“It was at a party,” she said, “over in Brentwood, and everybody was pretty high. You know, alcohol makes some awfully dull people look interesting, at times.”
I nodded. Curtis King stared moodily at the floor.
Mavis Dunbar threw her shoulders back to give us the full front treatment and went on stubbornly. “Leo had left his wife. No matter what you hear, I didn’t break up his marriage.”
“I knew you didn’t,” I said.
She looked at me suspiciously. “How would you know that?”
“A fellow told me. A fellow I trust.”
She paused, and then asked, “George Tomsic?”
“I don’t like to reveal the names of my informants. The party where you met Leo was at George’s apartment, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. “So you’ve talked to him. I thought he was missing.”
I said in semihonesty, “I talked to him before he was missing.” I had, at the lot Sunday.
Interest in her eyes. “I’ll bet you know where he is. I’ll bet you’re working for him.”
I gave her the secret smile. “Didn’t Leo want you to continue with your career?”
She looked at her empty glass. “Curt, baby, you’re not being observant.” She lifted it for his inspection.
He rose, and I held my empty glass high. “While you’re up, Curt?”
He looked at me briefly and blankly and took the glass. He went over to get hers and walked to the liquor cabinet without saying a word.
Mavis smiled maliciously. “He sulks. The artistic temperament, you know. The Des Moines artistic temperament. It’s worse there.”
From the liquor cabinet he said quietly, “Lay off me, Mavis.”
“I’m sorry, darling,” she said lightly. “You know I’m bitchy in my cups.” She turned again to me. “Where were we?”
“Didn’t Leo want you to continue your career?”
She frowned. “It wasn’t exactly that. First there was the honeymoon.” She took a breath. “Two months of that. And then we had to find this house and furnish it and it was almost seven months before I was ready to work again. In seven months, a lot of people can forget you in this town.”
I nodded sympathetically.
King gave her her drink and brought mine over. He had made another for himself and he went back to get it.
I said, “What about this George Tomsic? He’s made a lot of money in the automobile business, hasn’t he?”
She nodded, studying me casually. “George doesn’t look like much, does he? But he’s very clever. Don’t worry, you’ll get your money out of him.”
“Money …?”
“Come on, Callahan, you’re working for him. Admit it.”
I smiled again. “How about Leo’s first wife? What kind of woman is she?”
“M-O-N-E-Y,” she spelled. “Pasadena money, old California money. A lady, you know. A lady who lusted for other men. And the one who broke up their marriage was a married man. And when it came time for Dorothy and her new love to get together, her lawyers worked out the separate property agreement and he suddenly wasn’t interested. He went back to his wife.”
“I suppose that was the economically sensible thing to do It saved him from paying alimony.”
She nodded and looked musingly at Curtis King, once again seated next to me on the davenport. “We’ll have to see my lawyers, Curt, before we make any plans.”
“Of course,” he said stiffly. The hand holding the drink trembled. Now, aside from the obvious, just what was up with this pair?
“And now,” I asked, “what about the business? Will Tomsic run it, or one of the salesmen?”
“First,” she said, “we’ll have to decide whether there is a business. Leo was up to his neck in debt. He really didn’t have the larceny in him to compete with those TV pirates. Leo was almost an honest man, you know.” A tear formed in one blue eye. “He wasn’t bad. Dull, God how dull … But he had his points.”
“Next week East Lynne” Curtis Winthrop King said.
She glared at him and a tear formed in the other eye. “You phony, you — corn belt Casanova, he was a hell of a lot more man than you are.”
He looked at her bleakly. “Not any more.” He looked at me. “Am I any phonier than she?”
“I don’t know either of you very well,” I said. “The theatrical business seems to require a certain amount of — fraudulance.” I paused. “I don’t mean that as a criticism. Appearances are too important in the profession, if you get what I mean.”
“Connections,” King said, “are more important. Mavis had those, too, before she tied up with that square.”
Beyond the pool, the tall flowers in the formal garden swayed in the early afternoon breeze. The blue water of the pool shimmered in the bright sun. A Japanese gardener was trimming the grass around the stepping stones in the back yard.
Mavis Dunbar said, “The funeral is tomorrow. Are you going to the funeral?”
“I didn’t know him,” I said.
Curtis King said, “Mavis can be very sweet. You met her at a bad time.”
I smiled and finished my drink.
“Another?” King asked.
I nodded. Why not? How long were we here? What was I saving myself for? Stanford was behind me and the Rams and the days when a man bounced out of bed in the morning, full of vim and vinegar. When the bed changes from a springboard to a haven, it is time to look around for some joys one might have missed and squeeze them dry, dry, dry….
From the above, you can understand why I usually stick to beer.
I had another drink and began to feel sorry for all of us. What were any of us? Nothings, pawns in a game played by giants, floating chips on a turbulent and downhill stream, mice clawing at the smooth, invulnerable face of eternity.
I had another drink and danced with Mavis Dunbar. Her body was close and my mind inflamed and then I remember Curt tapped me on the shoulder.
“Go away,” I said. “They’re casting at Paramount. Run down there.”
And I remember he said something about having done a “little” boxing, and I asked him, “Oranges or apples?”
I can’t remember now whether he hit me or not or whether I simply passed out from the unfamiliar whiskey.
I came to in a dimly lighted bedroom of charcoal and pink with foamy curtains at the windows and a musky, spicy aroma of perfume in the air. The light came from a small bedside-table lamp; outside it was dark.
My shoes and jacket had been removed and I was lying on a huge double bed. I stretched and stared at the ceiling and listened for a sound. There was none; the house was like a tomb.
I was not bruised, I did not ache. My mind was clear and images flashed through it. I was angry, for some reason, probably frustration.
There was a passing moment of dizziness as I rose to a sitting position. I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and put on my shoes. My jacket was draped on the chair. I put it on and went out into the hall. I heard the sound of voices coming from the living room and went down that way.
The maid was alone in the room, watching a quiz program on television. She rose as I came in.
I asked, “Has Mrs. Dunbar retired?”
She shook her head. “It’s only eight o’clock, sir. She and Mr. King went on to a party. They asked me to tell you they were sorry you couldn’t make it.”
“A party?” With her husband being buried tomorrow?”
The maid’s dark face was emotionless. “Could I get you a cup of coffee, sir?”
“No, thank you. You can tell Mrs. Dunbar I’m sorry if she found me dull. I’ll be back to see her again.”
The maid smiled. “Yes, sir.” She went with me to the door.
From the clear night sky, the stars looked down pityingly. The flivver started with a cough and seemed to laugh at me. I headed her for Brentwood.
George Tomsic was the goal I pretended as an excuse. But I knew I was hoping Mary Macarty would be home. The night was still young.
There was a light on in Mary’s apartment, but none in George’s. I rang and rang and rang his bell, hoping her door would open. It didn’t, and I rang her bell.
No answer.
Was she in there, paired up for the evening? Was everybody in this miserable town paired up for the evening? Wasn’t there any way I could prove I didn’t need Jan Bonnet?
I rang once more and knocked twice and then went down the long walk to the flivver. There was a black Lincoln sedan parked in front of my flivver.
There was absolutely no reason why I should feel suddenly wary but perhaps the alcohol had heightened my sense of awareness. I was unarmed and sorry about that.
Two men sat in the front seat of the Lincoln; they got out as I approached my car. They were broad men, one of them about my height, the other shorter.
As I put my hand on the door handle of my car, one of them asked, “Brock Callahan?”
“That’s right.” I stood there, my hand still on the door handle.
The shorter man said, “Looking for Tomsic?”
“Right. Are you friends of his?”
“Not exactly. That trail leads nowhere, looking for George. And you could get some lumps if you stayed on it. Get smart, Callahan. Milk your client and stay alive. If you’re hep, this one warning should be enough.”
Blame it on the alcohol. I said, “Go to hell, both of you.”
In the light from a street lamp, I could see the taller man smile. He looked at his shorter companion. “Well, well, well, one of the tough ones.”
Shortie said, “Sure, a footballer. They’re tough. Maybe we’d better run.”
They moved slightly apart. The tall one said, “Just some careless words, huh, Callahan? You didn’t really mean ‘em.”
“Drop dead,” I said.
Shortie took a step toward me, but the other man put a hand on his shoulder. “One second. The guy could be drunk. He’s got a reputation for being smarter than this.”
“I’m a little drunk,” I said, “but I was never smart enough to be crooked. Or sober enough to be frightened of hoodlums.”
“Maybe you never met hoodlums like us,” the taller man said. “I’m not just beating my gums, Callahan. We don’t want you to investigate George Tomsic. And I’ll tell you honestly it would be a blind alley, anyway.”
“Why? Is he dead?”
“He’s not dead. But you could very easily be if you kept nosing into his business. Now, get smart and shove off.”
“I’m legally parked,” I told him. “No hoodlum is going to tell me when to move on.”
The shorter one had had enough. He came in fast, bringing a low and ready right hand along. I kicked him in the groin, and heard him grunt and saw him double over. Then something clipped me behind the ear and I went sideways into my car and swung out wildly with a flailing right hand toward the source of the attack.
It landed on flesh and the taller man cursed and then something smashed into my bad knee and pain seemed to be splitting my brain right down the middle.
I went down to both knees and the pain came behind the ear again and I fell forward and felt a crashing foot in my ribs before I passed out for the second time that day.
SIX
MY KNEE WAS the size of a cantaloupe. The ache in my head started at the base of the neck and seemed to be trying to erupt through my eyes. My ribs were sore, but the Department doctor was sure none were cracked. There was a prodigious lump to the right of my left ear and my nose had bled.
I was in the office Pascal used, but Sergeant Pascal was not here. Officer Caroline sat behind his desk, taking my story.
He asked, “How come you didn’t get the license number? A trained operator would get that first thing.”
“I’m poorly trained,” I said. “Self-trained. Go easy on me, Officer; I’m a sick man.”
“Lippy, too, weren’t you? You didn’t have to take the beating, did you?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know, I don’t know … Are we supposed to take sass from hoodlums?”
“No. But why get mouthy unless you can back it up? What did you learn over at Dunbar’s?”
“Nothing much. Except I have no tolerance for whiskey. And she met Leo through George Tomsic. Did you boys know that?”
“No. That’s very interesting. How about this King? How did he strike you?”
“As a Des Moines boy who grew up reading Esquire. I kind of liked him, though. I mean, what the hell, we’re all phony one way or another, aren’t we?”
“Speak for yourself. I’m not. This Las Vegas car that was stolen could have been an accommodation job. The owner isn’t checking out so good. What made you suspicious of him?”
“Only a hunch, Officer. To me, Las Vegas and crook are synonyms. Anything at all on where George Tomsic could be?”
“Nothing. How about that knee? It looks serious.”
“It’s my bad knee,” I said. “It does that every time I wrench it. Torn cartilage. I should have it operated on.”
“Can you make it home all right?”
“I think so. Could I have a glass of water before I get up? I’m a little nauseous.”
He brought me a glass with his own pudgy hands, my new friend, Officer Caroline. He had B.O. and a nasty tongue but he looked like an angel tonight. Or maybe a cherub; he’s too fat to be an angel.
He helped me out to my car, and said, “Better drop in in the morning and check with Pascal. He might have some questions I overlooked.”
“I’ll be here,” I promised. “You — ah — seem to be a happier man lately, Officer. Come into some money?”
“Got married,” he said. “Getting some good cooking for a change. You ought to try it. Marriage, I mean.”
“That’s what I keep telling my girl,” I agreed. “But she doesn’t like my business.”
“Can’t blame her for that,” he said. “Drive carefully now. I probably could have booked you on a drunk driving rap, you know.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be careful.”
I swung my sore leg into the car and relaxed for a moment against the cushion of the seat. I could use my left foot for the brake and my aching right leg wouldn’t be strained much on the accelerator. I would make it, all right.
Why had I been so lippy? I should have kept my mouth shut, taken their license number and turned it in to Caroline. That was the efficient, the dignified, the citizen’s way to operate. Why did I have to be such a mouthy muscle?
My dad had been killed by hoodlums; was that why?
I hated them and knew that was wrong. An idea should be hated, an attitude or an injustice, but never a man. Men were products of attitudes and injustices and ideas.
All this I knew, but still I hated hoodlums. Well, nobody’s perfect.
The flivver moved barkingly through the heavy traffic on Wilshire. I wondered where Curt and Mavis were now, and where Mary Macarty was and I wondered sadly if Jan was alone, tonight, as I was. My Jan, damn her …
I didn’t take a shower. I filled the tub with water as hot as I could stand it and soaked in it until it cooled. I got out, red as a lobster, and put on a spanking clean pair of pyjamas before seeking the haven of my bed.
It was still early; traffic hummed on Wilshire and on Westwood Boulevard and the lights of passing cars threw shadowed pictures into my quiet room.
I had looked for a point of entry and found one. I had started some gears to turning and wound up a battered man. I was very probably lucky to be alive. I wondered if George Tomsic was alive.
Mouth, mouth, mouth … I was lucky to be alive. I was in pain, but breathing. I was nothing, but my heart beat strongly, sending the good red blood throughout my bruised but feeling body. At Stanford, I had felt like something and with the Rams, too. Why should I feel like nothing tonight?
Fight the good fight, Callahan, no matter who gets the medals. This phase will pass as soon as Jan comes to her senses. I passed out for the third time that day cherishing this hopeful
thought.
In the morning, the swelling had diminished in my knee and I had almost complete articulation in the joint. My mouth was brassy and my left side still inflamed.
I made a pot of coffee and drank three cups of it while I read the morning Times. The death of Leo Dunbar was important enough to remain on the first page. The disappearance of George Tomsic was worth a column which extended into the inner paper. The picture of George that went with the story must have been taken a long time ago. It looked like a high school graduation picture.
Tomsic, I read, had been a machinist before he was a mechanic — and a very fine machinist, according to his former employer. He had been with Leo for fifteen years, so this machinist background could only have been confined to his youth. He was thirty-eight years old. He’d looked older to me.
I was about to turn the page when a small item in a corner of the page caught my eye. Hans Deutscher had got into a bar fight. Well, not exactly a bar fight; it seemed he had met these men in a bar but gone outside to fight. In Hollywood, this had been. Hans was identified as the former private investigator who had been involved in the Huntford kidnapping and had lost his license.
So he was still without a license, a point I had failed to check on yesterday. And could the two men he’d fought been the same who had accosted me? I must talk to Hans.
My own story hadn’t made the papers, for which I could thank Caroline. There are those who insist any publicity is good publicity but it wasn’t a theory I supported. I didn’t want the kind of clients bad publicity attracted. Let Hans have them.
At the West Side Station, I repeated for Pascal the story I had told Caroline last night.
He said, “They’ll probably contact you again. Would it be too much to expect you to act with some intelligence next time?”
“I guess I could, Sergeant. Did you read about Hans Deutscher being attacked last night?”
He nodded. “So …?”
“Could be the same two men. Or didn’t I tell you that Hans was checking on George Tomsic the other day?”
He glared at me. “You sure as hell didn’t. What other little tidbits have you been keeping to yourself?”
“None, Sergeant, so help me. I can’t understand why I blanked on that one. I guess you know I’m no buddy of Hans’.”
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