A Fatal Glass of Beer (27 page)

Something made me look up. Jeremy was there, filling the doorway, black slacks, yellow pullover. He had used his passkey and amazing ability, at his size and weight, to move quietly across the darkened reception nook and dental office.

“Saw the light,” he said.

“Last-minute business,” I said, getting up. “I’m done. Got a man who’s about to be robbed and maybe killed.”

“You want company?” he asked. “Alice and Natasha are asleep. I always go for a walk now.”

“Alice won’t like it,” I said. “It might be dangerous.”

“I have spoken to Alice,” he said. “I have, I hope, convinced her that danger and even death are not to be hidden from. They surround us waking, sleeping, can come anywhere and anytime. To hide from them is folly. To face danger is to affirm the freedom of one’s life.”

“So you want to come with me?” I said.

He nodded.

I turned off the light and we left the office. He locked the outer door and I moved to 613 to put the key on the ledge over the door for Violet.

“I expect to be working in there before Mrs. Gonsenelli arrives in the morning,” said Jeremy.

“I told her it’ll be there,” I said. “She’s got some setting up to do.”

He nodded his approval.

Our next stop was the glove compartment of the Crosley, where I retrieved my gun and holster. It was late, traffic was light. I unzipped my jacket, took it off, and put it on top of the car. Then I quickly put on the holster and gun and zipped myself back into my jacket. Jeremy said nothing. We both knew we were going to be driving in his car. He didn’t fit in mine. His was a prewar Oldsmobile that he kept in humming condition.

“Who are we hurrying to save?” Jeremy asked as we drove and I gave him directions.

“W. C. Fields,” I said.

“I’ve seen two of his movies,” Jeremy said. “Is he like that?”

“The way he is in the movies? Yes. Even more,” I said.

“Hiding,” said Jeremy. “Each act of selfishness, each drink, each joke at the expense of another hides his fear of vulnerability. Getting close to him must be impossible. The walls he has built are too high, deep, and painted with a heavy coat of alcohol. He hides. He hides behind a persona that he has become trapped within and can no longer get out of.”

“Could be,” I said.

“I find his movies deeply sad,” Jeremy said as we kept driving.

“I don’t think he’d be happy to hear that,” I said. “He thinks they’re comedies.”

“Comedy does not mean we must laugh,” said Jeremy. “It is the reverse of tragedy. It suggests that life can continue with hope.”

“Never thought of it that way,” I said, unzipping my jacket so I could reach my .38 more easily.

What I was thinking about was whether I could shoot anywhere near as fast and as straight as the killer we might be about to face. I didn’t think I could. He had had more practice.

It took us less than fifteen minutes to get to Fields’s house on DeMille Drive. We parked in the driveway. I didn’t see any cars I didn’t recognize. Below us the city, which had blinked wildly at night before the war, was nearly dark.

We went down the tiled walkway. A bird cackled. A single light was on over the door. I knocked. No answer. I rang. No answer. I motioned for Jeremy to follow me and we moved around the house.

“Dogs?” Jeremy asked calmly.

“Fields hates dogs,” I said.

We found a window. Locked. We found another window. Locked but with a small metal latch. I tried to push it up quietly. Jeremy touched my shoulder and I moved out of the way. He pushed gently but firmly, his hands on the glass. The latch strained and gave way with a small pop as it tinkled to the floor inside. Jeremy opened the window. We climbed in.

We were in a bedroom. At least it looked that way, with the little moonlight we had. There was certainly a bed in the room. I bumped my shin on it and reached down to feel the low bedpost and mattress. Light came through beneath the door. We moved toward it and I opened it as slowly and silently as I could.

We were in a hallway I recognized. Lights were on all over the place. Then we heard voices. I recognized both of them, particularly Fields’s nasal whine, but I couldn’t make out the words. I motioned for Jeremy to follow me as I took out my gun and moved to the living-room door. It was closed. I put my ear to the door but I still couldn’t make out the words.

“I think we should go in,” said Jeremy softly. “A man in there is threatening Mr. Fields and Mr. Fields is in turn threatening the man.”

Jeremy hadn’t even put his head near the door. The door was a two-part slider. I reached down for the handle and opened it quietly. The man whose back was to us was too busy with Fields to hear us, but Fields, dressed in his silk kimono with the dragons, was facing us. He was a pro, showed not a sign that we had entered.

Fields was holding his shotgun. The man with his back to us was holding a pistol. The pool table was between them.

“The bankbooks—you live,” said the man. “Once more, where did you hide them?”

“You are in no position to demand my property,” said Fields. “My weapon is as easily discharged as yours.”

“Have you ever killed?” the man asked as we inched forward across the room.

“Birds,” Fields replied. “Detest the creatures. I’d like to shoot a dog or two, and maybe a baritone, but I’ve never had sufficient legal excuse.”

“I’ve killed more than twice,” the man said. “I don’t think you can do it.”

“Perhaps we shall see,” said Fields. “I’m a somewhat ancient but dapper codger whose entrails are perplexed and weary from years of alcohol. I could drop dead any second. Maybe right now. I can see my senseless head hitting the cue ball, which, if I fall correctly, will hit the nine, which, in turn, will hit the twelve, which will carom off the right side and have just enough left to cross the table and drop gently into the corner pocket on your right. It would be an honorable end. My only regret would be that it was not witnessed by someone who could report it to the press so it could appear in my obituary. I can see the headline: ‘Fields Takes Final Shot and Calls It Right.’”

The man in front of us was tall. His hand was steady.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I’m going to do,” the man said. “I’m going to shoot you once in the gut and drop down below the table while you pull the trigger. Then I’ll wait to be sure you’re dead or dying. If you’re alive, I’ll shoot you again. Then I’ll search all night till I find those bankbooks. You could save me time and work and your own life …”

“I’m giving it some thought,” Fields said, stalling for us to make a move.

“It could have all been so simple,” said the man. “Should have been. The lights were out. I came in with a door pick. I went to your office. And the bankbooks were gone.”

“Then, after ransacking my office, you came down here to look, and I appeared like a silent wraith, gun in hand, risen from the pages of a fascinating tome of a time a bit simpler than our own by your noise,” said Fields. “Unless I have suddenly become an ill judge of human nature, you intend to shoot me whether I give you my bankbooks or not. I’ll make a counter offer. Give me back the money you’ve already taken and I’ll turn you over to the cops for your day in court. You’re a younger man than I, with much more to lose across the O.K. Corral Memorial Pool Table.”

“And here we stand,” said the man. “Let’s count to three and you talk or we start shooting.”

“Let’s pick an even number like two thousand,” said Fields.

Jeremy was within a few feet of the intruder now.

“One …”

“Do I get a last request?” asked Fields.

“What?”

“I should like to see Paris before I die.”

“Two.”

Jeremy leapt forward and grabbed the counting man’s gun hand, turning it downward as he fired. The bullet hit the green felt of the table and screeched a two-foot path along it. Fields went to the floor, accidentally pulling the trigger on his shotgun. The pellets went into the already drooping ceiling, which instantly sagged even more, and, as Jeremy took the gun from the man’s hand, a hefty piece of plaster and lath fell with a crash on the pool table.

Jeremy turned the man around. He threw a punch at Jeremy’s throat. It hit the mark but Jeremy Butler had a neck that was all muscle. He didn’t flinch or step back. He reached under the man’s armpits and lifted the would-be thief into the air.

The man kicked at Jeremy’s groin. Jeremy turned aside, taking the kick on the thigh. Ceiling plaster coated everyone but me. Fields was completely white and picking pieces of plaster from his hair as he looked up at the hole above us.

“Damned landlord should have had that fixed long ago anyway,” he said, reaching for a ball on the pool table.

The man Jeremy was holding aloft and shaking threw a bent knee into Jeremy’s face. Jeremy didn’t let go or drop the man, but he did take two steps back. Before the man could throw the next knee, Fields let go with the billiard ball, hitting the intruder smack in the middle of his head. The man went limp and Jeremy dropped him on top of the plaster-covered table.

Jeremy had a distinct bruise on his cheek, but he ignored it and stood over the man.

“Dead?” asked Fields.

“No,” he replied. “He’ll wake up soon.” Jeremy, in his wrestling days, had seen more than one unconscious man. I trusted his diagnosis.

“Good,” said Fields. “Wouldn’t want to kill an FBI man, even if he was after my bankbooks.”

“He’s not an FBI man,” I said, pushing the unconscious man on his side so I could get to his wallet and open it. “And his name’s not McEvoy. The ID’s a fake. I called the FBI locally and asked for McEvoy. They referred me to Washington, D.C. I called the office there. They confirmed that they had an Agent McEvoy, but that he was not available, though he could return my call. I described our tall blond here, and the guy in Washington said it wasn’t McEvoy. Our fake FBI agent and his partner planned it fast and almost made it. First, he comes to you within an hour of our getting back, identifies himself, takes away your reason for calling the FBI, and takes away your reason for calling the local police or keeping me on the job. The FBI is on the case. He even checked in with the police as McEvoy, told them that he was working a case, and said he’d keep them informed if there was a local connection.”

“Then who the hell is he?” asked Fields, coming around the table, shotgun in hand.

“Name is Knox,” I said. “Mickey Knox. He’s a detective with the Philadelphia Police Department.”

I threw the wallet to Fields.

“Gus Belcher’s partner,” I said. “The helpful Philadelphia cop who said he wanted to work on the case, who said he’d call the FBI. Belcher went on a sudden vacation the day we left Philadelphia. It wasn’t for one day. Belcher followed us. His partner covered for him, and whenever I called, Knox here took the call and had Belcher call us back from wherever we were. My bet is he called us from the same towns we were in. And we thought he was in Philadelphia.”

“So Belcher killed Lester Burton and the Chimp,” said Fields.

“I’d say so. And when he killed Burton, he went ahead to the next bank with a fake cast.”

“The Chimp said ‘police’ when he was dying,” Fields said. “He wasn’t telling us to call the police. He was telling us the police had shot him.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

Jeremy stood at ease near the table. He didn’t appear to be interested in our conversation.

“So, where is Belcher? Where is my money? And who is this giant?”

“This is Jeremy Butler, my landlord, friend, a poet, philosopher, and a husband and father.”

“You remind me of the Great Bombini,” said Fields to Jeremy. “On the circuit for years. Strongest man I ever met. Wrestled from time to time.”

“I fought him twice,” said Jeremy. “Strong but slow. Beat him too quickly the first time. The audience didn’t like it. I let it go ten minutes the second time.”

Knox groaned.

“I’ll get some water and hit him in the face with it,” Fields volunteered.

“Not necessary,” said Jeremy. “I suggest you put your weapon away, drink some water slowly, and sit down.”

“Excellent idea,” said Fields. “I’ll get a drink. Don’t let him wake up till I get back.”

While Fields was out of the room, Jeremy shook most of the plaster off his clothes, saying, “I think Mr. Fields was very frightened. He needs a few moments to calm himself.”

“And a martini or two, or I don’t know my man,” I said.

Knox opened his eyes. A small piece of plaster or some plaster dust got in his right eye. He blinked, rubbed his eye, and tried to sit up. Jeremy reached down, put his right hand behind the man’s neck, and lifted him to a sitting position on the pool table.

“Close your eyes,” Jeremy said.

Knox looked at the massive bald head almost touching his face. He closed his eyes.

“Roll your eyes around and keep them closed,” said Jeremy.

Something happened under Knox’s eyelids. And then Jeremy’s left hand came up open-palmed and slapped Knox’s cheek, turning the man’s head suddenly to the left. Knox opened his eyes. Tears of pain were coming out of his eyes.

“Tears should wash out the dust,” said Jeremy.

We let Knox sit on the edge of the table. When he seemed to wobble as if he were going to fall, Jeremy sat him up again. In a minute or two Fields reappeared, rubbing his hands together, plaster gone from his face and hair. He was wearing a new robe, silk again, but with purple flowers on a red background.

“Two questions,” I said. “Where’s Belcher? Where’s the money?”

“Not talking,” Knox said weakly, blinking tears.

“Breaking and entering. Assault with a deadly weapon. Accomplice to murder. Impersonating a federal agent.”

“During wartime,” said Fields. “An act of treason. Firing-squad offense. I shall volunteer.”

“Belcher’s gonna take the money and run,” I said. “Your bag is empty. His is full. Where is he? Where would he go? You’re a cop. I was a cop. You know you didn’t pull the trigger on those two victims. Get a good lawyer quick and make a deal to testify against your pal Gus. Might even get immunity.”

“Who are you kidding? I’ll get at least ten years, if I’m lucky. Wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” said Knox, closing his eyes and shaking more plaster from his face and hair.