A Fatal Glass of Beer

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A Fatal Glass of Beer Page 6

by Stuart M. Kaminsky


  Gunther was listening to the radio quietly in the front seat, the window between him and the passenger compartment closed. I was leaning forward in the backseat every few minutes, checking the mirror to see if we were being followed.

  “Well, to make a short story a bit longer than necessary, the little man kept interrupting my act, mugging behind my back when I juggled, made faces, audiences thought it was part of the show. I warned him. He decided the laughs were worth more than the promise of distress. One evening when I was juggling Indian clubs, hats, and assorted items supplied by the audience—the smallest being a railroad watch and the largest a cane—the tiny twerp came up behind me with his canary. I bopped him on the noggin—the twerp, not the canary. He fell and, without my missing a beat or dropping anything I was juggling, I grabbed the small canary cage and added the chirper to the items flying overhead. Audience roared with delight. Midget was out cold. I returned the various items, dragged the midget off with one hand, held the canary cage with the other, and left my remaining paraphernalia for the stage hands to gather. It was then I noticed that the trauma of being juggled had given the canary a complete nervous breakdown. Feathers had almost all fallen out. He was completely bald and didn’t feel much like singing. I went out on a triumphant bender—at that time I confined my activity to reasonable quantities of beer—and when I returned, the canary’s cage door was open and the bird was missing.

  “The midget, looking more than a bit fearful but consumed by litigious anger, demanded the return of his bird. I assured him that I knew nothing of the strange disappearance and that he should ask Thurston the Magician, who was also on the bill.”

  Fields took a sip and looked out the window thoughtfully. I did as little moving as possible in the hope that my back would feel better. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but I knew it was in no mood for further violent activity and I was running low on pain pills from Doc Hodgdon.

  “I was always of the opinion that a merciful showgirl, in search of W. C. Fields to congratulate him appropriately, had come across the once-yellow-feathered creature and let it free, far from a blessing for the bird, given its condition and the fact that I know of no way a canary, even if he weren’t bald, could survive in Altoona. Turn up the radio.”

  Gunther obliged. We picked up “The Ransom Sherman Show,” with Charles Ruggles as guest, and listened for about ten minutes.

  “Jack Benny is the only really funny man on the radio besides me,” said Fields. “But Ruggles should have his own show. Charlie Butterworth too, underrated. Turn it off. Find anything but music.”

  Gunther found “The Bing Crosby Show.” Victor Borge was his guest and announced that he was also appearing at the Capitol Theater in New York.

  “Kid’s funny,” said Fields. “But I can tell from that accent that he’s not Danish, probably a German spy like the fella back home who says he’s DeMille.”

  I didn’t say anything. A car had been creeping up on us along with the twilight. It was a small Ford, dark. Evening sun was hitting his front window, so I couldn’t tell in the rearview mirror who was inside.

  “I think we need a little speed, Gunther,” I said, sliding open the glass partition.

  “I see him,” said Gunther calmly, pushing up to eighty-five miles an hour.

  Fields twisted in his seat to look back at the pursuing vehicle and saw what I saw. The road was clear except for the two of us. The driver’s left arm came out of the window holding a gun; he’d decided that his Ford was no match for the souped-up Caddy.

  He was probably right-handed. The first shot missed by a country mile. The second skipped and whined over the top of the car. We were almost out of his range when the third shot clanged off the rear bumper.

  Then our pursuer was lost in the distant background.

  “Shall I slow down?” Gunther asked.

  “Not unless you want to lose two or three inches, which you can ill afford,” said Fields, leaning back. “I need a drink to steady the nerves. Suppose it could be that midget with the canary? Hanging around Altoona, driven mad by the blow of my Indian club, waiting to extract revenge should ever I chance to return?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “I’ve had two telephone warnings now for us to stay out of this pursuit of Hipnoodle. I think this was warning number three.”

  “Number four,” said Fields. “While you were packing and picking up our diminutive Barney Oldfield, a call came to me promising my demise if we should pursue this adventure.”

  “You could have told me sooner,” I said, looking back to be sure the Ford wasn’t gaining.

  “Didn’t know he’d called you,” said Fields, his voice going low, speaking almost to himself. “Cured myself of tuberculosis. Carried on long persuasive conversations with my liver, but it was made of greater resolve than my lungs. Next time I go to that sanitarium, or the time after, will be my last. This, Peters, will probably be my last adventure. Besides, no son of a bitch is going to steal the money I’ve worked my ass off for all these years. What I can’t figure out is why Hipnoodle leaves us clues so we can keep following him while at the same time warning us not to follow him or he’ll cause our immediate departure from this vale of tears.”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “I think, if I may say so,” said Gunther, loud enough to be heard over the engine, which didn’t require too much of a shout since the car was finely tuned, “I think we may be dealing with two criminals. One we are pursuing and one who is pursuing us so that he or they can procure Mr. Fields’s fortune from Hipnoodle when he has amassed it, a task which will be much easier if we give up or are dead.”

  “Makes sense to me,” I said.

  “Hipnoodles, unknown pursuers with guns,” Fields said. “There’s a movie in this somewhere. I’ll call La Cava when we get back to Los Angeles.”

  Gunther and I wanted lunch but Fields didn’t want to stop on the road. He wasn’t hungry. I discovered he was never hungry. Neither did he want our pursuer to catch up with us and shoot us to death as we emerged from Ma’s Eats. He had a good point.

  So we went into Altoona. There was no problem finding rooms for the night at the Altoona Majestic Hotel downtown, the war boom had not really caught up with the town. Its chief contribution, the ancient and philosophical desk clerk told us, was to supply cannon fodder, including two of his grandsons. Its chief import was the return of the dead young men.

  The lobby was small and empty, with pots of flowers and straight-back chairs and a couple of octagonal-shaped wooden tables.

  “Now,” said the clerk as I signed us all in, “they’re raising the draft age to forty-five, or at least talking about it. My son would go. They say the war’s almost over. We’ll see.”

  “Rest assured, old fellow,” said Fields. “I have followed this conflagration closely, charted its course and lack of discourse, and come to the conclusion that it will end soon.”

  “Soon?” said the thin old man, fingering his blue-knit cardigan.

  “No more than a year,” said Fields with confidence.

  “Lot of people could die in a year,” said the old man, brushing back wisps of white hair and revealing a forehead freckled with age and experience.

  “You’ve done an admirable job of containing your curiosity about our little trio,” Fields said.

  “Not often a prizefighter, a dwarf, and W. C. Fields come into the Altoona,” he said. “Time was, during vaudeville, we had lots of stars. You stayed here more than once. Fanny Brice. Burns and Allen. The Byrne Brothers.”

  “The Byrne Brothers?” Fields said with sudden energy. “They were my inspiration to become a juggler.”

  “Lots of stars,” said the old man. “Almost all polite and quiet. Too tired from running across the country and working to cause a ruckus. Wife handled show people mostly. She’s gone now.”

  Gunther had brought in all the luggage: my suitcase, his, and Fields’s two large bags. Gunther wasn’t even panting. He had once been part of
a circus act in which he leapt through flaming circles after sailing off a teeter-totter, picked up a full-size clown and stuffed him in a suitcase, and performed various other acts of lunacy in the hope of getting a paycheck, some applause, and the respect of his fellow workers. That was a while ago, but Gunther had remained in shape.

  I had checked the registry when I signed in. There was no Hipnoodle, or any other name in the least bit suspicious.

  Fields leaned on the counter and whispered to the old clerk, “We should prefer to remain incognito. Business.”

  “Suit yourself,” said the old man, glancing at the hotel register.

  I had signed it twice, writing once, printing the second time. Fields had frowned at my lack of creativity, but understood that this was not the time to draw attention to ourselves if our pursuer or Hipnoodle happened to be checking the limited number of hotels in Altoona.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Sawyer and Mr. and Mrs. John Welch,” the old man read. “Sawyer?”

  I raised my hand, pointed at Gunther.

  “Which leaves me as Mr. and Mrs. Welch,” said Fields. “Leave a call for us, bright and early, eight.”

  “I will do so,” said the old man, closing the book. He handed us the keys and pointed down the hall to his right. The rooms were next to each other, and I told Fields that I would be happy to bring him something to eat, but that he and Gunther should stay in their respective rooms. They were a little too easy to spot. I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous with my flat nose, battle-scarred face, and the look of an extra in a Warner Brothers B gangster movie, but I was the closest we had.

  Gunther had told us that the car was parked and locked behind the hotel in a corner behind some trees, where it would be difficult to find.

  I dragged Fields’s suitcases into his room. He had carried his own picnic basket, which I was sure contained a thermos or two of martinis.

  “A small crabmeat salad,” said Fields, as he looked around his small room. “At least the chair looks comfortable. I shall, aided by the pages of Mrs. Plaut’s memoirs with which you have supplied me, sit in my skivvies and silk robe until something that resembles sleep or at least rest overtakes me.”

  “I’ll knock four times fast,” I said. “Don’t open the door unless you hear four fast knocks.”

  Fields nodded, took off his hat, and opened his trunk.

  Gunther and I settled in quickly next door. There were two beds. I let Gunther have his choice and took his dinner order. He asked for a ham and cheese sandwich and hot tea. By the time I left, he was already sitting in a chair, listening to music on the radio, and reading a book in a language I guessed was Russian.

  “Hungarian,” he corrected when I made my guess. He offered no further information.

  I asked the desk clerk where I could find a restaurant where I could get some take-out food. The old man headed me toward a Greek joint a few blocks away. Ten minutes later I was back with Gunther’s order, a turkey on rye with mustard and a Pepsi for me, and a chicken salad and coffee for Fields, though I had little hope he would eat. The restaurant had nothing resembling seafood, unless you count catfish.

  “Fascinating tome,” Fields said with sincerity, pages of Mrs. Plaut’s manuscript in his hand after my four quick knocks got him to open the door.

  “Fascinating,” I agreed. “Might be another movie in that.”

  “Might, indeed,” he said. “My meeting with La Cava will be longer than I thought.” He accepted the chicken salad and coffee reluctantly, but said that he might try to consume some of it.

  “See you in the morning,” I said.

  “I want to be there when the bank opens,” he said. “At least a minute or two before nine.”

  I agreed and went to Gunther’s and my room and pulled the mattress onto the floor. Gunther was wearing a robe over neatly ironed pajamas. He ate his meal and went right to bed, reminding me that he had just driven across a continent, and that I had had a long day.

  It was still early. I wanted to call Anita or go see a movie, but I did neither. I took a bath to ease my back, shaved and washed so I’d be ready in the morning.

  I must have been more tired than I thought. I usually sleep in nothing. I wore clean underwear tonight and took the .38 out of my suitcase and placed it on the table next to my bed before I turned off the light.

  I’m not much of a shot, and the few times I’d had to shoot I had done more bad than good and usually hit something or someone I wasn’t aiming for. But a bullet or two certainly gets a person’s attention, and if they were close enough, it might also get them shot.

  I turned off the light and lay on the bed on top of the blanket rumpled on the mattress. I planned to lie there working out a plan. Gunther was asleep, breathing lightly. Before I could get a grip on the first step of a plan I was asleep.

  The dreams came. Most of them I can’t remember, except for bits and pieces. All of them were about Koko the Clown. I always had Koko the Clown nightmares. Sometimes Betty Boop was in them, but not often. This time Koko and I were running across a field and a giant head was floating after us, singing, “I’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead, You Rascal You.” The head was Louis Armstrong and he smiled as he sang. Koko and I were suddenly in a hotel room. He motioned for me to follow him. We jumped into a drawer and he closed it behind us. We lay in the dark. Koko giggled. Outside the room came the sound of a door opening and heavy footsteps thumping around the room, opening doors, searching. I could hear a drawer above us open. I put my hand over Koko’s mouth to keep him from giggling. A second drawer opened. And then our drawer opened and we looked up at Louis Armstrong, who grinned and said, “Gotcha.”

  I remember clinging to Koko, who shouted, “Scat.”

  Louis Armstrong disappeared. I looked at my hand as we climbed out of the drawer. It was covered in red greasepaint from putting it over Koko’s painted mouth to stop him from giggling. The greasepaint looked like blood.

  Koko without some of his makeup looked like someone else, someone I recognized but couldn’t place.

  “You’re … you’re …” I said and then felt myself being shaken.

  “Toby,” said Gunther. “It’s time to get up.”

  I sat up. He was already dressed. Casually for Gunther. Pressed slacks, shirt and tie, and a tweed sports jacket.

  My back felt a little better. I took two pills, used the washroom, brushed my teeth, checked to see if I needed a fresh shave. I did, but I didn’t stop to take one. I was still waking up and I didn’t want to take the time to patch any razor cuts from my not-yet-steady hand.

  When I was dressed and ready, it was eight-thirty. We were both packed. I knocked four times on Fields’s door. He opened it, neatly dressed, bags ready. I glanced at the table next to the chair. Some of the chicken salad had been eaten. He was wearing his disguise mustache. I didn’t bother to try to talk him out of it then, when we checked out, when we got in the car, or as Gunther started to drive. I needed coffee and at least a sinker. Gunther agreed.

  “Long as we’re at the bank before nine,” said Fields. “I’ll guide you there. It’s not far, as I recall.”

  We stopped at the same restaurant I had been to the night before, got two carry-out coffees, and we were on our way.

  “It’s the Chimp,” said Fields as we drove. “Figured it out last night. Couldn’t be anyone else.”

  “Is he Hipnoodle or the guy who’s trying to stop us?” I asked, not looking at his face or his ridiculous mustache.

  “Perhaps both,” said Fields triumphantly. “Perhaps the accomplice of Hipnoodle, who is his twin brother or a fiendish cousin. No doubt about it. It’s the Chimp, my traitorous driver. Evidence that you should never trust anyone, even a man in the electric chair with nothing to lose. The human mind has a penchant for dissembling. I learned that when I was twelve.”

  I nodded and wondered about my Koko dream, tried to see clearly the face under the greasepaint. It wouldn’t come clear and I knew if I didn’t get it soon, I’d lose it f
orever.

  “Finished your Mrs. Plaut’s chapter,” Fields said, reaching for a morning drink, probably not his first. “Woman’s a clear match for Thurber or Perlman. Want to read the whole book. Listen.”

  He fished Mrs. Plaut’s manuscript from the picnic basket on the floor and began to read:

  Cousin Antonio Pride who fancied himself special because he came from the Kingman branch which boasted of few who were feeble of mind and several who had finished high school, was a salesman of some stature in Goldfarb’s Haberdashery in Steubenville, Ohio. Antonio was short of build, dark of color, and even of white teeth, a full and radiant mouthful that dazzled customers and pleased Mr. Goldfarb. One morning Cousin Antonio Pride, who had a wife and three children, fell prey to the family curse. He was thirty-nine years of age. He was in the process of fitting a stylish derby on the head of a customer whose hair was parted in the middle leading Mr. Goldfarb later to surmise that the customer was a bartender. Cousin Antonio Pride left the customer, walked out of the front door of Goldfarb’s Haberdashery in Steubenville, Ohio, got on the four o’clock train heading west, held up said train with a pair of weapons originally belonging to his stepfather Hugo Arthur Slade, not his real father, Mario Pride, who had similarly departed several decades earlier never to be heard from again. Antonio’s booty was from passengers and train personnel. (He did not take any goods or cash from the porters, though the conductor was not exempt from his criminal outburst.) Two bags full of cash, watches, jewelry including rings, and odd mementos later, Cousin Antonio Pride leapt from the train as it slowed at a turn onto a trestle over a river. Word came back years later that he had gone to Tampico, Mexico, converted his booty to cash, and opened a bar where he could thrash obdurate and noisy drunks with impunity. It was said that he had taken a young Indian girl of passable looks as his illegal wife. Exactly twenty years to the day he had walked out of Goldfarb’s Haberdashery in Steubenville, Ohio, he emptied his cash register and the safe in his office and, at the age of fifty-nine, leaving behind a second wife and two dark children, headed farther south carrying with him a book called Basic Portuguese according to the dry goods salesman who sat next to him on the train and drummed up a conversation. The salesman later related the conversation to James Earl Pride, Antonio’s second son from Steubenville who had set out in search of his father with the intent of making him pay for his desertion. James Earl, who was twenty-five at the time, passed the information on to his mother and brother who still resided in Steubenville. He had learned of his father’s departure from Tampico from the Indian wife his father had abandoned. James Earl took pity on the woman and her two sons, gave up his search, and returned to Tampico where he married her legally, took over the bar, and lived comfortably until the age of seventy-nine when he was shot by a jealous husband with whose wife he was caught in a situation. The husband was a member of the constabulary.

 

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