“I must be going, Toby,” Jeremy said. “Perhaps I can catch Dr. Minck before he tries to drive. He drank at least a gallon of Mrs. Plaut’s refreshing saft.”
“We’ll talk later, Jeremy,” I said.
He nodded, shook Mrs. Plaut’s hand, and went in search of Shelly.
“All in all a good tea party,” Mrs. Plaut said, pouring herself a glass of saft.
“All in all,” I agreed, pouring myself a glass.
“A toast, Mr. Peelers,” Mrs. Plaut said, holding up her glass. “Absent friends.”
“Absent friends,” I repeated, touching my glass to hers.
I finished my glass at about the same time as Mrs. Plaut.
“It’s the nectar that does it,” she said.
“I’ll help you clean up.”
“Only one who I allowed to help with cleanup was the Mister.”
I went through the day room into the hallway and onto the porch, where Mame Stoltz had already departed and Clark Gable was pacing and checking his watch.
“Sorry about that, Peters,” he said. “In there, I mean.”
“About what?”
“I got a little impatient. Hell, I lost all my patience, looked around and saw … some people trying to protect a man in uniform during a war. You’ve got to admit that you’re relying on a quartet too old, small, or blind to be on active duty.”
“Add lame,” I said. “I’m both too old and I’ve got a bad back. You were right. We’re a sideshow, but we’re not half bad when the wind is blowing our way and the sun is shining.”
“And the gods are looking down,” said Gable with a smile.
I told him about our conclusion that Spelling would probably go for Lionel Varney at the Academy Awards the next night. It made sense to Gable. I told him that we might be wrong and that Spelling knew where Gable and I lived, so it might be a good idea for us to get out of L.A. for the night and for me to take him to whatever transportation back to England he might find on a Saturday.
“I don’t hide, Peters,” he said, sitting on the white porch railing.
“Why risk getting killed?” I said, leaning against the wall and watching a pair of smiling young women tooling down Heliotrope in a convertible. “Besides, the papers probably know you’re back by now. They’ll probably be waiting for you in Encino.”
Gable shrugged and turned to see what I was looking at. The girl in the passenger seat looked up and saw him. She screamed and we could hear her squeal to the driver as they roared away.
“Clark Gable. I swear. On the porch. Go around the block. Really.”
“I’m going home before they make it around the block, Peters,” he said, getting up from the rail.
“They might spot you,” I said.
“Naw, one of the nice things about a cycle is that you can wear a leather helmet and goggles and the police won’t think you’re about to rob a bank. Stay on the job and give me a call in the morning. I’ll lock the doors and keep a gun next to my bed.”
“I think you should …”
He was already down the stairs.
“Hitler’s boys have been trying to shoot me out of the sky for almost a year,” he said with a familiar lopsided grin. “His best haven’t done it. I’m not about to let a stateside lunatic give the Fuehrer some good news.”
I could hear the phone ringing inside the house. I couldn’t tell if it was Mrs. Plaut’s phone or the pay phone on the upstairs landing. Gable waved, a clipped little wave to the side, and hurried to his motorcycle parked at the curb. He was roaring down the street, head down, and went right past the girls in the convertible who had circled the block and were looking for the king. They paid no attention to the man on the motorcycle. I moved to the porch steps as the girls came up alongside the house.
“My friend says Clark Gable is on your porch,” the driver shouted.
“He was,” the passenger said.
“My cousin Conrad,” I said. “Stunt man. Done some work for Gable.”
“I could have sworn,” said the passenger.
They both looked at me, a heavyset Chrysler waiting impatiently behind them for the girls to finish their conversation.
“Are you anybody?” the girl in the driver’s seat said.
Her hair was long and black. Her skin perfect and tan. Her teeth as white as memory.
“No,” I said. “I’m a plumber.”
The guy in the Chrysler lost his patience and hit the horn. The girls drove off, away from the sunset and toward Sunset Boulevard.
“For you, Mr. Peelers,” Mrs. Plaut said behind me. “Phone. Man from the brotherhood. Upstairs.”
I thanked her and went back in the house, taking the stairs one at a time, feeling a little sorry for myself, determined to give Anne a call, a night out, some conversation, when Spelling was locked up. I picked up the phone. It was Phil.
“Can’t give Varney any cover,” he said abruptly.
“Can’t gi … Phil, I think Spelling’s going to try to kill him at the Academy Awards dinner tomorrow night. Listen, if you read those notes carefully, you …”
“Can’t,” Phil said impatiently, and I knew that if he was here standing next to me I’d either shut up now or find out what it felt like to be thrown down Mrs. Plaut’s always clean and carpeted stairs.
“Why?”
“There’s a war on,” he said. “The Japs are getting suicidal. The R.A.F. is bombing Berlin.”
“So?”
“So Mick Veblin is district supervisor,” Phil said. “You know Mick Veblin?”
“No,” I said.
“G. Lane Price, the chief of police of Glendale, knows him. Very well. I’m under investigation for not arresting you when there was sufficient evidence. And Mick is also curious about how I let Wally Hospodar get shot in the back seat of an unmarked police vehicle and why said vehicle is a mess. I have very little credibility here, Toby, and I’ll be lucky to hold onto my job.”
“I’m sorry, Phil.”
“Hell,” he said. “Let’s just call it a birthday present from you to me.”
“Birth—? Phil. It’s your birthday.”
“Every year at this time.”
“I forgot.”
“You always do,” he said. “But I really don’t give a shit. You’re on your own with Varney, and Veblin himself will probably want to talk to you.”
“What do you want me to say to him?”
“What do I … Toby, I want you to lie your ass off and save my job. Can you do that?”
“I can do that.”
“Fine.”
“Listen, Phil …”
He hung up hard.
So the Los Angeles Police Department was out. It was going to be up to the second team. If I was lucky, I could reach Hy at Hy’s for Him on Melrose before he closed. Gunther had his own tux, but Hy, who catered to the lost, lonely, and the once famous, had a tux in the back room that fit me, plus one for a giant and another for a small fat man who sweated a lot.
I was feeling less sorry for myself already.
Chapter 11
I called Hy. I had done some odd jobs for him over the years—tracking his missing mother-in-law, spending a night looking through a hole in the dressing-room wall to catch an employee who was making off with the merchandise, persuading a couple of down-and-outers to make a final and complete payment for goods. I wouldn’t say Hy owed me, but then again being nice to people you do business with is good business. Hy was in and was willing to give me a rate on the tuxedos. I didn’t tell him money was no object.
I got in my Crosley and headed for Hy’s, listening to “A Date with Judy” on the radio. “Night and day, at home or away, always carry Turns,” the announcer said. I thought it was a good idea. For the next fifteen minutes, Judy Foster displayed acute anxiety to her brother Randolph about whether Oogie Pringle would call her about the most important school dance of the year.
I double-parked on Melrose right in front of Hy’s shop, under the red-on-white ba
nner reading, “Absolutely Everything Must Go Even If It Breaks Me.” A cartoon of Hy, complete with sad bulldog face and suspenders over a little belly, looked down at those of us seeking a bargain at his expense.
Hy was at the door with the three boxes. I took them.
“How’s business?” I asked.
“Between you and me,” he said, looking around the busy shop to be sure no one was listening, “not so bad. Saturdays people buy like there’s no tomorrow. I tell them there’s no tomorrow. The newspapers tell them there might not be a tomorrow. And me, I lost my lease and everything must go.”
“You own the building, Hymie,” I reminded him.
“I am not always easy on myself. You got a formal occasion or are you gonna dress up like a waiter again?”
“Academy Awards dinner,” I said.
“Ooh, Coconut Grove. The whole schmeer. Best actor’s gonna be Gary Cooper. Pride of the Yankees. Two years in a row. First Alvin York. Then Lou Gehrig. Can’t beat the combo. You can bet on it. My sister’s husband delivers sandwiches to the Academy. He heard. Bet on it.”
Hy had his thumbs in his suspenders and was rocking from his toes to his heels, Judge Priest himself.
“Can I use your phone?”
“You can use my sister if you promise to marry her.”
“You’ve got a sister?”
“Three of them. All unmarried. Youngest is forty-one, give or take a couple years. Seriously, you want to meet them? Their offspring will be heirs to this gold mine and a couple of outlet stores in Pismo and Venice.”
“I want a phone, Hy.”
“A phone you got. Think about the sisters though. I’m serious.”
Boxes in hand, I moved around Hy and down the aisles, past couples haggling with middle-aged and ancient salesmen and women.
“I call it a miracle,” a sunken-chested old salesman with a pencil-thin mustache and badly dyed hair was saying to a young man in front of a shop mirror.
The young man had a short military haircut and darting eyes that gave him away as someone who was about to ship out.
“Fits like … I don’t know what,” the salesman said, stepping back to admire the young man, who was trying on a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. A good twenty years too old for the kid. But then again, who knew if the kid had twenty more years.
The salesman—it was Jack-Jack Benoit, who used to deal blackjack in Reno—grabbed my arm. I almost dropped my boxes.
“Stranger,” he said. “Does that or does that jacket not fit this young man like perfection? And the colors, textures. I’d swear it was custom-made in England for you.”
“Looks great,” I said.
The kid wasn’t so sure. Jack-Jack needed more help from me, and I knew he was supporting a lot of people on his commission. But I had no heart for even a small con. I plodded onward, the voice of Jack-Jack Benoit behind me saying, “Did I tell you or did I tell you?” to the kid in the tweed jacket. “Now we get this fitted and let’s look at some real bargains, vat-dyed twill shirts for two dollars and ninety-four cents, five pair of army socks for one buck.”
The place was busy, but no one else stopped me for fashion advice. I pushed into Hy’s office, plunked the boxes on the floor, and sat at Hy’s desk, a small jungle of pins, needles, thread, and pieces of cloth. I started calling. Everyone should be home by now if home was where they were going.
I tried Shelly at the office. No answer. I tried Shelly at home. Mildred.
“Mildred, my love,” I said. “Is your husband home?”
“What does she look like?” Mildred asked.
“Who?”
“The receptionist you hired, the one you insisted that Sheldon help pay for. You know who.”
“Violet?”
“Her name is Violet?”
“My business is booming,” I said. “I can’t keep up with the paperwork, billing, correspondence. Mrs. Gonsenelli is experienced and I’ve known her family since … well, she’s like a daughter to me. Mildred, don’t tell me you’re jealous. Not Mildred Minck.”
“Sheldon doesn’t need a receptionist,” she said. “Sheldon needs a leash. He’s run through most of our money with bad investment advice from you and I don’t want him to start spending money on some kid who winks at him and pats his bald head. I’m holding you responsible.”
Hy opened the door, started to come in, saw I was on the phone, and backed out.
“Reluctantly and with a full understanding of the enormity of the situation, I accept full responsibility. Now can I talk to Sheldon or do I have to have Brink’s deliver a quart of my blood to your door as a sign of good faith?”
Mildred hung up. I called back. Shelly answered.
“Toby, you’re going to have to apologize to Mildred.”
“If it’s that or sign on with the Japs as a kamikaze pilot, I’ll pack my bags for the Orient.”
“Good, I’ll tell her you apologize and that you’re going to send her flowers.”
“You’re wasting your money, Shel. Listen, good news. I’ve got your tux and we’re going to the Academy Awards tomorrow night. We’re going to keep an eye on Lionel Varney.”
“Lionel Varney?”
“The actor who … I’ll drop your tux off at the office. You come for it in the morning.”
“The Academy Awards dinner, you said.”
“Rubbing elbows with Kate Hepburn and Ronald Colman,” I assured him.
There was a scraping of objects and the vacuum sound of Sheldon putting his hand over the phone.
“Shel?”
He came back on with, “Mildred wants to go.”
“No.”
“Then I’m not going,” he said.
“You mean that?”
“No,” he said emphatically. “Besides, Mildred was planning to visit her brother Al in San Diego tomorrow and I have to clean the office.”
“You’ll pick up the tux in the morning and meet me in front of the Farraday at five?”
“Yes,” he said. “That I will do.”
He hung up. I got through to Jeremy after two rings.
“The best laid plans have run for the border,” I said. Then I told him what had happened. He agreed to join Shelly and me.
“Did you absorb anything that I told you this afternoon about doing things like this?” Jeremy asked.
“Last time,” I said. “Promise. The man needs our help. The police won’t …”
“The conceptual impossibility and magic of infinity is that the human mind is incapable of imagining that beyond the final barrier of space there is something which can be called nothing.”
“That a fact?” I said as Hy returned, gave me a two-shouldered shrug, and pointed to his watch.
“You are incapable of conceiving nothingness, Toby. If I am present, you will ask and I will answer. I will be in front of the Farraday in the tuxedo at five tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Jeremy,” I said. “One more thing. Is there a phone in that model apartment you gave me the key for and do you know the number?”
There was a phone and he knew the number. I thanked him, hung up, and called Gable’s house in Encino.
Gable answered on the twelfth ring just as I was about to give up. I told him about Varney, the tuxedos, the police, and the plan.
“And you want me to get you into the Academy Awards dinner?” he asked when I was done.
“You’ve got it,” I said.
Long pause at the other end and then, “Give me numbers where I can reach you. Half hour, maybe an hour from now.”
I gave him my office, home number, and the number in Jeremy’s model apartment. Hy was standing there patiently above me.
“Want to say hello to Clark Gable?” I asked.
“You kiddin’? I’ve sold dresses to Spring Byington and three suits in twenty minutes to John Garfield. Star struck I am not. He wants a good discount, he can stop by and I’ll see what I’ll see.”
“Good-bye,” I told Gable and hung up.
>
When I got back out on the street in front of Hy’s a uniformed policewoman was just plunking a ticket under my windshield wiper for double-parking.
“I was picking up tuxedos for the Academy Awards dinner,” I explained.
She was not young and she was not impressed. “Writer? Actor? What?” she asked, holding the car door open for me.
“Security,” I said, working my packages over the seat into the back of the Crosley. No mean task.
“Then you should know better than to double-park,” she said.
“Excitement,” I said.
She removed the ticket from under the windshield wiper, handed it to me, and said, “Reminder.”
I closed the door and drove to Jeremy’s model apartment after stopping at the Farraday and leaving the tuxes. When I got to the apartment and opened the door to the smell of freshly sawed wood and new carpet, I searched for the phone and found it in the kitchen. I wasn’t going back to Mrs. Plaut’s, not till I knew for sure what Spelling had in mind for me, Varney, Gable, and who knows who else.
Two more calls, one to Gunther, who said his tux was pressed and ready. Another to Varney, who still wasn’t back in his room. I figured he was reasonably safe, at least if Jeremy was right and Spelling’s clues did mean that he would go for Varney at the Oscar dinner.
It was after six by now, at least that’s what I guessed. My father’s watch said it was two.
I went out to a neighborhood diner for a pair of BLTs and a couple of Pepsis and talked to the waitress about her nephews in the army and the sorry state of her legs. Armed with a full stomach, the remainder of Clark Gable’s advance, and the prospect of a hell of a time the next night, I got back in the Crosley, made a stop, and then drove to Anne’s apartment building and rang the bell.
Anne and I had been married for five years. We’d been divorced for seven years. She had remarried Howard, an airline executive who met a death which some people thought was not untimely.
Nothing. I rang again. Beyond the glass door I could hear footsteps coming down the stairs and then I saw Anne peek around the dark-wood banister at me. She took another step and stood on the landing behind the door, about five steps up, hands on her ample hips.
Tomorrow Is Another Day Page 15