A Fatal Glass of Beer

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “You did,” I said.

  Gunther touched my arm. Two men in brown uniforms with guns in their hands stood in the open door of the barbershop.

  “Put the gun down gentle,” said the older man, who had a belly almost as big as Fields’s. “Right on the barber chair’ll be just fine.”

  I did as I was told.

  “Despite the events of the past half hour or less I was blissfully ensconced in the arms of Morpheus, officers,” said Fields. “You are too late to help and too dangerous to be pointing loaded weapons at innocent people. If either of you is adept at needlepoint or sewing, you might go up to my room and try to repair the damage I understand has resulted in the puncturing of the bedding in my boudoir.”

  The older cop with the gut looked puzzled. “We’ll get to all that,” said the skinny younger cop. He looked like he was draft age, though he didn’t weigh in at more than a hundred and twenty. He took a step forward, deciding to take command from his older partner, and I could see it was probably the limp that had earned him a 4F.

  “You’re coming with us,” said the young skinny cop.

  “We’re coming with you,” I agreed. “Can we go get dressed?”

  The cops exchanged looks, examined us, and came to a conclusion. “If you make it fast,” the young one said, moving forward to pick my .38 up from the seat of the barber chair.

  We passed the girl with the baby in her arms in the lobby. She looked frightened and confused. Both cops had put their guns away but we were still a strange middle-of-the-night gathering.

  “It’ll be fine, Missy,” the older cop told the young woman. “No one’s hurt. Maybe a few people got a little drunk and shot off some firearms. That the way it looks to you, Bobby?”

  “I say we leave that to Sandy,” said the younger man as they let us lead the way up the stairway and back to our rooms. The younger one went with me and Gunther. The older one with Fields. We finished first, though Gunther was not at all happy about being urged to hurry.

  When we stepped into the hall, Fields and the fat cop still weren’t out of the room. Bobby motioned us toward it; since I was two steps ahead of him and he was limping, I was the first to see the fat cop sitting on the bed. He had a couple of seconds to put down an almost-empty glass before Officer Bobby entered the room. The older cop quickly busied himself examining the wounded bed. Fields, standing nearby, was sipping a martini.

  We stepped into the room as the fat cop got up and said, “Two holes in the blanket. Two in the pillow.”

  “There were four shots,” I said.

  “Four,” Gunther confirmed.

  “Two in the blanket. Two in the pillow,” the fat cop repeated.

  “I’d say that’s two shots, each went through both the blanket and the pillow,” I said.

  “Get the bullets, Virgil,” the young cop said.

  The older cop was glad to be active. He pulled back the blanket and pillow and said, “He’s right. Right through the sheet and into the mattress. I can see ’em.”

  He pulled out a pocket knife and probed, smiling and showing us each bullet triumphantly as he extracted it from the mattress. “Looks like thirty-eights,” Virgil said, straightening with a bit of difficulty.

  “We’ll leave that to Sandy,” Bobby the 4F cop said. “Let’s go.”

  The girl and the baby were still in the lobby. She was doing her best to comfort him, rocking him gently, waiting till her family hotel was free of police and gun shooters.

  Fields paused in front of her, dug into his right-hand pocket, and came up with a handful of bills. He plucked out three hundreds and handed them to the girl.

  “Should cover the damage and maybe a little left over for the little tyke’s defense fund, should he ever run into difficulties with the law,” he said, tipping his hat to her.

  Less than five minutes later, after a quiet ride, we stopped in front of the Coshocton Police Headquarters, which took up about a third of a one-story brick building that also housed the library and the office of the mayor.

  We all got out quietly. Virgil the fat cop led the way. Bobby the young cop kept up the rear. We entered the door marked Coshocton Police and found ourselves in a big room. On the right were two cells, both empty. In front of us was a low railing. Behind the railing were two desks, neat. On the walls were some awards and a large painting of FDR looking serious. Next to FDR was another painting, a chisel-faced man in profile, wearing a cowboy hat.

  “William S. Hart,” I said to Gunther, who was looking with some puzzlement at the painting.

  “This way,” said Virgil, pushing open a gate in the low fence.

  We followed in past the desks to an office door marked Chief. Virgil knocked gently. “Come in,” came a woman’s voice.

  Virgil opened the door and stood back to let us enter. The room was small, clean, efficient: a table with four chairs, all wood and simple; an almost-matching desk; more awards on the walls and another pair of paintings of FDR and William S. Hart. Behind the desk sat a small woman in a zipper jacket with a badge on it. She was around fifty, dark hair cut short, no makeup, and a no-nonsense look in her dark eyes. She looked tired. I guess we all did, with the exception of Virgil and Bobby, who the woman dismissed with, “Two of you wait outside.”

  They left, quickly closing the door behind them, after Bobby placed my .38 and the two bullets from the bed on top of the desk.

  “Sandy Milch,” the woman said without rising.

  “I’m—” I began, but she cut me off.

  “Know who all of you are,” she said, removing a large revolver from her desk drawer and placing it in front of her. “Just tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “It began in the autumn of nineteen-oh-nine or nineteen-ten,” Fields began, examining the straw hat he had taken from his head and gazing at it as if it were a crystal ball that would bring up essential images from the past.

  “Too far back,” Sandy Milch said. “You tell it.” She pointed to me, and Fields let out a small sigh.

  I told her the story, everything, and she took notes on a pad of paper. When I was done, she looked up at the three of us. Actually, she looked up at Fields and me and down across at Gunther.

  “So a man named Albert Woloski, also known as the Chimp, and another one named Hipnoodle, are trying to tease you into following them while they steal your money. They are also trying to kill you and warning you not to follow them?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “Makes no damn sense,” she said.

  “We agree,” I said.

  “You can check the Hipnoodle part with a detective in Philadelphia,” I said. “Gus Belcher. I’ve got his number in my notebook.”

  “Take it out careful,” Chief Milch said.

  “Never met a lady police chief before,” said Fields politely. “Refreshing change.”

  “Husband was the chief,” she said. “He’s a colonel in the Big Red One. I’m holding down the job till he gets back. I used to be the dispatcher. Bobby, the one with the limp?”

  I nodded.

  “He’s our son,” she said. “Good boy. Bad motorcycle spill when he was fifteen. Lost control. Went right through Andy Morrison’s barn wall. Almost lost his leg.”

  I gave her the number for Gus Belcher in Philadelphia. She looked at it for a few seconds and then up at Fields.

  “My Henry, the soldier, thinks you’re funny,” she said. “I don’t see it.”

  “Bill Hart,” Fields said, gesturing to the painting on the wall.

  “Henry’s and my favorite,” she said, looking up at it.

  “Had the pleasure of meeting Bill on several occasions,” said Fields. “Trained Shakespearean. Shy man but he could be brought out with the right coaxing and he had some good stories.”

  “You know William S. Hart?” Sandy Milch said, sitting up.

  “Acquaintances,” Fields said. “We had much in common. I liked the man. Knew the Bard as well as I know Charles Dickens.”


  “I’ll be damned,” Sandy Milch said. “Was he like he was in the movies?”

  “Simply played himself to perfection, and did his own stunts,” said Fields with a small smile that suggested he was recalling an especially intimate moment in one of his meetings with the cowboy star.

  Sandy Milch sat silently looking at Fields, unsure of whether to believe him. The silence lasted an instant or two and then she said, “I’ll call Belcher. Probably won’t be there at four in the morning, but I can leave a message.”

  She placed the call and waved at the table and chairs, a suggestion that we take a seat. We did.

  “Detective Belcher,” she said. “This is Chief Milch in Coshocton, Ohio, and I don’t have much of a budget for long-distance calls so I want to make it quick … right … okay … I understand. He have a partner who might know about his cases?… Knox? Got it. Mickey Knox. And he’ll be on day shift in three hours. Can you have him call me when he gets in?”

  She gave her number and hung up. Then she looked down at her pad and over at us.

  “Hipnoodle?” she said, shaking her head at the lunacy of the whole thing.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Detective Belcher is off tomorrow,” she said. “Fishing with his kids. His partner’ll call me back in three hours.”

  “Meanwhile?” I said.

  “We sit, have some coffee, maybe a couple of doughnuts or pound cake from Aggie’s down the street, and we go over all this slow and careful, maybe leaving us a little time to talk about William S. Hart.”

  “The bank opens at nine,” Fields said.

  “If we’re not done, Virgil will be there, and if Hipnoodle—that’s one crazy damn name—if Hipnoodle shows up, Virgil brings him in and we all have another talk.”

  “Account’s in the name of Melodious Quach,” said Fields.

  “And Hipnoodle has your bankbook and can forge your signature and your handwriting?” Sandy Milch said.

  “Apparently with great skill and aplomb,” said Fields, tapping the top of his straw hat resting on the table before him.

  “Virgil, Bobby,” she shouted.

  The two policemen who had been waiting outside the door came in instantly.

  “Bobby,” she said to her son. “Drive around a little and see if you can find this acrobat who looks like an ape. If you find him, be careful. According to our guests, he’s got a record and tried to kill Mr. Fields tonight.”

  “I’ll be careful, Mom,” he said.

  “As soon as Aggie opens, I want you to pick up coffees all around, some doughnuts, and pound cake.” She handed Bobby a couple of dollars and said to us, “Aggie makes the best damn pound cake in Ohio.”

  Bobby pocketed the money.

  “After you bring the coffee and cake, go home and get some sleep. Give Jimmy a call and tell him to come in an hour early. He’s gonna ask about getting paid an hour overtime. Tell him we can’t afford it. He won’t curse me to you. Call Frankie Tolliver. Tell him to come in an hour early too. Frankie won’t complain.”

  “Right,” said Bobby Milch, limping out the door.

  “Virgil,” Sandy Milch said. “You go home, set two alarm clocks for seven, and be at the bank before it opens. Tell Ray that if anyone tries to make a withdrawal from the account of a Melodious Quinch—”

  “Melodious Quach,” Fields corrected.

  “Quach,” she amended. “He’s to tell you right away and you’re to bring Quach here for questioning.”

  “Okay, Sandy,” Virgil said.

  “Last thing, and I don’t like saying it in front of strangers,” she said. “You’re a good policeman, probably the best of the four I’ve got, but if I catch you drinking on duty again, you’ll be selling Old Dutch Coffee at Gutterman’s Grocery and tearing out ration stamps.”

  Virgil was about to speak but Fields interrupted with, “The officer was not at fault. He showed a sign of momentary weakness and was tempted by me with the offer of a small drink after I took one to calm myself after having barely missed dying in Ohio.”

  Sandy Milch nodded to show that she heard Fields’s excuse but didn’t give it much credit.

  We sat silently as Chief Sandy Milch examined my gun and then the bullets Virgil had plucked out of Fields’s bed.

  “Your gun hasn’t been fired,” she said, looking up. “One point for you. Gun registered?”

  “In Los Angeles. I’m a licensed private investigator.”

  “Bullets from the bed,” she said, a little puzzled, rolling one of them on her palm. “Different story. What kind of gun you say this Chimp guy had?”

  “I think it was a thirty-eight, too,” I said, “but I’m not sure.”

  “These bullets came from a big gun,” she said. “Probably made big holes.”

  She held up a bullet between her thumb and forefinger for Virgil to examine.

  “Big weapon,” Virgil confirmed. “Bigger than a thirty-eight.”

  “I’ll let the state police worry about that one,” she said. “I’ll call them when Virgil comes back with your Hipnoodle, providing he shows up. Now, I want to hear whatever you know about William S. Hart.”

  “I would be delighted to tell tales about dear old Bill that will make you laugh, sigh, and even bring a tear or two to your eyes,” said Fields, “but I left a thermos of medicinal liquid in my room, and after this encounter with the reaper …”

  “Virgil,” Sandy Milch said. “Before you go home would you mind bringing Mr. Fields’s thermos of medicine back here?”

  “Sure,” said Virgil.

  “Then go,” she said. “And don’t drink any of it.”

  Fields began to tell tales of Hart’s wit, honesty, humor, and compassion for children, the aged, and the afflicted. He told of the silent-screen cowboy star’s love of his horse and his mother, not necessarily in that order.

  When Virgil came back and placed the thermos before a grateful Fields, there was a brief pause while Fields poured himself a drink and said, “Pineapple juice with a healthy dosage of liquid jumju leaf, a calming concoction that also eases my lumbago.”

  Gunther put his head on the table and fell asleep. Gunther was accustomed to taking brief naps during the day and working at his desk during the night. I was accustomed to staying up for a night or two in my car, drinking coffee when I could get it, and watching the house or apartment of someone I was supposed to be protecting or someone I was supposed to be catching in an act of sexual frenzy or bliss, neither of which would please my client. Coffee would help.

  Fields went on and on, holding Sandy Milch rapt. She took notes so she could get it all in her next letter to her husband, Henry.

  Eventually, light came through the window. Just a little at first and then definite daylight. Bobby Milch appeared with coffee, doughnuts, a couple of caramel rolls, and half-a-dozen slices of pound cake.

  “Home now, Bobby,” Sandy said.

  “No sign of the guy who looks like a gorilla,” he said.

  “A chimp,” Fields corrected. “Entirely different face and carriage.”

  “Not one of those either,” Bobby said and left the room.

  I nudged Gunther and he awoke almost instantly. Sandy Milch had joined us at the table about an hour earlier. My .38 was now in her desk drawer along with the bullets. She was at the end of the table with her weapon right in front of her.

  Gunther ate and drank slowly, delicately. I tried to restrain myself from scooping in everything and finishing my not-particularly-hot coffee in two gulps. Even Fields nibbled at the pound cake, and then took an entire piece.

  “Best damn pound cake you ever had?” asked Sandy Milch, leaning forward.

  “No doubt,” I said, my mouth full.

  “Superior,” said Gunther.

  “Excellent,” said Fields. “I’d say it barely inches ahead of the pound cake of Elfreda Labaca Caz in Lima, Peru. Elfreda runs a little café there, cooks and bakes herself. Claims secret ingredients. I’m trying to think if Bill Hart was with me at
the time, but it was a long time ago.”

  Within the next thirty minutes, things happened fast.

  Belcher’s partner Knox called and said that they had investigated a guy named Hipnoodle who was supposedly planning to steal money from a bunch of Fields’s bank accounts. They had gotten a warrant, searched Hipnoodle’s apartment, and came up with nothing.

  That much I could get from Sandy Milch’s end of the line.

  “So far, so good,” she said. “It looks like the way things happened.”

  Almost as soon as she hung up, there was a knock at her door and she told whoever it was to come in. It was Virgil. He had cut himself shaving and had a small dab of toilet paper on the cut. He looked at us, looked at the chief, and turned his cap in his hand.

  “Hipnoodle got away,” Sandy Milch said.

  “It was all—” Virgil started and looked at FDR and William S. Hart for inspiration. “I was standing next to Dorothy’s desk, you know, sort of out of sight so people coming in wouldn’t see a uniformed police officer.”

  “And you couldn’t see them,” Sandy Milch said.

  Virgil nodded. “Anyway, I had told Ray, and while I was talking to Dorothy, Ray comes walking up and says one of the tellers is making a withdrawal for Melodious Quach. By the time we get to the teller, which is real fast, she—Wendy Douglas, Archie’s sister-in-law from Massillon—points to a tall guy going out the door. I’m headed right for him. He’s just standing there, looking both ways down the street. ‘Halt,’ I yell, pulling out my weapon. He hears me, turns his head. I can see he’s wearing those old glasses with no rims. He turns right and runs. I go out right behind him, yelling at him to stop, warning that I’ll shoot, which I wouldn’t. He keeps going. I keep following him and with my weight and age on his side, I still start catching up. He’s not fast. Sort of gangly. He turns the corner right in front of Quilly’s Hardware and I’m right behind him, knowing I’ll catch him in a few seconds. And then it happened.”

  “It?” asked Sandy Milch.

  “Someone hit me from behind,” Virgil said. “God’s truth. Hit me with something to my head. Got the lump right here to prove it. Then he kicked me in the back. I lost my weapon and he hit my head again with his hand. I didn’t know which way was up or what color was blue. Then he stopped. I got my gun and stood up kind of dizzy. Gangly guy from the bank was gone. No sign of the guy who hit me.”