by David Pierce
I turned the face of the world's most expensive paperweight to the wall. I answered a query from an ex-client in Carson City who wanted to know if I knew anyone trustworthy in my line of work in London, England. No, was the answer. Not only didn't I know anyone at all in London, except the queen, I was hard-pressed to think of anyone anywhere in my line of work who I would deem trustworthy.
A lady from Palos Verdes, which is south of here, out past LAX, wanted to know my rates per hour, day, week, and month. I told her, adding that in some special cases they could be subject to moderation, i.e., I was willing to make a deal if it was a slow day.
Lt. Carstairs called back. He sounded busy. I explained briefly who I was and told him I needed a fast line on Goose Berry, if he would be so kind.
He didn't want to be so kind.
I mentioned my brother's name, current duty, station, and rank. The lieutenant unbent enough to tell me as far as he was concerned, quote, Goose is nothing but a piker and I only roust him when I have nothing more important to do, like chasing kiddy-car thieves, unquote. I asked him if Goose had any heavy connections. Carstairs said I had to be kidding. I asked him if the LKA down on East St. in Anaheim that Sneezy had given me for Goose was still correct; the lieutenant told me without looking it up it was, and was there anything else, as he had four hours of paperwork to do before noon and it was already eleven? I said no, thanked him, and hung up.
I got back on to John D., lanky prop, of the Valley Bowl, to ask him if I could borrow his office for an hour someday soon. He said what was the matter with my own. Termites, I said. In that case, he said, be my guest, as long as it's for something illegal or fun or both.
I looked up Goose's phone number in the book, tried him and found him home, which didn't surprise me all that much, as lowlifes like Goose are more familiar with night owls than early birds.
"Mr. Berry," I said in my movie gangster voice. "You don't know me but my name is Ace. I'm a friend of J. J.'s and let me tell you, pal, you sure put the fear of God into one poor fish with that postcard you sent him."
"J. J. who?" Goose said guardedly in an accent that in a pinch I'd say was Chicago, East Side.
"The J. J.," I said, "who is a friend of mine and who would be calling you himself if he didn't have to be extra careful these days about the company he keeps."
"Oh, yeah?" the Goose said.
"If I wasn't a pal of his," I said, "how would I know about you?"
"So?"
"So how about setting up a meet, you and me, in a couple of days, to come to some kind of suitable arrangement? The last thing J. J. needs right now is someone bringing up all that old shit, and he's willing to put his money where his dentures are for a one-time-only buy-out. He's no fool, he's got a chance for some really big bucks. What does he care for a couple of thou to get you off his back?"
"In that case," Goose said, "I probably could find a little free time later in the week. Just tell me where and when, friend, but let us make it somewheres reasonably public, you know what I mean. I'd feel better about things if we didn't meet up like in the middle of some desert at midnight."
I said I caught his drift and I'd get back to him in a day or two with the details, maybe some afternoon in a park or a bowling alley or whatever.
"OK by me," he said. "Thanks for calling, friend. Say hello to J. J. for me."
"Will do," I said, and we both hung up. All right, amigos, from the sound of him and from what Carstairs had to say about him, it didn't look like the Goose would be any match for the likes of V. Daniel in full swing. I suppose I could have met up with him that afternoon and had a go at him, but it would give me more of an edge if I had Benjamin with me and it was remotely possible Benny might tear himself and Doris away from their tropical idyll (on me) in a couple of days. Also, if I gave Goose more time to get his hopes up, he'd have even farther to fall when we lowered the boom on him. Finally, I needed a day or two to prepare a surprise package I had in mind for Peter "Goose" Berry, something I knew he'd adore.
I reached for the phone book again and began working on that aspect of the venture by turning to the Fs, F for finger. Under "Finger" I of course found nothing helpful, nor did I expect to—I was merely amusing myself, if you must know—what a card. I turned then to the more likely entries—hospital and medical supply companies.
Ever tried to buy a couple of fingers? Or a thumb or two? It's not as easy as one might think. Too bad Billy hadn't kept his and slipped them to me in the paper bag along with Shorty, my little paperweight. I started by telephoning something called the Cal. West Hosp. Sply. & Equip.
"Hello," said a lady's voice. "Cal. West. Can I help you?"
"You don't happen to sell parts of the human body, do you, m'am?" I said. "Fingers, specifically."
"What are you, some kind of nut?"
She slammed the receiver down.
"Thumbs would do," I said into the dial tone. Finally a nice, helpful girl at Morgan Med. Ltd. told me what I was doing wrong just before I phoned up Blades and asked him to see what he could do free-lance. What I ultimately got on to was a medical laboratory supplier, and did they have human bodies and all parts thereof, to say nothing of animals, ditto. Arms, hands, torsos, everything including complete skeletons, although those were now plastic, the man I was talking to informed me. He quoted me a price for two adult fingers, which I found steep to say the least, but he explained I was paying for the whole hand, as they had no call and thus no price list as such for individual digits. I said I understood completely but really had no need for a whole hand, and perhaps someone there might be kind enough to hack off a couple of ringers for me and wrap them up separate, and they could keep the rest on me for the trouble.
He said sure, no problem, but then wanted to know which medical facility I was calling for.
"Eh, none," I said. "I'm doing private research."
No sale, he said, without an order form from an accredited medical school, research center, or the like.
"How about an M.D.?" I said.
"Sure, no problem," he said. I said I'd get back to him.
My own doc had just retired and was on a year's cruise around the globe, spending (partly) my money, and I didn't want to bother Mom's regular specialist for something so seemingly foolish, so I bothered Doctor Don instead. He owed me one, did he not? When he finally came to the phone and was done laughing, he of course wanted to know what I wanted them for. I told him—to frighten the five o'clock shadow off a two-bit chiseler who was leaning on one of my clients. I gave him the name of the company I'd just talked to, and he said he'd get a note to me in the mail immediately that should do the trick, which he did, because it got to me by Wednesday, in the evening of which, as it happened, Benny and Sara returned.
They both promptly phoned me up at home, where Evonne and I were sipping strawberry daiquiris, holding hands, and watching TV, to tell me they were back safely and how tanned they were and what a good time they had on the island and that they went sailing one day with Big Jeff and turtle watching another day and Doris had two stitches put in her noggin and she told her folks she'd bumped her head when she slipped on some rocks skin-diving with a bunch of Aussies. Sara, needless to say, wanted to know when I was going to cough up all I owed her. I said it was already in the mail and I was glad they were home safely, as was I, after a few adventures en route, about which I'd tell them all someday if they were lucky.
Evonne switched channels about then to the highbrow one, as she wanted to catch Laurence Olivier's Hamlet again. I said OK, but the last time I'd seen it I'd been disappointed as it was mostly quotes, and jokes don't come much older than that. She wound up spending the night, and not in the spare room, either, gossip lovers. She helped me wash off the last lingering traces of black from the back of my neck first. Sharing a bath with a blonde and a rubber duck does make it crowded, but there are compensations.
I forget what I did all day Wednesday after I drove my American Beauty Rose to work, so it was probably
even less than usual.
Thursday morning, armed with the doc's letter, I took the Hollywood Freeway, then the San Bernardino, to Monterey Park and picked up my digits, which were awaiting me at the front desk. I handed over the note and some money, and they handed me my fingers, neatly wrapped. I, being the sentimentalist I am, still have the receipt tucked away somewhere safe: "(1) ml. adlt. rt. hand – $119.00." I unwrapped the package back at the office, took a peek, and wished I hadn't. Looking at two nasty, gray, peeling fingers with uncut nails bobbing about in a slightly cloudy glass of formaldehyde is not recommended right after a late breakfast at Mrs. Morales' Taco-Burger stand.
I scraped the company label off the jar, strolled around the corner to Mrs. Martel's, purchased some colorful Christmas wrapping depicting Santa's elves hard at work, and then back at the office again, rewrapped the jar.
I phoned John D. He said OK to three o'clock at the Valley Bowl.
I phoned Benny. He said OK to three o'clock. What did he have to do and what should he look like? Just sit there, I told him, looking rich, powerful, and scary.
I phoned Evonne at work just to say I adored her and she could wash the ring off my tub anytime. She said something about her mother having warned her about men like me.
I phoned Goose. Goose said OK to three o'clock at the Valley Bowl. I told him where it was and to ask for the manager's office.
I phoned Mom to see how she was settling in and getting on; she dictated a short list of what she needed, and I said I'd get them to her that weekend if that was OK with her. She said sure, and guess what? She'd just been fingerprinted in the cafeteria and that the whole place was abuzz with rumors. I said I'd always told her that crime didn't pay and they'd get her in the end.
After a late lunch at Fred's—cream cheese on toasted raisin and a glass of buttermilk—and after laying down a modest wager with Two-to-One Tim, the house bookie, on the Dodgers against the Giants that night (easy money), I returned home, donned my prescription sunglasses, strapped on my shoulder holster, tucked one of my Police Positives in it, practiced my slow draw a couple of times in front of the mirror, put on a sport coat, added the worst tie in my collection, which is saying something, then finished off the ensemble with a garish tie clip in the form of a (fake) gold horseshoe.
I attacked the traffic again, arriving at the Valley Bowl around two-thirty, parked around the back and went in. I exchanged friendly hellos with Sal at the Snack Bowl, accepted her offer of a speedy cup of java on the house, declined deftly an offer to go to a wrestling match with her some night, made my way past the line of pinball and Space Invader machines to John D.'s office, where I found my friend tapping busily away on an adding machine with one hand and rubbing the top of his crewcut with the other. When he'd finished up whatever it was he was doing—checking out the bar totals, it looked to me—we small-talked until Benny showed up some fifteen minutes later, at which time John said, "OK, it's all yours, boys, but not too much gunplay—it disturbs the bowlers' concentration," and then discreetly withdrew.
I looked Benny over to see if he looked scary. He sure did, in the way that a combination of Baby Face Nelson, Buddha, and a tax examiner might look scary—expensive one-button mohair suit, lizard shoes, narrow tie with a diamond stud, gray gloves (a nice touch), gray homburg, steel-gray mirror shades, black leather attaché case.
We exchanged moderately emotional greetings, as we hadn't seen each other since early one morn in a swamp. Then I said, "Benny, my boy, thanks for everything you did down south, we would have been in deep shit without your brilliance, foresight, and everything else."
"Victor, my man," he said, "my pleasure. You must tell me some sunny day how you got on with the Globetrotters."
"Let me sum it up this way," I said. "I don't think they're going to renew my contract. What did you tell Happy my problem was anyway?"
"Double paternity suit," he said.
"Is that all?" I said.
"With twin sisters," he said.
"Is that all?" I said.
"Just going on sixteen," he said.
"Is that all?" I said.
"Yes," he said.
"Thanks a million, pal," I said. "It will not be forgotten."
I handed over the jar, which he put in his briefcase, outlined the action, then took the seat behind the desk, leaving the one facing me free. Benny carefully sat himself down in the corner on the one remaining chair, underneath a framed photograph of our host just after he'd won the $50,000 Phoenix Open back in '76. The rotter hardly looked a day older now. I unbuttoned my jacket so Goose could spot the cannon in my holster, and wondered how John D. had managed to spot that I was carrying it with the jacket buttoned up. Remind me to ask him about that sometime. Maybe it was just a lucky guess.
A little after three there was a knock on the door. I let a long minute go by before calling out, "It's open."
In, warily, came Goose, who surprised me because he didn't look like I thought he would, like a racetrack tout or a West Coast version of some Damon Runyon character. Goose was a short, pudgy, tired-looking man who walked like his feet hurt and blinked his eyes a lot.
"You Ace?" he asked me.
I nodded and pointed to the vacant chair across from me. His eyes glanced nervously toward Benny, in his corner. Benny looked impassively back.
Goose took a seat; his legs were just long enough so his feet reached the worn carpeting.
"This your place?" he said, looking around. "I usta bowl. Looks like a nice operation."
"Turns a buck," I said. "Just like you're trying to do."
"Everyone's gotta make a living, right?" he said with a grin.
"OK, Goose, let's cut the shit," I said, slamming one fist on the desk under his nose and letting my jacket flop open so he caught a good glimpse of the .38. His grin went somewhere and didn't come back. "J. J. Hill. Not the smartest dude in the world—what jock is?—but smart enough to know who to call when some little shitass starts puttin' the squeeze on. Right, Mr. G?"
Mr. G took a cigar out of a leather cigar case, rolled it between his fingers briefly, licked one end delicately, then put the other end in his mouth. I almost tripped over myself getting across the room to light it for him. When I was back at the desk, I said, "So here it is, Goose. We got plans for J. J. that do not include some two-bit jerkoff from Anaheim, for God's sake."
"Come on, you guys," the Goose protested. "Why jump on me? What have I done?"
"Nothin'," I said. "And that's the way it's gonna stay. Hey, I dig that, it sort of rhymes."
"Ace," said Benny, which was to be his entire contribution to the dialogue. He held up his briefcase.
"Oh, yeah, sure, Mr. G." I crossed to Benny with alacrity, took the case from him, opened it up, took out the gift wrapped digits, and put them gently on the desk in front of Goose.
"Here," I said. "Birthday present from Mr. G. He gives terrific presents, you'll like it. I did the wrapping," I added bashfully.
Goose looked at the parcel like a committed vegetarian eyeing a plateful of fresh steak tartare.
"But it ain't my birthday," he said.
"So happy Labor Day," I said. "Open it, it won't bite. If you open it careful, you can save the pretty paper."
He opened it . . . gingerly, I suppose, would be more accurate than carefully. With extreme gingerliness. When he took in what was in the jar, he went green and dropped it on the rug.
"That's no way to treat a gift," I said. "Are you lucky it didn't break. So pick it up, asshole."
He bent over and picked it up.
"So put it away," I said. "It's for you. What would I want with a couple of fingers sawed off some chiseler's hand?"
"What do I want with them?" Goose muttered.
"You want them to remind you," I said, "that you got one week, which is seven days starting today, to mail to me, Ace, here at the Valley Bowl, Olive and Alameda, every picture you got, any film you got, every negative you got stored away under your dirty socks, of J. J. a
nd his old teammates. Otherwise, what happens is me and a friend of mine take a drive out to East Street and you lose one finger per day you're late with the mail. And when they're done, we start on something you only got one of. And I don't mean sliced neatly off under anaesthetic with a nice sharp scalpel in a nice clean operating room. I mean sawed off with a crosscut rubbed with dog shit in an alley somewhere. Do you hear me, Goose, am I gettin' through at all, did I use too many big words?"
Poor Goose didn't know whether to shake his head no or nod yes. Mr. G snapped his fingers once in my direction. I hurriedly took him over an ashtray, one purloined, I noticed, from the same piano bar that supplied several of mine.
"Say it, Goose," I said on my return. "Say I'm gettin' through all that dandruff."
"You're getting through," he managed to get out.
"Now beat it, creep," I said, "if you can figure out where the door is. Go home. Get out the Scotch tape. Start wrapping—it doesn't have to be neat like mine. Then go stand in line at the post office. Make sure you put enough stamps on, Goose, even if you got to get someone else to lick them for you. Now fuck off."
Off he fucked.
"I love doing Sheldon Leonard," I said when he'd fled.
"Primitive but effective, I would surmise," said Mr. G, stubbing out the cigar. "Ptui. I hate those things. Did you know if you rub cigar ash in your hair, it makes you look ten years older?"
"No," I said, opening the door to air the place out a bit. "And I don't need cigar ash to make me look ten years older, going along with your insane schemes in foreign countries has already done it. But it was a nice touch, as usual, the cigar. If you paid more than a quarter for it, I'll add it to J. J.'s bill. Remind me to phone him up later with the good news."