“I’ll shave, change my underwear, make a few calls, and meet you at the saloon,” I said.
“I shall find Andy Swerling’s service establishment,” said Gunther, “and then, if you will excuse me, I shall find a nearby restaurant, have a quiet meal, and go to bed.”
“The night is young,” said Fields as we paused before Gunther’s room.
“I have aged greatly over the past several days,” said Gunther, solemnly entering his room. “Good night.”
“Odd little fellow,” said Fields as we moved down one door to his room. “Knew a midget once, even smaller than Gunther, acrobat, wouldn’t go out with women who didn’t outweigh him at least four to one. Had no trouble with this precondition, as I recall.”
Fields opened his door and stepped in with his picnic basket and large suitcase. He flicked on the wall switch and looked around at the wood-paneled walls. The room had the same Western motif as the lobby but without the mounted heads. There were a pair of paintings on the wall, one of an Indian with a colorful feather headdress, his arms folded; the other of a cowboy, his hat in his hand as he sat astride his racing horse, a few feet behind a trio of cows.
“Vincent van Gogh must have slept here,” Fields said, examining the paintings.
“I’ll go to the saloon with you,” I said. “Just stay in here. I’ll clean up, make my calls, and come back.”
“Let’s have a new code,” said Fields.
“New code?”
“You know, two short knocks and a pause, and then another knock,” Fields whispered. “Chimp may have figured out the last one.”
“All right,” I said. “But by now you know my voice.”
“But what if the Chimp captures you and forces you at gunpoint to knock at my door and call out, ‘It is I’?”
“Two short, pause, and then another knock,” I agreed.
“Should have thought of that back in Ogallala,” he said, closing the door behind me as I moved to my room and went in.
The room looked exactly like Fields’s except my paintings were a pair of cowboys coming toward me with a few dozen Indians in pursuit. The other painting was a man in a cowboy hat. He had a neatly trimmed beard and mustache and he held a rifle cradled in his arms like a baby.
I moved to the phone, went through the clerk, told her I’d pay my phone bills before I went out for dinner, and got through to the police precinct in Philadelphia, where I asked the desk officer for Gus Belcher.
“You’ve got it,” said the officer wearily.
I got Belcher’s partner. He said Belcher was on his way in and could call me back in a few minutes. I hung up, took a quick shower while listening for the phone, shaved, dried myself, and had just gotten my undershorts on when the phone rang.
“Belcher?”
“Right,” he said wearily. “I talked to the FBI again. They’ll talk to Fields when he gets back to Los Angeles. FBI says the dead guy checks out, knew Barrymore. About the rest, who knows? Woloski, the Chimp, is another tale.” Belcher yawned. “A few new items. Nothing on his record for the last eight years. Before that, he was even busier than we thought. Armed robbery. Disorderly conduct. Assault with a deadly weapon. Picked up on suspicion of driving a getaway vehicle in a bank robbery in New Mexico.”
“He shot up a street in Rifle, Colorado, yesterday,” I said. “Or was that this morning?”
“I’ll pass it on to the FBI. How’s Fields coming on getting his money?”
“Could be better,” I said. “We’re on the last one of the stolen bankbooks, in Panguitch, Utah.”
“Hold on a second,” he said. I held on, heard voices, and he came back with, “My partner says, did they get all his bank account books?”
“No,” I said.
“Mickey thinks he should put them in a safe place,” said Belcher. “Fast. If Woloski is starting to shoot up towns, he’s liable to be crazy enough to go for the books Lester Burton left behind.”
“Good thought,” I said.
“Had a long day,” Belcher said. “I’ll give the L.A. police a call and tell them what’s going on. From then on, it’s up to the FBI and the Los Angeles police. You’re way out of our territory and we’ve got two murders, an armed robbery with the victim in a hospital, and a jewelry store robbery. Assault victim’s a sailor. Can you imagine that? We’re at war and some piece of crap beats up a sailor?”
I could imagine it. I had seen worse.
“Thanks for the help,” I said.
“Okay, just keep Fields safe so he can start making pictures again,” said Belcher, hanging up.
I called Anita in Los Angeles. No answer at her apartment. I tried the diner. She was still there. I told her I would be back in the city in a few days. She told me to call her as soon as I got in. I almost told her I loved her, but I wasn’t sure about that yet. I was sure I missed her and told her so.
“Same goes for me,” she said.
We hung up. I got the operator and asked for Information in Los Angeles, Gonsenelli, probably V. The operator said there was a V. Gonsenelli. I got another operator and rang the number. After two rings, Violet answered.
“Violet? It’s me, Toby,” I said.
“Beau Jack won,” she said.
“I know,” I said. “I’ll pay you when I get back tomorrow or the day after.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be there,” she said softly. “Mrs. Minck came in, saw me, and burst right in on Dr. Minck, who had a patient in the chair in the middle of a very delicate procedure. I could hear her yelling. She wanted me fired. Dr. Minck said I worked for you, not him, and she said that if that was the truth why was I sitting in the reception room. She demanded that he fire me and then she left without looking at me again. She’s not a nice person.”
“She doesn’t care for me either,” I said. “And you’re not fired. I have a deal with Shelly. Worst case, we move out into another office in the Faraday and I pay you. Okay?”
She didn’t sound so sure.
“I like meeting all the patients,” she said. “And Dr. Minck is funny.”
“A convulsive riot,” I said.
“But…” she went on, “if it has to be … and you know a lot about boxing.”
“I thought I did till I met you. We’ll see,” I said. “I’ll talk to Shelly. Do I have any messages, mail?”
“Lots,” she said, “but they’re back at the office. I know your brother called. Someone named Anne called. Said you’d know who she was. And there was a crazy-sounding guy named Albert something.”
“Woloski?” I said.
“That sounds like it,” said Violet. “Said you’d better be careful. Things like that. Sounded crazy. Say, listen, I’m sorry, Mr. Peters, but my sister’s here and we want to catch Hello Frisco, Hello at the movies at eight. My sister thinks she looks like Alice Faye. Even dyed her hair blond. I told her I think Dr. Minck looks a little like Jack Oakie.”
“Enjoy your movie,” I said.
We hung up. I asked the hotel operator to get me my brother’s number. She reminded me that I had to pay the bill when I came down for dinner. I told her I remembered.
“Hello,” a boy answered.
“Nate?” I asked.
“David,” my other nephew answered.
“This is Uncle Toby,” I said.
“Did you shoot anybody today?” he asked.
“Not today, but a man who looks like a big ape has been trying to kill me for the past few days,” I said.
“Are you going to plug him?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “But I’ll let you know if I do. You ever ask your father if he shoots people?”
“He won’t talk to any of us about his work, not even mom.”
“Is your father home?”
“No,” he said. “He has to work late tonight again. Mom’s home.”
“Put her on,” I said.
“Uncle Toby,” he said. “Call us Nathaniel and David from now on.”
“I’ll do that,” I
said. “Do I call Lucy Lucille?”
“She’s too little to care,” he said. “I’ll get mom. We’re listening to ‘The Man Called X’ on the radio. The bad guys have Thurston. Paggon Zelschmidt went for help. I think I hear shots.”
“Toby?” Ruth said, coming on the line and sounding a lot stronger than she had in months.
Ruth had come close to dying. The doctors had never quite figured out what was wrong with her but she had lost weight she couldn’t afford to lose and was running a fever of 104 for a couple of days. It had come on gradually. Specialists had been called in. I had been working for Bette Davis at the time, and Davis, who was Ruth’s favorite actress, had visited her in the hospital. Whatever it was that had been killing Ruth started slowly to go away, and whether what kept her alive was one of the treatments the specialists gave her, or Davis’s visit, or her will not to leave her family, no one knew. She was better. Not perfect, but a lot better. The cost of Ruth’s sickness had put my brother deep into a second mortgage and loans. I had contributed when I was flush with a solid client. There was a way to go before they were out of debt. But they were all alive and well.
“How you doing, Ruth?”
“Much better,” she said. “Where are you?”
“Panguitch, Utah,” I said.
“You’re joking?”
“No,” I said. “I’m with a client. Phil’s been trying to reach me.”
“He’s working late.”
“I know. Dave … David told me.”
“I don’t know what it’s about, Toby. I asked him to call you and invite you for dinner next Sunday. Will you be back?”
“Can I bring a friend?” I said.
“Friend?”
“A lady,” I said.
“Sure,” said Ruth.
“Sure you’re up to it?”
“Positive,” she said. “My mom will be here to help.”
“We’ll be there,” I said. “If Phil was trying to reach me about something else, I should be back home by tomorrow night.”
“Excuse me if this hurts,” she said. “But I read in the Times that Anne is getting married to Preston Stewart. Are you all right?”
“I’m all right,” I said. “Lady who’s coming to dinner with me is making a big difference.”
“That’s good. Take care, Toby,” she said.
We hung up. I zipped up my waterproof gabardine jacket after putting on my gun and holster and went out in the hall, locking my room.
When I got to Fields’s room, I had forgotten the knock I was supposed to give. I tried two, pause, and knock. No answer. I tried three, pause, knock. No answer. Finally, I just knocked and said, “It’s me.”
No answer. I tried the door. It was locked. I hurried down the stairs and went to the desk, where the same woman stood.
“The man I checked in with,” I said. “Did he go out?”
“Little one or the fat one?” she asked.
“Fat one. Do you know where?”
“Saloon,” she said. “Two dollars and eighteen cents. Phone calls.”
I dug out my ragged wallet, handed over two dollars, and found a quarter in my jacket pocket.
“Keep the change,” I said and ran out the front door and across the street.
There were voices coming from inside, but no music. For some reason I expected a jukebox blasting in the saloon. And then I remembered Fields’s hatred of all singing. I went inside. It was small, four tables in front, a bar against the far wall with a mirror. There was a big painting of a snow-covered mountain on the wall to the left, and on the wall to my right a painting of a broad, green field full of grazing cows. Under the picture, distracting from the movie-version image of a Western bar, was a darkened jukebox. One old man, who looked like he’d had more than enough a decade earlier, sat alone at one of the tables, staring at nothing. A group of maybe fifteen people were huddled in an alcove off the bar to the right.
I moved to the group and pushed my way through, half expecting to see Fields’s body on the floor and the Chimp standing over him with a gun. Since I was dealing with tourists and not cowboys, I didn’t have much trouble getting through the crowd.
There was Fields at a pool table, a martini in one hand, a cue in the other. He was circling the table, examining the scattered balls critically. He leaned over, squinted, took a drink, and stood up.
“Hold this for me, my good man,” he said, handing his glass to a bespectacled, bald tourist in a plaid winter jacket. “Are you a drinking man?” Fields asked.
“A beer or two, sometimes,” he said.
“Well, what you are holding is a martini,” said Fields. “You are to guard it with your life and resist the temptation to take even the smallest of sips.”
“I won’t,” said the man.
“Won’t what? Take a drink or resist temptation?”
“Take a drink.”
“Good—always give in to temptation,” he said. “It may cut down on your life, but what there is of it, if you can banish guilt from your mind, will be filled with contentment and bliss.”
I looked around the small crowd. They were smiling, enjoying the free and unexpected performance by W. C. Fields.
“I shall endeavor,” he said, addressing the assemblage and nodding to me, “to propel the cue ball over the six and into the twelve, which will roll gently but decisively into yon side pocket. I shall do so with the cue behind my back and either right-or left-handed.”
“I’ll bet he’s left-handed,” someone said.
“No, I remember from the movies. He’s right-handed. I think.”
“Come, gentlemen and ladies,” said Fields. “There are but eleven hours till the bank opens and I transact my business. A decisive majority of voices in a mockery of Greek chorus is called for.”
“Left,” came the majority.
Fields nodded, half sat on the edge of the table, chalked his cue, and looked at the man holding the martini. “I’ll accept no claims of evaporation,” said Fields. Then he returned to his shot, paused, and did exactly what he said he would do. The cue ball jumped over the six and into the twelve, which rolled smoothly into the side pocket.
“Game’s a little off,” said Fields, retrieving his drink. “Not used to playing with unwarped cues.”
I went back through the crowd, moved to the bar, ordered a beer and some sandwiches. I drank some of my beer while I waited and listened to the pool balls clicking, the crowd applauding, and Fields’s voice speaking, though I couldn’t make out the words.
The bartender, a short, heavy man with white hair, wearing boots, black pants, a white shirt, and a black vest that made him look like a down-on-his-luck riverboat gambler, came back with sandwiches and said, “Had one tuna left, one straight cheese with lettuce and mayo, and Spam and cheese with mayo, and a chopped liver on rye.”
“Chopped liver?”
“Short-order cook just moved here from New York City,” he said. “Sometimes we have corned beef a friend of his ships in. Cook used to be a stockbroker. Gave it up. Ulcers, headaches.”
I took the plate of sandwiches and paid the bill. Juggling the beer and sandwich plate through the crowd I approached Fields, who was lining up another shot. He paused to examine the plate, looked at each sandwich with distaste, and settled on the straight cheese with lettuce and mayo.
“Did I pay you today?” he asked while the crowd waited.
“No,” I said.
He pulled bills out of his pocket and handed the right amount to me.
“Expenses?”
“Phone calls, sandwiches—four dollars, rounding it out.”
He handed me a five and I gave him a dollar change. I moved back to the edge of the crowd with my beer and sandwiches and kept on guard against the sudden appearance of the Chimp. I imagined him madly firing his gun in the general direction of Fields or me, bullets thudding into surprised spectators and ricocheting from billiard balls. My plan, to the extent that I had one, was to drop the beer and sandwiches
and go for the .38 under my zipper jacket.
But the Chimp didn’t appear, and Fields continued his show and his consumption of martinis for almost two hours more, when the bartender in black shouted, “Closing.”
“I’ll pay twenty dollars to keep the establishment open another half hour,” said Fields.
“Sorry,” said the barkeep. “Curfew. Police’ll be driving by in a few minutes to be sure we’re obeying the city law.”
Reluctantly, Fields hung up his cue and bowed slightly to the small though enthusiastic crowd, which burst into applause.
“That’ll give them something to tell the kids when they get back to Cleveland,” said Fields after he settled his bar bill.
I looked back at the pool table, which I could see, now that people were paying their tabs and heading for the door. Fields had eaten less than half his sandwich.
No one tried to kill us in the street. No longer giving a show, Fields went silent and said nothing all the way to his room. I watched him go in, turn on the lights, and check to be sure the windows were locked and there were no intruders.
“I think I’ll read a little Bleak House before turning in,” he said. “Wish the damn place had a barber chair.”
I waited till he locked the door behind me and I went to my room. I opened the door, turned on the light, and found myself looking at Albert Woloski, the Chimp, who sat in a chair facing the door. He had a large gun in his hand.
Chapter Eleven
Nurse, don’t forget the olive in my sedative.
“Close it,” he said.
I closed the door.
“Sit,” he said, pointing to a wooden chair.
I sat.
“You’re gonna listen to me,” he said.
“Damn right,” I said.
Since my .38 was under the left arm of my zipper jacket, I had no plans for a shootout unless I had no choice. In the first place, I’m a lousy shot. In the second place, there was a chance I could survive and find out what he’d done with W. C. Fields’s money.
“You listening?” he said nervously.
“Try me,” I said, hands on my knees.
He looked at the paintings on my walls as if they were particularly fascinating. I waited. I was a good waiter and a good listener. Even my ex-wife, Anne, who was about to marry the movie star, acknowledged that. Her primary complaints were about my “childish attitude,” “irresponsibility,” “lack of ambition,” “the danger of my job,” and my “frequent, sudden absences.”
A Fatal Glass of Beer Page 16