Down for the Count: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Ten)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  I turned and went back into Parkman’s office, where a third man was sitting in the corner. I wondered if two of them might be the ones Joe Louis had met on the beach the night before.

  4

  The trio reminded me vaguely of the Three Stooges, a hardened king-size version dipped in bronze. The one sitting in the chair next to Parkman’s desk wore a black turtleneck sweater and black pants with a gray jacket. Since he was sitting, I figured he was the brains of the three, at least what brains they had. The resemblance to Moe Howard was distant. He had the same angry look without the bangs on his forehead. Behind me stood one guy with a shaven head, though his head badly needed a new shave and soon. The tiny bristles made him look more like an angry Fuller brush than Curly Howard. The goon on the other side of me had curly hair, not as much as Larry Fine, but curly enough to allow the comparison if you ignored the scar that ran across his forehead and nose like a welt of red lightning. Turning the trio into the Stooges was designed to make it easier for me to deal with them. It didn’t work.

  “You wanted to see Parkman,” said the one in the chair, who reminded me less and less of Moe Howard as he talked.

  “Right,” I said. “But I can come back later when he’s not busy.”

  “Talk,” said Moe.

  “Talk,” repeated Larry with the scar. He urged me on with a jab to my kidney.

  “I just wanted to know if I could get a few tickets for the Saturday card at the Garden. My nephew has polio and it would …”

  Moe was shaking his head and Parkman was trying to make himself invisible.

  “No?” I asked the bulk in the chair.

  “No,” he said, still shaking his head. “You’ve been asking questions about this guy Ralph Howard’s friends. Those friends don’t want questions asked about them.”

  “One friend in particular?” I asked. Parkman was trying to signal me with his mustache to keep quiet, but I ignored him.

  “Forget Howard’s friends,” Moe repeated.

  “Someone killed Ralph Howard,” I went on. “Someone who knew how to go to the face and head. Maybe a fighter or ex-fighter. You know anybody like that?”

  Parkman was shaking his head furiously now, sweating and shaking.

  “What’s the matter with you,” Moe said, pointing at me. “You dumb or something? You don’t know when to shut up and walk? Or maybe you don’t like walking? We can take care of that, fix you up.”

  “Or maybe turn my face into a jack-o’-lantern,” I helped.

  “What are we going to do with this guy?” Moe asked the two flanking me.

  “Bust him,” said Curly.

  “Dance on his knuckles,” mumbled Larry with the scar. I turned to look at him. You’ve got to admire creativity even in a situation like this.

  Moe sat thinking, and Parkman sat shrinking, and I looked around at the wails while I tried to think of what to do before they took one of their alternatives. The walls were covered with dirty wall paper, vertical blue stripes on a light blue background. Between the stripes were shapes that looked like Chinese lanterns, dark blue Chinese lanterns. Pictures were all over the place, photographs of boxers. Some of them were facing the camera with their fists up, wearing grins or serious grimaces. Some had arms draped over guys I didn’t recognize. A few, like Gus Lesnevich, had an arm draped over the shoulder of Al Parkman, a younger version with a grin.

  “That Billy Conn?” I asked Parkman, pointing to a photograph on the wall I knew was Billy Conn. I took a step toward the one source of light in the room, the lamp on Parkman’s desk.

  “That’s Conn,” Parkman said without enthusiasm.

  “He’s in the Army now, isn’t he?” I said.

  “Yeah,” sighed Parkman, touching his little mustache to be sure it was still there. He had trouble finding it. “Yeah, a private,” he said. “He’s in the hospital now. Fractured left hand.”

  My hand was on the desk as I stood admiring the photograph and gauging where the three pugs were in the room. The space between the two at the door wasn’t much, but it was possible.

  “Who did he fight?” I asked.

  “His father-in-law, at home with his father-in-law. Can you live with that?” Parkman said, warming to the conversation a little.

  “Peters,” Moe said, getting out of the chair. He had made a decision. “You don’t ask no more questions, not around here, not about fights, not about Howard. We’re going to mess you around a little, not too bad, enough to remind you, and then you’re going to crawl away and not bother anybody again. You understand?”

  “I understand,” I said. “Can I get in one last question before we dance?”

  Standing up he was a lot bigger than I had imagined. My guess was six-four. He was a few inches from me. I could smell his dinner on his breath, which reminded me that I hadn’t eaten and helped me not to want to think about it.

  “There’s no being nice to some people,” Moe said.

  “Two guys were seen walking away from Howard’s body on the beach at Santa Monica, two guys who looked like they might be in the game. And another guy, maybe one of the two, tried to run down Ralph Howard last Saturday. You wouldn’t know who these guys might be, would you?”

  Moe looked puzzled and moved his eyes past me to Curly and Larry, questioning. It was time. My stomach grumbled and I hesitated. My head was still vibrating like a tuning fork from Meara’s game with my head, and my face was raw. I knew a session with these guys would land me in a hospital. On the other hand, if I did what I was planning and I didn’t make it, I could wind up a corpse with $650 in my pocket, down for the final count. What the hell. You only live once or twice. I reached past Moe, grabbed the lamp, and threw it in the corner of the room. The cord snapped and the room went dark.

  I turned and ran toward the space between the two at the door, my hands out like Bronco Nagurski. I hit one of them, felt the other grab at my sleeve in the dark, pulled away, and stumbled into the outer office.

  “Grab that bastard,” Moe hissed. “Get the damn light on.”

  I tripped over something and fell on my knee, got up and reached for the door. It wasn’t locked. I threw it open, took a deep breath and a chance. I didn’t go out into the gym. I wasn’t sure I could make it if I did. The run was long, ending with a flight of steep stairs, and they might have guns. My .38 was in the glove compartment of my car. I almost never carried it, and rarely shot it. When I did, I almost always missed what I was shooting at.

  I scrambled into a corner, trying to find the desk I remembered being there. My head found it, and I bit my tongue to keep from groaning. There was plenty of noise behind me where the Stooges were running into each other trying to find a light. One of them groped his way into the outer office, found a desk lamp, and switched it on. I didn’t see which of them did the switching. I was behind the desk, trying to turn myself into a medicine ball.

  “Go on, go on, go on,” Moe said, and their footsteps told me that they had gone through the door and into the gym.

  “Find the damn lights,” Moe shouted. “Mush, get to the stairs. Don’t let him get out.”

  They ran, calling to each other, searching, and I crawled out from behind the desk and made my way as quietly as I could back to Parkman’s office. I moved past the door to his inner office and to the left into the darkness away from the dim lamp light from the outer office. “He’s somewhere,” shouted Moe. “Check the locker room, behind those mats, move stuff. Get moving. I want that shit’s heart.”

  They sounded as if they had moved across the gym, away from the office. Since they weren’t high on the list of people likely to make a bundle on “Information Please,” I figured it would take them three or four minutes to come back and check the office. Tops, I had five minutes till they decided to come back and push Parkman around a little more.

  “Parkman,” I whispered.

  “Uggh,” Parkman gasped. He was in the dim shaft of light from the lamp and looked as if he had just had a rope pulled around his
neck.

  “Shut up,” I whispered. “I’ve got to get the hell out of here. Does that window open?”

  “It opens,” he whispered.

  “Where does it lead?”

  “Little roof, then a fire escape next to the movie. Move, get the hell out of here before they come back and redecorate my walls with both of us.”

  “Who do they work for, Al?” I said, standing and looking back toward the gym. Larry darted past the door on the other side of the far room.

  “Didn’t you hear for chrissake what they said? No questions?”

  “Who sent them?” I repeated. “Who was Howard’s partner?”

  “Lipparini, Monty Lipparini. There, you satisfied? You know what that information is going to get you? Get me? Now get out, get out, get out.”

  Parkman’s voice had risen with each “get out.” He was still whispering, but loud enough for the sound to carry out to the gym.

  Someone was running across the gym, toward Parkman’s office. I went to the window behind him and pulled. Nothing. I pulled again and realized it was locked. I shoved the dirty shade out of the way, not worrying any more about the noise, and pushed the metal latch with my thumb. Then I pulled the window open. The metal handle came off in my hand with two screws dangling. I threw it aside as the footsteps pounded behind me, entering the outer office.

  I ducked my head and went through the window into darkness hoping that Parkman was right about the roof and that I wouldn’t fall two floors into an alley. My feet touched the gravel-covered roof. I looked around in the dim light from the stars and the shops and stores on Figueroa and went for the curled metal of the fire escape over the edge of the narrow roof. I slipped on the pebbled surface as a familiar and not welcome sound cracked behind me.

  “Hold it there you bastard,” Moe shouted. I could see no advantage in stopping right there for him to take a shot at a non-moving target, so I scrambled over the edge of the roof and down the ladder. I could hear him coming through the window after me. Without jumping, I could see no way of making it to the alley before he leaned over the fire escape and leveled his gun at me. The alley wasn’t well lit, but it was bright enough for Moe to see the garbage cans and the street and me.

  About five feet down I found a window and pushed at it. It opened, and I went through head first into the darkness and scuttered down the wall to a floor. Behind me, the shadow of Moe fell across the window, and I got up. The window had been small. I’d just made it through, and there was a chance Moe wouldn’t fit, but I wasn’t taking that chance.

  A light switch would have been nice if I were willing to turn on the lights so Moe could get that clear shot at me, but darkness was better. I felt along the wall, cracking my shin on something low, brushing my already scraped face on something metal, probably a shelf. And then I found the door. I didn’t stop to look back to see how the grunting pug behind me was doing. I closed the door behind me and found myself in a narrow corridor lit by a small bulb with a metal reflector. The walls were covered with movie posters going back to Bronco Billy and the Girl. I hurried past Hearts of the World, Dick Turpin, and Underworld. About halfway down the hall Rita Hayworth said, “Wait a minute.”

  I turned, expecting to see Moe doing a comedy act that I’d just have time to applaud before he shot me, but he wasn’t there. I could hear him still struggling in the room I’d come out of. Then Rita Hayworth spoke again, and I realized that I was somewhere in the Lex Theater, next door to Reed’s. My Gal Sal was all around me. I turned again and went through the door, found myself on a narrow metal stairway, and went down in darkness to another door. Beyond this door, Rita Hayworth’s voice called to me. I stepped in and found myself in the theater looking up at Victor Mature’s teeth. His forehead wrinkled at me, and I moved up the aisle toward the exit. There were a few people in the theater who paid no attention, but a spindly guy with a bow tie stepped in front of me when I hit the lobby.

  “I don’t remember your purchasing a ticket,” he said.

  “I came in with the fat lady,” I answered. “My aunt. I was just getting up to get some popcorn when I slipped on something wet on the floor. Fell down and scraped my face. Look at this.” I pointed to my bruised cheek. “I may need stitches,” I said. “I may sue you.”

  “It’s not our fault if a customer spills—” he began, now on the defensive.

  “I don’t care,” I said. “I don’t want to sue you. I just want to get to a doctor. But since you bring it up, there is a big man in there, a tough-looking ape who went into a door near the stage. He didn’t look like anyone I’ve seen working here.”

  “Door near the—” he began.

  “Can’t miss him,” I said, moving away through the lobby, past the candy counter toward the exit. I stopped outside the theater on the street, standing in the sputtering light of the remaining bulbs in the Lex’s sign. Larry and Curly weren’t waiting outside of Reed’s. I turned left, walking fast, looked back over my shoulder, and crossed the street at the corner. Then I worked my way back to hide in a doorway and watch the front of Reed’s. From the darkness of the doorway, I saw Moe come out of the Lex, shaking off the spindly guy with the bow tie. Moe looked up and down the street, didn’t see what he was looking for, yelled “Shit,” and went through the door to Reed’s. I made my way fast to a Rexall’s on the corner and found the pay phone and the Los Angeles book. Reed’s was listed.

  I dropped my nickel and dialed the number. It rang six times before Parkman answered, his voice cracking, “Yes?”

  “Put the ape on the phone,” I said. “The lead singer.”

  “It’s for you,” Parkman said, and Moe came on.

  “Yeah?”

  “I just called the cops,” I said. “They should be there in a minute or two. It might be a good idea if Parkman’s in one piece when they get there.”

  “I’m gonna find you, you piece of—” he started.

  “I’m not hard to find if you can read a phone book,” I said. “Which means I’m safe from you at least till you get through second grade.” I hung up.

  I figured the Stooges would go for their car and get the hell out of there. I went to the luncheonette counter in the drugstore, sat on a red leatherette-covered stool near the window, and I’d behind a menu, watching Reed’s door.

  “What’ll you have?” asked the waitress, who seemed to be full of uniformed good cheer. She was pudgy, pink, and not very busy. I ordered the lamb stew with vegetables for twenty-two cents with a nickel order of cole slaw and a Pepsi.

  “I might have some pie later,” I said, to explain why I held onto the menu.

  “Take all night,” she said. “I’m on till we close.”

  The Stooges came out of the door to Reed’s just as she turned away with my order. They didn’t look around, just went for a dark sedan that happened to be parked right behind my car in front of Reed’s. They drove away, burning rationed rubber, and I put the menu down. Parkman came through the door of the gym, turned and locked it, looked around the street to see what new surprises were in store for him, shuddered, and hurried away into the night.

  I finished my dinner and, at the happy waitress’s suggestion, took on a slice of blueberry pie.

  “You want some advice,” she said as she watched her lone customer eat.

  “I want some advice,” I said.

  “Take care of that face. Looks like it could get infected or something.”

  I finished up, bought some peroxide and cotton, and headed for my car.

  On the way home I thought about Monty Lipparini. I knew the name but not the man. He had moved West about ten years ago from Philadelphia, supposedly a mob front man. Lipparini made the papers every once in a while, showed up at fights, made donations to charity, and never let anyone know what he had his hands into except for his automobile dealership. That he had a piece of various fighters didn’t surprise me. It didn’t even surprise me that he had found a way to get Ralph Howard to front for him, but it didn’t make sens
e that he would have Ralph killed rather than work on Ralph to pay him whatever he owed, if he owed.

  “You can’t collect from a dead man,” Lipparini had told a reporter once, and the quote had been picked up and repeated on the street—the businessman’s creed, only sometimes someone got a little antsy and there was a dead man.

  The next step, after a good night’s sleep, was to find Lipparini or let him find me. With my cotton and peroxide at my side, I drove back to Hollywood, listening to the radio.

  Gas rationing, I found, was here. That was the bad news. The good news, according to the Blue Network, was that the RAF had hit the Krupp plant in Essen with 1,036 planes. The other bad news, at least for Charlie Chaplin, was that Paulette Goddard had divorced him in Mexico. That was enough news. I turned the dial to the “Battle of the Sexes.” Four male and four female doctors were trading insults. I didn’t listen long enough to find out who won.

  Mrs. Plaut and I had a brief but fruitful chat in which I discovered that no one had called me, that I was expected to turn over one-third of my gas rationing allotment when it came, and that I had a very bad bruise on my cheek. My conversation with Gunther was more pleasant. He was translating John Steinbeck’s new book, The Moon is Down, into Norwegian. He guessed that the government planned to sneak copies into Norway to undermine the Nazis and give moral support to the resistance. I listened while I finished off one of my bottles of Spur. In consideration of Gunther, I drank it from my Porky Pig glass rather than from the bottle.

  After I worked on my face in the bathroom down the hall and downed a handful of aspirin for my head, I went back to my room and told Gunther what had happened, how I got the bruise, and what I planned to do.

  “Of course,” he said, “I will be most happy to be of assistance in any way I can possibly be of such assistance.”

  I thought of a way and offered to pay him for his help, but he was offended.

  “I need no money, Toby,” he said. “It satisfies to feel that my service can aid in a worthwhile cause. I should not like to see the image of Mr. Joseph Louis affected, and I should like in some way to possibly contribute to finding these killers and putting to rest your former spouse’s concerns in this matter.”