"I don't do puzzles," I said, "but I've got another trick. I can describe people from their voices."
"Okay, my friend. Give it a try."
"I'm not your friend," I said. "I'm late for orange snail muffins and you killed a pathetic third-rate lounge singer. My friends don't do things like that."
"I'm waiting," said the man. "But I can't wait long. I've got groceries to buy, a letter to write home, and a murder to plan."
"You're about thirty, maybe a little older," I began. "Dark. Hair, what's left of it, combed and brushed back. About average height. Good build and you like to wear a gray windbreaker with something written over or on the pocket."
Silence on the other end of the line.
"How'm I doing?" I asked.
The sound of someone breathing on the other end.
"Can't read what it says on the pocket but I'll figure it out in a day or two," I went on. "I know a fortune teller named Juanita who can give me a hand. Look, I've got to run. Give me a call later or, better yet, give me your phone number and I'll get back to you."
"They killed my father," he said quietly but clearly.
"They?"
"A man of talent, a talented man, a man who could have left his mark on the screen instead of in a dirty ditch."
"Mr. Peelers," Mrs. Plaut screamed from downstairs.
"Hear that?" I said. "If I don't get downstairs, I'll miss the orange snail muffins. You wouldn't want to be responsible for that."
I could smell the muffins. They smelled good.
"Your name's on the list too. You and the movie star," he said bitterly. "But the others go first. After Varney I'll come for you and the king."
"I really would love to stand here all day listening to your threats, but I'm hungry and I haven't had my coffee. Just tell me fast what's going on."
"You know what I look like from my voice. Figure out what I'm doing and why."
He hung up. So did I.
I pulled out my pocket spiral notebook and made some notes with the stub of a pencil I had picked up at No-Neck Arnie the mechanic's. Then I checked the telephone directories on the table next to the phone. No Lionel Varney in greater Los Angeles. I threw a nickel in the phone and pleaded with the information operator to track Varney down. She had five Varneys. No Lionels. I hung up.
"Mr. Peelers," Mrs. Plaut called again, impatiently.
I shuffled to the bathroom, threw water on my face, Jeris hair tonic on my head, and hurried down the stairs. I walked through Mrs. Plant's living room, where mismatched mementos and oddities from the Plaut family past were neatly laid to rest. A Tiffany lamp with a shade depicting a naked lady on the moon stood next to the sewing chair, a monstrous dull-orange thing of cotton with big arms. A seaman's chest stood under the curtained window facing the front porch. The oriental rug was worn almost to a single tone and only the hint of a design. The rest of the room was restaurant chairs with knitted antimacassars and a bird cage in which the bird was nibbling on seed and gurgling to itself.
In the dining room sat Mrs. Plaut, Gunther, Mr. Hill the mailman, Miss Reynel, a plate in the center of the table on which rested two huge blood-red muffins, and cups filled with coffee.
"You are tardy," Mrs. Plaut said, looking at me with the eyes of my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Eileen Eck.
"Phone call," I said, sitting in the open chair, "sorry."
"Tardy to the party and you miss the ice cream," Mrs. Plaut said, reaching over for my plate and putting a muffin on it,
"I was talking to a murderer," I explained. "He's killed two men. Plans to kill two more before he comes after me and Clark Gable."
This information did not appear to get through to anyone but Miss Reynel, who put down her blue-on-white coffee cup and smiled at my dark but pointless humor. Miss Reynel was a ballroom-dancing instructor at Arthur Murray's. She was recently divorced, pretty of painted face, sultry of red hair, the far side of forty-five, and far too skinny for me to dream about. Mr. Hill, however, looked at the recent addition to our happy home as a vision in the mold of Katharine Hepburn. Mr. Hill spoke of this affliction only with his eyes. Mr. Hill was seldom heard to speak, though at Mrs. Plaut's annual eggnog and family New Year's party he was known to wind up his courage, drink himself into a state which he called happiness, and sing Irish ballads with remarkably little skill.
"Coffee's great," I said, looking down at the muffin.
"Great," echoed Miss Reynel, who was dressed for Monday morning in a don't-touch-me yellow suit with Joan Crawford shoulders.
"Try the muffin," Mrs. Plaut said.
I looked around the table. All but Gunther had, if the crimson crumbs told the truth, consumed at least one of the massive lumps. Gunther's was untouched.
"How are you this morning?" I asked Gunther, pulling the plate a little closer to me.
"Without appetite," he said, gazing at the muffin in front of him, which approximated the size of his head.
"You'll like it," said Mrs. Plaut.
"Why is it red?" I asked.
"You wouldn't want it its natural color," Mrs. Plaut explained as I tore off a piece and started to raise it to my mouth. I took a tentative bite and washed it down with some coffee.
"Not bad," I said.
Mr. Hill smiled. Miss Reynel carefully dabbed the corners of her mouth for crumbs.
"It's supposed to be better than bad," Mrs. Plaut said. "It is supposed to be good."
"It's good," I said.
"Ingredients are difficult to obtain," she said, placing her hands palm-down on the table, ready for business.
"I can appreciate that," I said, taking some more orange snail muffin.
All eyes were on me. I had the feeling I was supposed to say something, but I had no idea what it was.
"We have all agreed, Mr. Peelers," Mrs. Plaut said, "to pool our ration-book resources and comply with the point system which is effective today."
Mrs. Plaut looked around the table for confirmation. She got it from Mr. Hill and Miss Reynel. Gunther was looking at the muffin before him as if it were a ruby crystal ball that would tell him how Gwen and her old boyfriend were getting along in San Francisco.
"The goal of point rationing," Mrs. Plaut said, pouring me more coffee, "is to give us as wide a choice as possible within any group of rationed commodities and to encourage the use of more plentiful foods in preference to the scarcer items."
"Sounds good to me," I said.
"War Ration Book Two will allow each person, including infants, forty-eight points during the first period, for most canned goods and processed soups, vegetables and fruits, and dried beans and peas. More scarce canned foods will require more points."
"Fascinating," I said, working on my muffin.
"The government has urged us to use more fruits and vegetables, spaghetti, and other foods for which no ration stamps are required."
"I see," I said.
"If you did not get your Book Two last week at the school, you can pick it up between three and five Friday. You have to have Book One with you, however. If you lost Book One you have to apply in writing to the ration board. At the time of registering for Book Two you must declare all the coffee you have on hand in excess of one point per person over fourteen years of age when rationing went into effect November 28 of last year. For each excess pound of coffee, one stamp will be taken from Book One. However, Stamp Twenty-five in Book One is good for one pound of coffee through March 21, which means it must last six weeks instead of five, as before. Stamp Eleven in Book One is good for three pounds of sugar through March 15."
"Could you go over that one more time?" I asked, showing my slightly gap-toothed but reasonably Teel-white teeth.
"You are joshing me," Mrs. Plaut said seriously. "A man in your business has little room for levity."
I was not quite sure what business she was referring to. At various times, Mrs. Plaut believed I was an exterminator or a book editor. I was and had been editing Mrs. P.'s family memoirs for over a year,
chapter by chapter as she completed them.
"You are right," I said.
"As I see it, you have an obligation to contribute."
"You can have half my food-ration stamps," I said. "I'm keeping my A, B, and C unit coupons for gas and tires."
"Period Four Coupons," Mrs. Plaut parried.
"Period Four?" I asked, backing up.
"Fuel oil," she said triumphantly.
"They're yours."
She sat back and looked at her boarders; the conquering hero.
"It's been a long war," I said.
"Particularly hard on a sweet tooth," Mrs. Plaut said with a sigh. "More coffee? Another muffin?"
Sweet tooth. I'd forgotten Shelly Minck. I looked at my watch, which told me it was eight. I refused its sprung lies and asked Gunther the time. Without taking his eyes from the muffin, he pulled out his pocket watch and turned it to me. Ten.
" 'Scuse me," I said, getting up and moving fast toward the door.
"Don't forget," Mrs. Plaut said. "The book."
"I won't," I said, not knowing whether she meant the chapter of her book I was supposed to be reading or the ration book she had wheedled out of me.
I went up the stairs fast in spite of the fact that going upstairs fast has thrown my back out six times. As I ran, I pulled a nickel from my pocket and was reaching for the coin slot on the upstairs pay phone while I was still moving. I dialed Shelly's and my office. The phone rang. I let it ring. A dozen times. No answer. Maybe good. If I couldn't reach him, maybe Chief G. Lane Price of the Glendale Police couldn't either. I hung the phone up and started down the stairs. Gunther stood at the bottom looking up.
"I've thought about this ca-gee," he said. "The one in the note you gave me."
I stopped when I got to the bottom and looked at him expectantly.
"It could be the Hungarian word for bad spring wine," he said.
"Doesn't fit," I said, walking toward the front door with Gunther at my side.
"Kah-Chee," he tried. "The Nepalese chant of extreme contrition."
"Not likely," I said, opening the door. The sun was shining.
"Then simply cagey," Gunther went on. "The American slang word for protectively cautious and clever."
"Don't think so, Gunther," I said, stepping out.
"Without knowing how it is spelled, it is difficult to pursue."
"I appreciate that," I said, pulling out my car key.
"The most likely solution, however," Gunther said, "is that KG. are initials, initials of the next victim."
"That one I like," I said. "Keep at it."
"I shall," he said as I hurried down the cement path to the curb where my Crosley was parked.
I got in, started the engine, and waved at Gunther, who was standing solemnly under the photograph of Eleanor Roosevelt nailed to the white wood behind him. Mrs. Plaut thought it was Marie Dressier.
Chapter 4
The Farraday Building is downtown, just off of Ninth Street on Hoover. Parking on the street is a game of chance. The other options aren't much better. No-Neck Arnie's three blocks away, where I'd have to pay half a buck each in and out, or the alleyway behind the Farraday, where derelicts were known to nest, demand tribute and ignore the sacred trust of watching my Crosley.
I found a magical space on the street. Right in front of Manny's taco shop. An omen or a setup for disappointment?
No one was in the lobby which, as always, smelled scrubbed and antiseptic thanks to the efforts of the landlord, Jeremy Butler-poet, former professional wrestler, and, at the age of sixty-three, recent husband and father. The Farraday was his legacy for his wife, Alice, and his infant daughter, Natasha. The bald giant had vowed to keep it free of vagrants, vermin, and mildew.
According to Jeremy, who knew about such things, the Farraday was on the site of the last battle of the Mexican War in 1848. The two-year battle with Spain over who owned California had ended with a rebellion not by the Spanish army but Californios, the descendants of the original Spanish settlers going back to the 1500s. In August of 1848, after the United States had formally defeated Mexico, the U.S. military commander in Los Angeles, Lieutenant Archibald Gillespie, gave the defeated Californios a list of rules about how they were to behave under the new flag. The Californios, who had never considered themselves particularly Mexican and didn't find the U.S. Army or its un-derranked commander in California particularly civilized, put together a rebellion of ranch workers, land owners, and townspeople among the four thousand men, women, and children who lived in Los Angeles. Under the leadership of Andres Pico, brother of the colorfully named governor of Lower California, Pio Pico, the volunteer band did what the Spanish had been unable to do. They threw the American army out of Los Angeles. Gillespie returned. The Californios threw him out once more. It was this second battle which Jeremy claimed was fought on the site of the Farra-day Building.
When Gillespie returned the next time, a month later, with more troops and the title of Military Commander of the South, the Californios were seriously outmatched and they surrendered at Campo La Cienega. Now, almost a hundred years later, the descendants of the Californios, and those who claimed they were, had still not forgiven the U.S. and its army.
I opened the lobby door and stepped into the broad open inner lobby that reached six stories high, with offices on each level. There was an elevator, an ancient, open cage, but I was in a hurry. I climbed, baby-talking my back, asking it to be calm and reasonable.
There was a skylight, small dark panes of glass in the ceiling six stories above the open tiled lobby. The sunlight and dim landing bulbs were enough to light my way past tiers of baby photographers, fortune tellers, talent agencies, importers of who-knows-what, costume jewelers, and publishers of pornography. I was the only private investigator. Sheldon Minck, D.D.S., Master of Dental Hygiene, was the only dentist. We shared an office on the fifth floor.
No, we didn't share an office. Shelly had the office. I sublet a closet with the window overlooking the alley. My office wasn't much larger than the dressing room of the late Al Ramone.
The outer-office door was open. I went in. The lights were on. Bad sign. Shelly was here. Price had probably talked to him. The tiny waiting room was relatively clean, the magazines-Life, Colliers, Woman's Day, and Look- were piled on the small table hi front of the three chairs.
I went through the inner door and found Sheldon Minck sleeping in his dental chair, his arms folded over one of his magazines, his stained white smock bunched under his neck. His thick glasses had slipped perilously toward the end of his nose and his cigar looked like a dark springboard, bouncing with each breath. Shelly must have sensed my presence. He dropped the magazine and swatted the top of his head.
"Ugg," he cried, staggering forward out of the chair, opening his eyes, swinging at some real or imagined insect with his fluttering magazine. He tottered back into my arms.
"You were dreaming, Shel," I said, straightening him up.
"Wha?"
"Dreaming," I repeated, turning him around to face me.
I straightened his smock, marveling at his ability to keep his glasses on his nose and cigar in his teeth while hi full flight from a nightmare.
"Toby," he said.
"Yes, Shel."
He took the cigar from his mouth and said, "Publishing."
"Publishing, Shel?"
"Came to me in the dream," he said, slapping the magazine and moving to the sink, where he turned on the cold-water tap, cupped his hand, and took a drink.
"A dream?"
"Yeah," he said, turning back to me, a trickle of water on his chin, his cigar back in his mouth. "Tooth Talk, a magazine, and here's the beauty part, for patients, people who have something wrong with their teeth. Everybody's got something wrong with their teeth. We'll have articles on celebrities with great teeth. Who's got great teeth?"
"Lassie," I said.
"Joking," he said, returning to his dental chair, "but why not? Keeping the teeth of movie animals
clean and cavity-free. Great article. Short stories about teeth. Poetry about teeth. Ads, we'll fill it with ads."
Shelly's eyes, huge behind the thick glasses, got even wider in anticipation of the ad revenue.
"Coloring your teeth, a new beauty concept," he said, looking up at the ceiling. "Remember my idea about that?"
"Vividly," I said.
"Dentists who wanted to write would have a place to send their ideas, their creative work. Even, why not, drawings, paintings. By dentists, for dentists."
Shelly was out of his chair now, shaking his head as new ideas sprang from whatever he had eaten for breakfast.
"Sounds like a good idea to me, Shel," I said.
"Yeah," he said with a grin. "How about this? Special section at the end of each issue for kids. Cartoon. Jimmy Chew versus Sammy Grinder. Jimmy's a handsome white incisor who takes care of himself. Sammy Grinder is covered in buildup, maybe even has a kind of five-o'clock shadow. Ideas like this. Start small. Work it up. Maybe get a few of those movie clients of yours to invest."
"Worth a try," I said.
"Yeah," he said, dreamily rubbing his palms together as if he were trying to start a tire.
Then he stopped suddenly and a new look appeared as he turned his head to me.
"You've never agreed with any idea I've ever had."
"This is an exception," I answered. "It's so…"
"You want something," he said, advancing on me, a roly-poly ball of white-smocked suspicion. "What?"
"Small favor," ladmitted.
"Small?" He was a foot away now, a good eighteen inches closer than I wanted nun. "Ah," he said.
"You hired me on a contingency basis to collect a bill for dental work from a guy named Al Ramone," I said, walking to the sink, turning on the water, and ignoring the pile of grimy coffee cups and dental-surgery instruments. I washed my face, my back to Sheldon Minck, and shook myself almost dry.
"I did not," Shelly said.
I turned to face him. He was watching my eyes to see where all this was going and how much he could get out of it.
"You did. Mr. Ramone has met an untimely death," I explained.
"Tell me a timely one," Shelly fought back.
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