinks, and then a third. Lewis thought about asking Alma to dance, but after the conversation he’d overheard, he didn’t think it would be a good idea to rub it in. Jerry was in a surprisingly good mood, though some of that might be the gin, and Lewis didn’t really want to spoil that. So of course Mitch asked her to dance instead, and he watched with mild envy while Jerry told him a long and apparently pointless story about a dig he’d worked on once in Egypt.

  Then as Mitch and Alma passed them for the third time, her eyes met his, and she lifted a hand, beckoning. He wasn’t about to turn that down, but he waited until Jerry hit a stopping place before he rose to cut in, and he and Alma turned gravely at the edge of the dance floor, neither one of them a very good dancer, but both enjoying the chance to hold each other in public. The music stopped, the band leader announcing a break, and Alma brought him back to the table, fanning herself as she sat down.

  “I suppose we should start back.”

  Jerry fished his watch out of his pocket. He’d had a fourth drink while they were dancing, something dark and dangerous looking, but he still seemed good-humored enough. “It is getting late. And I promised Henry I’d give him back the tablet tomorrow morning.”

  Lewis sighed softly — he’d managed to forget about magic and curse tablets and mysterious obligations — but Mitch nodded, and signaled for the check. Lewis winced at the prices, but put in his share without complaint. It was worth it to have danced with Alma in a Hollywood nightclub. They paused at the door, collecting hats and Alma’s wrap, and the doorman looked them over.

  “Call you a cab, boss?”

  Mitch made the mistake of looking at Jerry, who shook his head.

  “We’re fine, thanks,” he said, and strode briskly out the door, his cane tapping on the pavement. Lewis looked at Alma, who rolled her eyes, but followed.

  The street was much quieter than he’d expected, the traffic noise from Hollywood Boulevard distant and muted. It seemed darker, too, as though the streetlights were further apart.

  And that was foolish, he told himself, and smiled as Alma took his arm. She tucked her other arm through Jerry’s, her heels loud on the pavement, and Mitch glanced over his shoulder, grinning. Then there was a movement ahead of them, shadows detaching themselves from a doorway, and Jerry released Alma’s arm, freeing himself to use his cane.

  “Hey, now,” Mitch said. There were three of them, three big guys in work clothes, one with a sports coat that showed almost forest green in the streetlight, the others in shirtsleeves. “We don’t want any problems.”

  Lewis stepped in front of Alma. The guy in the coat moved like a knife fighter, moved like trouble.

  “You got ‘em anyway,” one of the others said, to Mitch, and the third man stepped wide to flank them. A razor glinted in his left hand.

  “You don’t want to do this,” Mitch said. “You’re making a mistake —”

  The guy in the coat made a sudden rush, heading for Jerry. Lewis hesitated, trying to keep an eye on the guy with the razor, keep himself between him and Alma. Jerry turned slightly, pivoting on his good leg, and reached under the back of his jacket. He came up with a pistol, small, maybe a .22, polished steel, and fired once. The man in the green coat staggered back, blood blossoming on his pale shirt, and Jerry turned again, bracing himself with his cane.

  “Get down, Mitch —”

  Mitch ducked, but the other two were already running, feet loud in the quiet street, and Jerry pointed his pistol at the sky instead.

  “Oh, my God,” Alma said. She caught Lewis’s hand in hers, her grip punishingly tight.

  Mitch knelt by the man in the green coat, checking his pulse, and looked up with a shake of his head. “He’s gone.”

  “Yes,” Jerry said, but Lewis could see him shaking.

  “All right,” Mitch said, and pushed himself to his feet. “Three against one, but, Ok —”

  “You and Lewis take Alma back to the hotel,” Jerry said. He tapped his wooden leg with the cane. “Who’s going to arrest a wounded veteran who’s been set upon by thugs?”

  “Especially if he’s protecting his girlfriend,” Alma said. She unlaced her fingers from Lewis’s and nodded to him. “Jerry’s right. The two of you go on. We’ll take care of this.”

  Lewis looked at Mitch, saw the same reluctance in his eyes, but they both knew she was right. There’d be a lot more questions asked if they were all there, and they would be questions he didn’t know how to answer. There wasn’t time to hesitate, someone would have heard the shot — maybe that was even a siren he was hearing now — and Mitch nodded slowly. “All right. We’ll come after you if we don’t hear.”

  “Go,” Alma said, and they turned away.

  Chapter Eight

  The sirens were definitely getting closer. Jerry took a deep breath, and wrapped his arm around Alma’s waist, pulling her against his side. She leaned in stiffly, still shocked, and the first beat cop came charging around the corner, revolver drawn. Jerry lifted his cane, showed his right hand empty as well.

  “Thank God! Officer —” His voice cracked: embarrassing, but probably useful. He cleared his throat. “This guy — we were attacked —”

  “Hold it right there, buddy,” the cop said, but he lowered his weapon. Behind him, a car turned into the street, siren grinding to a halt. Its revolving light cast flashes of blue down the length of the street, flickering off the bricks and narrow sidewalk. More cops appeared, and a second car, disgorging a pair of men in cheap civilian suits.

  “Thank God,” Jerry said again. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Ok, pal.” That was one of the civilians, tall and lean and graying. Jerry could see his eyes moving, taking in the body and the cane and the wooden leg, drawing a picture already. “What’s your name?”

  “Jeremiah Ballard. This is Alma Gilchrist.”

  She nodded, wide-eyed, had the sense to say nothing.

  One of the uniformed men had a notebook out, was sc
ribbling in it, while another one knelt beside the body, feeling for a pulse.

  “This one’s a goner, Lieutenant,” he said, and began searching the pockets.

  “Ok, Mr. Ballard —”

  “Doctor,” Jerry said, gave a little shrug and a wincing smile. Better to fix it now and look pompous than have to correct him later. “It’s Doctor, actually.”

  “Dr. Ballard,” the lieutenant said, with a lifted eyebrow. “So what happened here?”

  “We were out for the evening,” Jerry said, “Al — Mrs. Gilchrist and I. We thought we’d walk back to the hotel, get a little air, and — this guy jumped out of the doorway. He had a knife —” Yes, the uniformed man had found it, was chalking the pavement to mark where it had fallen before another man took it away. Jerry tapped his wooden leg with the tip of his cane. “I’m not much good in a fight, not since the War. But I couldn’t let him hurt Alma.”

  “Did he say anything?” the lieutenant asked. Behind him, the cop was scribbling in his notebook, while the second civilian had gone to stare down at the body, his face expressionless.

  “He wanted money,” Jerry said. He looked at Alma, saw her nod. “I saw the knife, and he was coming at us.”

  “Get his gun,” the lieutenant said, and the uniformed man put away his notebook. Jerry let him pat him down, felt him pull the little automatic from the holster at the small of his back.

  “That’s it, lieutenant,” the cop said, and handed it over. The lieutenant looked at it for a minute, handed it back to the cop.

  “You got a permit for that, Dr. Ballard?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about an address?”

  “I’m from out of town,” Jerry said. “Colorado Springs. I’m staying at the Roosevelt Hotel.”

  “You ever seen this guy before?”

  Jerry shook his head.

  “He have any reason to think you two would have money?” the lieutenant asked.

  ‘I have no idea,” Jerry said.

  “Hey, Mike.” That was the other civilian, still staring at the body. “Guess who we got here? Sammy Lukeman.”

  “No kidding,” the lieutenant said. “Ok, Dr. Ballard, you and Mrs. Gilchrist here are going to have to come down to the station with me. I’ve still got a few questions you can answer.”

  Jerry heard Alma take a breath, and he nodded as calmly as he could. “Of course.”

  The police station smelled of stale smoke and disinfectant, and the coffee they were offered tasted as though the pot had never been cleaned. Jerry sipped at it anyway, wishing for more sugar, but Alma tasted hers once and put it aside. He glanced sideways at her, wondering if he should offer his hand, but her expression was closed, and he looked away again.

  They’d been through the questions again on the ride to the station, and once more separately, before the lieutenant — Morton — had brought them back to the interview room and left them there. “I’m sorry, Al,” he said quietly, and she gave him a half smile. There were shadows under her eyes like bruises.

  “Not quite the night we had in mind,” she said.

  “Maybe we should have just gone to the movies,” Jerry began, and the door opened. Morton waved his stenographer to a chair, and sat down opposite them again.

  “Well, so far your stories check out, except for one little thing.” He looked at Alma. “I can’t find you registered at the Roosevelt.”

  “Oh, my God,” Alma said, and Jerry caught his breath. He’d forgotten, they’d both forgotten, that she’d registered as Lewis’s wife. He opened his mouth, trying to think of something that wouldn’t make her look like a whore.

  “She’s,” he began, groping for something, anything, and Morton pinned him with a look.

  “I’d like to hear this from Mrs. Gilchrist, please.”

  The color rose in Alma’s face, but her voice was mostly steady. “I’m registered as Mrs. Lewis Segura.”

  Morton lifted an eyebrow, though it couldn’t have been a huge surprise. The stenographer smirked over his notebook. “So is it Gilchrist or Segura?”

  “It’s Gilchrist,” Alma said.

  “I don’t see that this is really relevant,” Jerry said. He tried to make his tone pleading rather than aggressive. “I’d really like not to cause anyone any more trouble.”

  Morton ignored him. “So you’re not married to this Segura, either?”

  “No,” Alma said. Her cheeks were flaming. “I’m not.”

  “You get around, honey.”

  “Hey,” Jerry said, and Morton looked at him.

  “As for you, Dr. Ballard. Mr. Kershaw vouches for you like you said he would — and for Mrs. Gilchrist, lucky for her — and he’s sending his lawyer to take care of the paperwork. You’ll have to have a hearing on this.”

  We’re from out of town, we need to get home — Jerry closed his mouth on the words, knowing they were pointless. Maybe Henry’s lawyer could sort things out, figure out a way to get them out of it, but in the meantime, nothing good could come of protesting. “Ok,” he said, and did his best to sound meek and unthreatening.

  The lawyer arrived within the hour, brisk and competent. He checked the various papers, had them sign some and vetoed others — without complaint from Morton, Jerry noted — and finally led them out into the waning night. There were cabs waiting, and the lawyer signaled for one.

  “Er, you do have money —”

  “Yes,” Jerry said, and opened the door for Alma. “The guy didn’t get anything.”

  “Good,” the lawyer said. “Very good. Er —”

  “Tell Henry we’ll call him in the morning,” Jerry said firmly, and levered himself in next to Alma. He gave the cabbie the address, aware that the man was eyeing them with undisguised curiosity, and gave Alma a wary glance. She sat unmoving, eyes straight ahead, profile as stark as if it had been carved from stone. “I’m sorry,” he said, after a moment. “I — I screwed up, Al. I didn’t think.”

  She looked at him then. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Oh, my God, Jerry, I can’t ever come back here again. And what will they think at the hotel?”

  “It’s Hollywood,” Jerry said, with more confidence than he really felt. He patted her shoulder. “It will be all right.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she said, but the stiffness had eased from her face.

  Alma curled up on the bed around what was left of the shreds of her dignity. If Jerry hadn't saved them all from possible death, or at least serious injury, she'd have to kill him herself.

  She stretched one hand out on the soft, cool white sheets, closing her eyes as her fingers opened. She could hear what Gil would say, his voice soft and rueful. You get what you pay for, and you can't have your cake and eat it too. The price of an unconventional life was not being respectable. She'd never been willing to do the things she'd need to do to be respectable. She'd never been able to imagine fitting in to a life so circumscribed, so narrow. A world without flying or magic. A world without Gil and everything they'd built together. It couldn't be worth it.

  She hadn't liked Gil the day she'd met him. He'd seemed arrogant, dismissive, if not outright offended that the new ambulance driver assigned to the corps was a woman. "Well, what are we coming to," he'd said in a slow Midwestern drawl, like her mere presence was going to bring on the apocalypse. "We've got a girl driving the bus."

  Reacting would have proved his point. Too emotional, too irresponsible to be given the awesome responsibility of saving men's lives. And so she had been cool. No, cold. Professional. She'd spoken to Lt. Colonel Gilchrist as little as possible and only in the line of duty. Until the day he'd been sprayed with shrapnel from an explosive shell.

  Ambulance drivers didn't just drive the bus. Usually they were the first medical attention a wounded man received, and sometimes the only treatment. Especially if the wounds weren't life threatening, and the man was stubborn. She'd spent two hours with a lamp set up, picking splinters of metal out of his back with tweezers. Most of them were tiny
, little razor sharp needles that had been smoking hot when they'd cut through jacket and shirt and undershirt to lodge in his skin. Tiny, yes. And none of them dangerous in themselves. But infection killed more men than wounds, and they'd come through a filthy jacket on their way in. Every single one of them could be dangerous if they suppurated.

  It must have hurt, her pulling each one out with tweezers, nipping at lacerated flesh with metal pincers, then dabbing it with raw alcohol, but he sat still like she told him to, occasionally swearing a blue streak and then asking her pardon.

  "I've heard it all before, Colonel," she said. And of course she had. By that time she'd been there four months and there wasn't a lot she hadn't seen or heard.

  After that he treated her differently, with a cautious kind of respect, even if he no longer looked her up and down like a doll. She supposed that she'd earned his regard in some sense. In muddy, shapeless clothes it was hard to tell she was even female unless she spoke. She blended in, just Al. Pretty soon everyone had stopped apologizing for swearing in front of her. She'd stopped being female in any meaningful social sense, which suited her fine. Days and nights blurred together in a haze of exhaustion. There was only the corps.

  Until the day Mitch was hit. He brought his plane in, wing dragging, and she could tell from the edge of the flight line that it was both plane and man to blame, and was running out on to the field with her kit before the props stopped rotating, Gil one step behind her. She jumped up on the wing and leaned over Mitch, his hands on the controls and his eyes pressed shut, his lap full of blood.

  "Ok," Mitch said calmly. "I'm going to die now."

  "Don't be ridiculous," Al snapped. "Gil, help me get him out of here. Get his shoulders." She could already see. If it had been an artery he would have passed out long ago. It wasn’t going to kill him. Just cost him his life.