I gave her the address. I could hear voices in the vehicle registration office, but I couldn’t make out the words. Grace Smull was back on in about two minutes.
“You have my home address?” she asked.
“In my notebook,” I said.
“Read it back to me,” she said.
I dug my notebook out of my pocket, flipped through the pages, and found her name right under Ida Sarason.
“Five bucks,” she said. “Cash. In the mail today or drop it off.”
“I understand,” I said.
“First, your Victor Spelling’s address is the Carlton Arms Hotel,” she said. “Second, he has a nineteen thirty-eight Ford business coupe registered to him, license plate four-zero-three-eight.”
“I hate to ask, Grace, but could you check on registrations for any other Spellings?”
“Five bucks more,” she said.
“Five bucks more,” I agreed.
“There are four Spellings with motor vehicles registered in Los Angeles County,” she said.
“That was fast.”
“I anticipated,” she said. “You want to hear? You want to complain? Cost you no more to listen. Cost you another five to complain.”
“I’m listening.”
She gave me the names of the four Spellings on her list and their addresses. She even gave me the year and model of their cars.
“Thanks, Grace,” I said. “Tell Sarason I said hello.”
“Tell her yourself,” said Grace. “I tell her and she expects a finder’s fee.”
“You’re all heart, Grace,” I said.
“It’s a hard world out there, Peters. And I’m alone with a sick mother and a teenager to feed. I save my heart for them. Ten dollars. Cash. In the mail.”
She hung up and I took out my wallet, found two fives, dug around for an envelope, and had the payment ready to go in about two minutes. I made a note of the expense in my book and got up to leave. Then I remembered Jeremy’s call.
I found Gable’s number and called. It rang eight times before Jeremy answered.
“It’s Toby,” I said. “What’s up?”
“He called here,” Jeremy said. “Your madman.”
“His name, maybe even his real name, is Spelling,” I said. “What did he want?”
“He insisted on talking to Gable. Told him that he had killed K.G. and said the puzzle was complete. I’m afraid you were right to be concerned, Toby. It is my conclusion that he plans to murder Mr. Gable.”
Then I heard a familiar voice saying, “Let me have that thing.” Then Gable was on the phone. “Peters. I want that maniac found and I want to be there when he is. I want to wring his neck with my bare hands.”
“I’ve got some …” I tried, but he was going strong.
“He said things about my … things. The crazy son of a bitch thinks I was responsible for doing something to his father. I have no idea who his father is or was. I want him, Peters. Now, what, if anything, do you know?”
I told him. About Gouda, Alice and Jeremy’s solution to the killer’s puzzle, the killer’s name—real or not—and his giving the Carlton Arms as his home address for his vehicle registration. I also told him about my meeting with Phil.
“I don’t like sitting around here,” Gable said. “And I don’t want him killing any more people and holding me responsible. You’re telling me that the crazy son of a bitch is killing people simply because their initials spell my name?”
“Looks that way,” I said.
“Find him, Peters.”
“I’m working on it,” I said.
“Work fast, Peters. For God’s sake, work fast.”
He hung up and so did I. I wasn’t through making calls. I tried Wally Hospodar’s number in Calabasas. After five or six rings, a woman answered.
“My name’s Peters,” I said. “Can I speak to Wally?”
“He doesn’ live here anymore,” the woman said in a decidedly Spanish accent.
“I’m a friend,” I said. “I have to reach him. If …”
“Tell you the same thing I told the other one,” she said wearily. “He lives someplace downtown L.A. in a bottle of Scotch. Spends his life and his pension in bars.”
“Any bars in particular?”
“Melody Lounge or Gardens. Something like that,” she said.
“I know the place. You said someone else called looking for Wally?”
“Yesterday. Day before,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You see Wally you tell him something for me?”
“Sure.”
“Tell him Angelina loves him and he should not come home.”
“I’ll tell him,” I promised and the phone went dead.
When I got back into Shelly’s office, he was putting his drawings in a neat stack as he searched for some uncluttered place to put them.
“Spelling owes me money for the cleaning,” Shelly said. “You think he’ll pay his bill?”
“I wouldn’t count on it, Shel,” I said.
“Dentistry is a risky business,” he said, depositing the drawings back on the dental seat.
“Riskier with Violet Gonsenelli sitting in the reception room,” I said. “I’ve gotta go, Shel. I’m going to pick up a couple of tacos at Manny’s and I don’t think I’ll be back today. I’ll call you for messages.”
“At least when Violet’s here, I won’t have to take messages,” he grumbled.
“Good-bye, Shel,” I said, opening the door.
“Wait,” Shelly called, peeling off his smock. “I’ll take a lunch break.”
I noticed two things when we got to Manny’s. First, the Dishwasher Wanted sign was gone. Second, the place was crowded. Manny’s wasn’t that big to start with. Four booths and a counter with a dozen red leatherette swivel stools. Two cops were just getting up from the counter. Shelly and I slid in past them and took their places.
A hand came out and started removing the dirty dishes. I looked up. It was Elmo, strands of hair in place, face shaved, my pullover shirt under his white apron.
“That was fast,” I said.
“No time to change my mind,” Elmo said, working away. “Job’s easy. Keep it clear. Clean it up. You want your two bits back? I can’t watch your car and work a job.”
“Forget it,” I said.
Elmo hurried away with the dishes, and Manny, a lump of a man with a weary look on his face, leaned over to us, his newspaper open to the crossword puzzle.
“I read the papers every day,” he said with the rasp of a child of the teens doomed to the results of a bad tonsillec-tomy. “But … thirty-two across, ‘Inhabitants of Europe’s underbelly,’ twenty-seven across, ‘New leader of the House of Commons.’ Wait. This one I can get, ‘Preacher McPherson.’ Aimee Semple. Second wife and me, her name was Ernestina, used to go to the Four Square Gospel Church over on Glendale Boulevard near Sunset, Echo Park. Thousand, maybe two thousand packed in. I remember Sister Aimee saying, ‘Where there’s sin there’s salvation. Ernestina took her to heart. Never got through to me though. Got no imagination. Third and present wife’s got no imagination either. Works out better that way.”
“How’s Elmo working out?” I asked.
“Too soon to tell,” said Manny. “Says he’s your friend.”
“Says right,” I said.
“Too soon to tell,” Manny said again. “What happened to your head?”
“Patient of Shelly’s tried to kill me.”
“Java, Manny,” a woman called from the end of the counter.
“Comin’ up,” Manny called back and then to us, seriously, “R.A.F.’s pounding the Nazis in France, Netherlands. You see the Times?”
“Not today,” I said.
“I’ll have the three-taco special and coffee,” said Shelly.
“British stopped Rommel in North Africa,” Manny went on, ignoring Shelly. “And Montgomery is counterattacking. Looks good in Africa, Europe, and the Russians aren’t doing so good toda
y.”
“Java, Manny,” called the woman.
“Customers,” Manny said and eased away. He hadn’t taken my order. Didn’t need to. Unless I told him otherwise, he brought me a Pepsi and a pair of tacos.
The guy on the stool next to me hit me with an elbow, apologized, and went back to his business.
Then the raspy voice came behind me over the chatter and the radio which Manny had turned on to the news.
“Hand.”
“Juanita, I don’t …”
Juanita reached over Shelly and took my hand, spinning me around on the stool.
You couldn’t miss Juanita. Orange-and-gold billowing dress, colored beads around her neck, jangling bracelets and silver earrings the size of a burrito. Juanita’s hair was dark and wild, her weight was her own business, and her age was somewhere over the rainbow. Juanita had an office in the Farraday. Juanita was a seer. Don’t make the mistake of calling her a fortune teller. Many had slipped. All had regretted it.
“Nothing new here,” she said, running a red fingernail across my palm. “But you’re givin’ off something. Like my second husband Ivan just before he went north, never to be heard from again.”
The news blared, customers babbled, dishes clanked, and Juanita said, “You got his game wrong, Toby.”
“Who?”
“Who?” she repeated sarcastically. “Whoever’s giving you a hard time. Whoever’s playin’ a game with you. He’s got his finger up your you-know-what and he’s spinnin’ you around, pointing your head the wrong places.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“The stars,” she said, looking into my eyes. “All the stars will be in one place as you stand in the grove. Someone wants you to go to the grove. He wants you watching stars in the grove.”
“The grove?” Shelly asked as Manny plopped the tacos and drinks on the counter.
“The grove,” she repeated.
“Orange grove?” I tried.
“A grove where the fruit is hard as a turtle shell,” she said. “Don’t go to this grove, Toby. Juanita is tellin’ you straight from the heart. Don’t go. Finish your tacos and I’ll read the crumbs. Maybe there’s more.”
“Another time, Juanita,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” she said with a jangling shrug.
“How’s your sister?”
“Okay,” she said. “Arthritis. Bad season. Watch yourself, Toby.”
“I will, Juanita,” I said.
She bustled out of Manny’s, humming something I didn’t recognize. Juanita had a way of being right about things, but I’d never been able to make sense of anything she told me till it was too late. It’s like being told the winner of the Kentucky Derby in a code you know you can’t break.
“You believe in that stuff?” Shelly asked.
I swiveled back around and reached for my first taco.
“Wipe your face, Shel. You got sour cream on your chins.”
Chapter 8
Victor Spelling was, according to the desk clerk, a resident of the Carlton Arms. It took another five bucks of Clark Gable’s money for me to find out that his room number was 342, that he had been at the Carlton Arms since January second. Spelling paid on time, said little, and often walked out in a tux and tie.
“Think he’s a waiter at some big restaurant,” the clerk said, trying to earn his bribe or urge me into an even bigger one. “Don’t know which one, Toby.”
It was late in the morning on Monday and business was slow. Only one person, an old man in a shaggy brown suit, was sitting in the lobby. The old man was sitting in a red-leather chair, his chin forward against his chest, his eyes closed.
The furniture was all red leather in the Carlton Arms lobby. A trio of ceiling fans ground around, redistributing the muggy air. The clerk dabbed daintily at his brow with a handkerchief.
The clerk was named Sandy Mixon. He had a round, red face, a thick neck, very little hair, oversized teeth, and a great desire to please. We had never, as far as either of us knew, met before this morning, yet I was his old pal Toby, and he was …
“Sandy, what if I told you Vic and I were old friends, high school …”
“He’s about ten years younger than you, Toby.”
“I was slow in high school, Sandy. Math is my nemesis.”
The old man asleep in the red-leather chair snorted. Both Mixon and I looked at him. The old man’s eyes opened wide. He looked around, confused, saw us, blinked, and went back to sleep.
“Can you add five more to what you’ve already put in the pot?”
“What’ll it buy me?” I asked.
“A bellboy who’ll open room 342, a Band-aid for that little cut on your forehead, and my further assurance that you are not deficient in your math skills,” said Mixon. “I taught arithmetic to third-graders in Fresno. That was three months in ’37. Worst winter of my life, and you’re talking to a man who grew up and grew cold in Hibbing, Minnesota.”
“Keep the Band-aid,” I said, peeling off another five and handing it to him. “It gives me character.”
Mixon examined the bill, flattened it with the side of his hand, folded it, and wedged it into his jacket pocket with the other bills.
“For free,” Mixon said, leaning forward and dabbing his neck with his handkerchief. “Another guy was looking for Spelling today. Short, big arms, white hair, bad skin, worse attitude.”
“Tools Nathanson,” I said.
“Name rings no bells,” said Mixon, standing erect. “Slow man with a dollar. Said he’d be back. Said I should say nothing to Spelling about his having been around. He slipped me three Washingtons. I said I’d shut up. Truth to tell, I don’t talk to Mr. Spelling either way.”
“Key,” I said.
Mixon pulled a set of keys from his pocket and said, “I assume you’re simply going to surprise your old friend and talk to him.”
“I like that assumption,” I said.
“And I like my job,” said Mixon. “I don’t want to go back to the multiplication tables in Fresno, if they’d even take me back.”
“Key,” I said.
“This is a decent hotel,” Mixon said, looking around as if he’d never seen the lobby of the Carlton Arms before. “You can get a clean room for a buck a night, no questions asked.”
“It’s the Plaza of Los Angeles,” I said. “Key.”
Mixon nodded knowingly and hit the bell in front of him. A girl with freckles and a maroon uniform with polished-brass buttons appeared and looked for my luggage.
“Connie,” Mixon said. “Please let Mr. Peters into room 342. He’s an old friend of Mr. Spelling’s.”
Connie smiled, showing large dazzling-white teeth, and took the offered passkey from Mixon. I nodded to Mixon and followed the bouncing Connie, who hurried across the lobby. The sleeping old man in the rumpled brown suit seemed to sense us coming, opened his eyes again, gave me a look of disgust, and tried to lift himself from the chair.
“Noise,” he grumbled. “How can a man rest with …”
He waved his arms around and sank back, staring across the lobby at a painting on the wall of a young woman filling a pitcher with water at an outdoor fountain.
“Mr. Walters,” Connie said, nodding at the old man. “Used to be a movie writer. Bronco Billy Anderson, even Chaplin. Long before my time. Talks a lot about somebody named John Bunny. Elevator or stairs?”
“Up to you,” I said.
She nodded brightly and started up the carpeted stairs, bounding with energy. I wanted her to slow down, but I didn’t want to tell her. So I did my best to bound.
She waved and said hello to a naval officer and a woman with him old enough to be his wife. She greeted an overly made-up old woman dressed in a draping gossamer which was more appropriate for Cairo in 1914 than Los Angeles in 1943.
“Mrs. Forbes-Hughes,” said Connie over her shoulder, bounding ever upward. “You look great today.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Forbes-Hughes of ancient Egypt said to Connie.
“Third floor,” Connie announced as I came up the last four steps and stood at her side, trying not to breathe heavily.
“Are you always like this?” I asked, panting and trying not to show it, which is not easy.
“Like what?” she said, striding down the hall.
“Like one of those birds in Snow White. Katharine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby.”
“Movies,” she said, nodding in understanding as she strode on. “My mom told me when I was four to keep positive, keep moving, keep my eyes open, and always, always smile in public and have a good word for everyone.”
“Must take a lot out of you,” I said as we stopped in front of 342.
“I’m still young,” she said. “Nineteen in April. I figure if I can keep a positive attitude till I’m twenty-one, it’ll be natural and I won’t have to work so hard at it.”
“Must make your parents proud,” I said, waiting for Connie to open the door.
“Dad died last year. Rabaul.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said, opening the door. “How much did you pay Sandy?” I stepped in. Her voice had been bright, alive.
“I …”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, holding up a hand and looking around the room. “It was more than you had to pay. Sandy is a talker. Can’t stop talking. You want him to tell you something, just wait. If you outlast him, you don’t have to pay him.”
“Fifteen dollars,” I said, looking at the tired furniture.
“I don’t make that in a week,” she said, moving to the door.
I fished out another five and held it out.
“Nope,” she said. “Make it two if you have change. If you don’t, I do. I’m not out to cheat you, just make an honest living and enough to go to U.S.C. next year.”
I found two singles and gave them to her.
“You know Spelling? The guy in this room.”
“Can’t get a smile out of him,” Connie said, tucking the singles into her pocket. “Not bad looking. If he made a pass, I wouldn’t fumble, but I’d have to get a smile out of him first.”
“Maybe I can make him smile when he gets back,” I said, moving to the armchair near the window and turning it so it faced the door.
“I don’t think I like the way you just said that,” she said. “You’re a bill collector?”
Tomorrow Is Another Day Page 11