“You think it would be out of place to slip Mr. Beery one of my cards?” Shelly said. “Or you think it might be a little too …”
“A little too,” I said.
“Maybe I could stick cards on the plates when we serve dessert,” Shel said. Sweat stains were beginning to appear on his flurry shirt.
We took our empty trays back into the kitchen and someone who might have been a headwaiter, because his jacket was black instead of maroon, told us to stop fooling around.
We each picked up another tray of soup just as a sweating kid finished filling the bowls. The two chefs were no longer discussing murder. They were huddled over a massive steel pot, looking into it for answers to some deep culinary question.
Shelly waddled happily ahead of me back into the ballroom, and I managed to follow without dumping the soup while I watched Lipparini. After I’d served four of the eight people at my table, I glanced up and saw Lipparini put his napkin next to his plate and get up. He was either going to make a speech or head for the toilet.
“Waiter,” someone said below me.
“Shh,” I answered without looking down.
“Who the hell are you shushing?” the voice said.
Lipparini excused his way down the long table, and Moe did not follow him. It was time to move.
“I said, who the hell are you shushing?” the voice repeated.
“Sorry,” I said. “My wife’s having a baby. Serve yourselves.”
I grabbed Shelly, who had just finished serving, and shouted, “Let’s go,” over the tune of “Hindustan.”
“Where are we going?” he said. “We just started. Hey look. George Raft is out there dancing. George Raft. Can you imagine?”
I tugged Shelly behind me through the maze of tables and along the edge of the dance floor. We got close enough to George Raft to hear him laugh.
“Do you see those teeth?” Shelly said.
“Beautiful,” I said and dragged him through the door Lipparini had just made it through. We were in a tastefully decorated lobby. The carpeting was thick and dark, the walls dark and papered with paintings of race horses and yachts. Real class. A woman, a beauty with long yellow hair down her slender bare back, was sitting in one of the Louis-the-somethingth chairs, dividing her attention between two youngish men in tuxes.
“That’s Veronica Lake,” Shelly said.
“No it isn’t,” I said, looking around for Lipparini. I didn’t see him but I did find the “Gentlemen’s Room” in the corner. He might have gone out in the lobby to make a phone call, but this was a good place to start.
“I tell you that was Veronica Lake,” he insisted.
“Right, how were her teeth?”
“Teeth?” he asked with a lewd laugh. “Who was looking at teeth?”
The men’s room was elegant, inlaid tile sinks, dispensers for soap, and luckily, no attendant. One of the toilet stalls was closed.
“What are we—” Shelly began, and I clamped a hand over his mouth and put my finger to my lips to keep him quiet.
We waited for about a minute, heard the flush, and watched as the trousers came up and the door opened. Lipparini stepped out.
At first Lipparini saw only two waiters. He walked past us and washed his hands. Then, while he was combing his hair, he looked in the mirror and recognized me.
“What is this?” he said, turning to face us. He looked scared. “You try killing me here and you won’t make it to the front door.”
“Killing?” Shelly said at my side. “Who’s talking killing?”
“Shut up, Shel,” I said, and then to Lipparini, “I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to tell you Louis and I had nothing to do with gunning Mush and Silvio.”
“Mush and … Parkman killed them,” he said. “And I plan to find him and take care of his ticket before the cops turn him up. You know where he is?”
“First, did you send Mush and Silvio to get me?” I asked. “They were at Parkman’s to kill me.”
Lipparini looked at me as if I were crazy.
“Kill you?” whimpered Shelly. “I thought we were just crashing a party.”
“I didn’t send them for you,” Lipparini said. “I told them to stay away from you. Why would they go after you when they knew what would happen, what I would do?” Lipparini’s confidence was coming back. He didn’t look frightened anymore, just curious.
“Suppose they took Ralph Howard out on an independent contract,” I tried. “A little job on the side. There’s no rule against that, is there?”
“Not if they tell me and I get a piece of the pie if there’s enough to make it interesting,” he said, sitting on the edge of the sink and folding his arms.
“Okay, so let’s suppose they made a mistake,” I went on. “They took the job, got rid of Howard, and then you told them to lay off of me. But I’m still pushing, and someone figures I might come up with a name, someone who maybe gave Mush and Silvio the Howard contract. So they decide to put me away.”
Shelly was sagging somewhere behind me, his visions of a frat night out dissolving with each word. He whimpered softly.
“Keep talking,” Lipparini said.
“They come after me, but Louis steps in and keeps me from taking a permanent dive. The guy who hired Mush and Silvio now knows that they can peg him. So, he gets rid of them.”
“Parkman,” Lipparini said. “Right. I’ll find him.”
“What if it isn’t Parkman, or not Parkman alone,” I tried.
“Who?” he asked.
“I’m working on it,” I said. “Give me time. Leave Joe Louis alone. Leave me alone. I’ll get back to you in, let’s make it two days.”
The door came open and Moe stepped in while Lipparini was thinking. He had a gun in his hand and it was aimed at Shelly’s chest.
“No, no,” sobbed Shelly behind me. “Not in a waiter’s suit.”
“Hold it,” cried Lipparini.
If Moe was the one who had given the contract to Mush and Silvio, his best move would be to gun us all down. It might be a little messy, but better than some of the possible alternatives. He stopped.
“Put it away,” Lipparini said. “Mr. Peters is going to do some work for us. Mr. Peters is going to find out who killed Mush and Silvio.”
“Parkman …” Moe began as he reluctantly put the gun away.
Something felt cold, wet, and clammy on my arm, and I realized Shelly was clinging to me.
“Maybe not,” Lipparini said. “Mr. Peters is going to find out in the next two days. You did say two days, didn’t you, Peters?” Lipparini was back in charge and showing lots of teeth, which I thought might interest Shelly if he could stop crying long enough to look.
“Two days,” I agreed.
“Friday morning you come up with some answers,” he said, pointing a finger at me a few inches from my bow tie. “You come to my office for a cup of coffee and you give me a name. You don’t come and I’ll find you. You can shove those Howard files. I’ll find you, and what will I do?”
“Have me drip ground?” I tried.
“No, no,” Shelly sobbed at my side.
“You got a sense of humor.” Lipparini grinned. “Do I like a good sense of humor?”
“No,” Moe said, blocking the door.
“He’s right,” said Lipparini, adjusting his jacket and turning to the mirror to admire himself.
I moved for the door, dragging Shelly behind me.
“One more thing,” Lipparini said, looking at Shelly in the mirror. “I never want to see that fat beach ball again. He’s got no heart. I don’t like a guy who’s got no heart.”
Shelly almost fell, and it took all I had left in my arms and weak back to keep him up. Moe moved out of our way enough to let us pass, but just enough.
The Veronica Lake look-alike or real Veronica Lake was still there with her friends, but Shelly was no longer interested. He collapsed into the nearest lobby chair.
“Get up, Shel,” I said.
�
��What did you get me into?” he said.
“You wanted to come, remember? Crash the party. Just like you and old Cal back in college. Let’s get the hell out of here before Lipparini changes his mind.”
Shelly got up slowly and followed me away from the ballroom, through a door, and into a hallway. There was a light at the end of the hallway. We followed it and found ourselves at the front entrance to Marty’s. The guy at the door with the deep voice was talking to an elderly couple. He deserved an Oscar for covering his reaction when he saw us. He didn’t even blink. We went through the door and out into the night.
Still dressed in our waiter suits, Shelly and I drove back downtown. “I’m not forgiving you for this, Toby,” was the only thing he said.
I dropped him in front of the Farraday and watched him hurry toward his car in drooping black trousers and maroon jacket. He looked a little like Mickey Mouse from the rear.
It was getting late, and my choices were limited. I could go back to Mrs. Plaut’s and suffer the slings and arrows of her comments on my uniform. Added to that would be the fact that I’d have to put the uniform on again in the morning. Then I’d have to take the time to buy a new suit, either that … or go through an investigation looking like Arthur Treacher.
The drive to Santa Monica was quiet, not too much traffic on the streets. Maybe people were waiting for the Jap raid, maybe they just didn’t have gas. I listened to “That Brewster Boy” on the radio, felt good when Joey Brewster made the track team, and tried not to think about who was killing who and why.
There were no lights on at Anne’s house when I pulled into the driveway, but I got out anyway and rang the bell. Then I rang again. It took about two minutes for someone to move inside. Then I heard the clop-clop of slippers coming toward me.
“Who is it?” Anne said.
“Me, Toby.”
She opened the door. There was no light on inside.
“Air-raid warden came by earlier and told us to keep the lights …”
Then she laughed. She put her hand over her pink robe at the neck, started with a giggle, and began to laugh. I tried to think of the last time I’d heard her laugh. I think it was the night we saw Bringing Up Baby and she decided she wanted a divorce.
“That uniform,” she said, holding her hand to her mouth. “You look like …”
“An usher,” I helped her. “The emergency replacement bartender at Chasin’s?”
“I’m sorry, Toby,” she said.
“Can we laugh inside?” I asked, moving forward, and she stepped back.
She closed the door and switched on a small hall light. “I shouldn’t be laughing,” she said, “but I can’t help it.”
“Laugh,” I said, holding my arms out so she could see me. I didn’t think I looked all that funny, but I had the feeling she was letting a lot out that needed tears or laughter.
She held my arm, and her pink robe opened to show even more pink silk pajamas. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“You already said that. When you finish, do you think we might find one of Ralph’s old suits for me? We were about the same size.”
The mention of Ralph almost turned the laughter to tears. There was a catch in her voice. She sobered a bit, but gave one more small laugh and said, “Come on.”
I followed her up the stairs, where she hit another light switch and led me to a bedroom. A small reading light was on next to the unmade bed.
“I was reading,” she explained. “The closet is there. Pick any suit you want.”
There were about ten in the closet. More than half were eliminated. They were just too respectable for me. I’d look as if I’d borrowed a rich uncle’s Sunday best. I found a lightweight blue suit and a matching striped tie. For good luck I took a white shirt from the shelf and turned to show my choice to Anne. She was sitting on the bed looking at me over her reading glasses, a book in her lap.
“Fine,” she said. “Ralph always called that his go-to-the-movies suit.”
Ralph had been a nice guy, but he never struck me as particularly clever, so I grunted. “One more request,” I said. “Can I sleep here? I mean, you must have a guest room, servant’s room. I could …”
“Yes,” she said, holding the book in her lap to her breast. Her hair was less than perfect, almost perfect but not quite, a few dark strands were out of place and caught the light from the lamp. The book, I could see, was Song of Bernadette.
“I’ll find the guest room,” I said, moving to the door and looking back at her. There was something going on behind her eyes, something I recognized from long ago.
“Toby,” she said, and I stopped. “You want to get into bed with me?”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, closed my eyes for a beat, and then in a wild rush threw Ralph’s clothes in a nearby chair, pulled off my shoes, and began to fling waiter’s clothes in all directions. When I had everything off but my undershorts, I looked at Anne, who had put down her book and glasses.
“You have more scars than I remembered,” she said seriously.
“I’ve been through a lot since you last saw me with my shirt off,” I said.
“Toby,” she said seriously, still sitting up. “This is just one time. I don’t want to be alone tonight. Tomorrow or the day after or the next day I’ll pull myself together. You haven’t changed. I haven’t changed.”
“But we have a history,” I said, stepping forward.
“That we have,” she said with a sigh, and she turned off the light.
8
It would have been a pretty good day if someone hadn’t tried to kill me. But that came later.
In the morning, Anne told me to take a shower. I told her she was voluptuous. I also told her everything that had happened the day before, including why I had appeared at the door wearing a waiter’s costume.
“I thought you did it just to cheer me up,” she said across the breakfast table. I was wearing Ralph’s go-to-the-movies suit, and she was dressed in a fittingly black widow’s dress. Anjelica had appeared magically in the morning to serve toast and eggs with coffee. She was just a kid, but she knew how to keep a straight face. Her eyes didn’t show the trace of a question about my being there in the morning in Ralph’s suit.
“Anne,” I said after my second cup of coffee and a third scrambled egg. I would have liked a bowl of Wheaties but she didn’t have any cereal in the house. “How much did Ralph leave you?”
She looked at me with a counter question, changed her mind, and said, “I talked to our lawyer last night. Ralph mortgaged the house. There’s not much in the bank, about two thousand. But his insurance will be enough to keep me comfortable until I decide what I want to do with my life.”
“How comfortable?” I asked.
“One hundred and eighty thousand dollars,” she said, biting her lower lip. “The company paid half the premiums. It’s standard. Working for an airline can be dangerous, even for executives.”
We chatted about the weather, the beach litter, and a few mutual acquaintances from the past including Ruth and Phil. I knew Anne had meant last night as no more than two curious and once-familiar bodies comforting each other. Anne always meant what she said.
“I went to a psychiatrist last year,” she said, offering me more coffee. I turned it down and she went on. “It’s a new fad among the moderately well-to-do. He told me that I had married you because I wanted a little boy, and you satisfied that need. I wanted a child and couldn’t have one, and you wanted a mother you had never really had.”
I wanted to escape, but I shook my head politely and nibbled at the crust of my toast, which I didn’t really want unless I could dip it into my coffee. I had controlled the urge, remembering Anne’s morning look of veiled disgust when I had dipped, sopped, or sponged food in the past.
“I divorced you when I stopped wanting to play mother,” she went on. “You wanted to keep playing baby. So, I married Ralph, who was …”
“A father figure,” I said. “I could ha
ve saved you fifteen bucks a session.”
“It was twenty-five,” she said with a smile, “and your telling me wouldn’t have made it true. It wasn’t true until I told myself and believed it.”
“Now you’ve got no father figure and you don’t want to go back to the little boy. You’re right. The little boy is pushing fifty and you outgrew him long ago. I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand. Can I use the phone?”
There was a phone on the heavy wooden table by the door. I got up and went to it. I could have waited an hour, two maybe, but I didn’t like this conversation.
“Hello, Shel,” I said when he answered after the third ring.
“I’m not talking to you, Toby,” he said. I could imagine him pursing his chubby lips.
“Don’t talk to me then, Shel, just tell me if I’ve had any calls.”
“Ha, how can I give you your messages if I’m not talking to you?”
“Shel, you’ve been talking to me to tell me you’re not talking to me. Do I have any messages?”
“Your brother,” he said. “He called. Toby, what am I going to do with a waiter’s uniform? And what about my suit? That was a good suit. I’ve only got two suits.”
“You can wear the waiter’s costume to the next costume ball of the dental association,” I said.
“The dental association doesn’t have a costume ball. Maybe I could sell it to a costume shop?”
“Great idea, Shel,” I said, wondering how much demand there was for a little fat waiter’s costume. “If they won’t take it, I’ll buy you a new suit.”
“Well …” he began and I said, “Good-bye, Shel. I’ll talk to you later.”
Anne was politely not listening or pretending that she wasn’t. Her small smile betrayed her as she helped Anjelica clear the table. I called the Wilshire Station and asked for Captain Pevsner, who came on almost immediately.
“Toby,” he said calmly. “You and that fat mouth-butcher went to see Monty Lipparini last night.”
“Right, Phil. Is he complaining? I made a deal with him and—”
“He’s not complaining,” Phil said. “He won’t complain to anybody any more. Monty Lipparini is dead. Your sloppy marksman gunned him down outside of Marty’s Lounge in Beverly Hills. You better get in here.”
Down for the Count: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Ten) Page 12