Down for the Count: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Ten) (14 page)

I passed some faces I knew, a few guys in uniform, a few not, and made my way to Phil’s old office. I knocked and went in. Meara was leaning against the desk. The light was off.

“Where’s Lipparini?” I asked.

“Gone,” he said. “Bastard had his lawyer with him. Gives me a statement, says those guys just worked for him, and the lawyer says that’s it. I wanted to rip his dago guts out.”

“That would have wrapped up the case nicely,” I said.

Meara pushed himself from the desk, straightened his jacket, and looked at me. He tried for a nasty smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was just going through the motions.

“This is my case,” he said, pointing to himself so I would know who he was talking about. “I don’t think those two wops Parkman plugged killed Howard.”

“One of those wops was a Jew,” I corrected him.

“All the same,” he said with a sweep of his hand to clear the matter up. He was deep in his own thoughts. “Lipparini knows something. I could feel it right in my fingers. If I could have worked him just ten minutes. Just ten minutes. Lord, is that too much to ask? I go to church.”

If it hadn’t been clear before, it was now. Meara had a tankful. He took a not-too-steady step toward me.

“I am one hell of a good cop,” he said.

“One hell of a good cop,” I repeated.

“And my kid is one hell of a good soldier,” he said defiantly.

“A good soldier,” I agreed.

I left him standing in the dark office and went back into the squadroom. The damn station was beginning to depress me, but I should have known better than to have expected the bluebird of happiness in the Wilshire Station. If said avian had accidentally flown in, the cops would have blown its head off and one of the grifters would have had its feathers out in less than the time it takes to say, “Duz does everything.” I didn’t look at Veldu or the complaining woman or the handcuffed kid. I made it to the door and ran down the stairs.

I found a phone in the grocery store around the corner and called the M. L. Auto Sales office. The blonde in green answered.

“Mr. Lipparini,” I said. “This is Toby Peters.”

She put the phone down for a few seconds and then came back with, “He is not here and does not want to talk to you.”

“Tell him—” I started, and she hung up.

While I considered what to do next, I picked up some essentials in the grocery, a carton of milk for twelve cents, some donuts for another twelve, and three eleven-ounce packages of Sunnyfield Corn Flakes for twenty cents. I paid the old lady behind the counter and went back to the phone. Almost half a buck for a small sack of groceries.

When the blonde answered this time, I did my imitation of Lionel Stander and said, “It’s Joe. I gotta talk to Mr. Lipparini.”

“Joe?” she said. “Joe Salter?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I growled. “Put him on.”

“He already left for the party,” she said. “I mean he’s going home first and then—”

“Where’s the party?” I growled impatiently.

“At Marty’s Lounge,” she said.

“On Beverly?”

“Yes, but—” she began. I didn’t hear the rest. This time I hung up on her.

I got into my car, which the police had parked in a no-parking zone in front of the station. It was a game they enjoyed playing. I took the ticket from the windshield, stuffed it into my pocket, opened the door, and put my groceries down.

It was late afternoon when I got back to Mrs. Plaut’s. The landlady was nowhere in sight. She was probably making her daily rounds of the neighbors to strong-arm them into turning over sugar-ration coupons.

Two little girls who lived next door had set up a
Kool-Aid 1¢
sign. I shifted my package and pulled out a penny. The older girl, about five, took the penny and poured red liquid from a glass pitcher into a coffee cup. The coffee cup didn’t look clean. I tasted the drink. It contained no sugar.

“Good,” I said, belting down the remainder.

“Henry helped us make it,” the smaller girl said. Her face was round, outlined by straight brown hair.

“Henry makes good Kool-Aid,” I said with a smile.

“Henry is our dog,” the other girl said.

I put down the cup and hurried up the steps and into the house. Before I parked my groceries, I knocked on Gunther’s door.

“Come in, Toby,” he said and in I went.

He was seated at his desk on his child’s chair. The desk was low, a normal model with the legs cut off. The walls of the room were lined from floor to ceiling with books, except for the alcove near the window where Gunther’s refrigerator and dining table stood. His window was covered with a white curtain that let the light in. In one corner of the room was Gunther’s small bed, neatly made, a normal sofa, which matched the one in my room, and a reading lamp.

“Toby,” he said, turning to me with his hands out, “I’m sorry. I was unable to pursue them to their ultimate destination.”

“Pursue who, Gunther?”

“Mr. Al Parkman and the man he came out with, out from the gymnasium.” He pronounced it “gym-nah-zi-um.”

“Take it slow and tell me what happened.”

“I almost missed them initially,” he said. “They emerged from the alley next to the theater. Mr. Al Parkman’s clothing is such that I noticed him. He does not dress tastefully.”

“The other man?” I asked patiently.

“Difficult to describe with great accuracy,” Gunther said, pondering the question. “No higher than you, perhaps even near the same weight. He wore the blue wool hat of a merchant sailor. I did not clearly see his face and I did not see his hair. He wore a blue pea coat. Of his age I can say only that he was not a very young man and not a very old man.”

“Could ‘he’ have been a ‘she’?”

“It is of course possible,” Gunther said, putting his fingertips together, “but I do not think so. They were too far away for me to conjecture beyond that which I have so far done. They entered a small car and drove. I followed. They drove to the Pasadena Freeway. There was much traffic, and I lost them just after the Orange Grove Avenue. I am sorry.”

The freeway had opened two years earlier with bands, tape, and a dedication by Mayor Fletcher Brown, who said the freeway would save lives. The lanes were narrow, the curves sharp, there were no shoulders and not enough merging space on the ramps. It was easy to lose your life, let alone someone you were following, on the Pasadena Freeway.

“Nothing to be sorry about, Gunther,” I said.

“I returned to Al Parkman’s house for an hour,” said Gunther. “He did not come, but the police arrived, remained for some time, and then departed. So I came here. I will be happy to resume my vigil at his home should you—”

“No need,” I said, shifting my package. “I’ve got a lead or two. I’m working on one tonight.”

Gunther wished me well and I went into the hall, found a nickel, and called Anne to bring her up to date. I told her what I was going to do. She told me not to. I said I would, and she told me to get in touch when I found out anything.

I dined on corn flakes, coffee, and a small can of salmon well mixed with mayo. My suit was showing wear, but I had no time to shop. I brushed myself off and drove downtown to the Farraday Building. I didn’t bother to go to No-Neck Arnie’s. I had only one thing to do in the office. I parked on the street and hurried into the building and up the stairs. Shelly was changing into his civilian clothes when I entered the office. Little by little the world of Sheldon-crud was reclaiming the room, a crumpled smock on a chair, a pile of less than clean instruments on a tray, the sink more full than it had been a few hours earlier.

“Calls?” I asked.

“No calls,” he said.

I took the five quick steps to my office before he could say more. Inside I went to my desk, found the Blake poems in the drawer, pulled out two one-hundred-dollar bills and an envelope to put them in. The envelope said
WARNER BROTHERS STUDIO
in the corner. I crossed it out. I folded the bills into a sheet of paper, stuffed it all into the envelope, and licked it closed and put it in my pocket.

When I got back to the outer office, Shelly was still there, standing with his arms at his side. He looked like a pathetic meatball.

“What’s the problem, Shel?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Mildred,” he said. “She’s in Sacramento visiting her mother.”

“That’s nice, Shel,” I said, going for the door.

“I’ve got nothing to do tonight,” he said. “No one to eat with. You know how that is.”

“Enjoy it, Shel. It doesn’t happen often. You deserve it.” My hand was on the doorknob, and I almost made it.

“How about you and I having dinner together?” he said as if he had just thought of it. “On me. I mean if we don’t go anywhere too …”

“Gotta work, Shel,” I said. “There’s a party I have to crash and—”

“A party,” he said, moving toward me and adjusting his glasses. “I haven’t crashed a party since I was in college. Cal Fleischer and I crashed the Beta Phi pledge party. That’s how I met Mildred.”

“I thought you met Mildred after you graduated, at a dental convention,” I said. “You hired her as your dental assistant.”

“That’s right,” he said, snapping his fingers. “That was Jenny something I met at the Phi Beta Party.”

“Beta Phi,” I corrected. “You won’t like this party, Shel. Believe me.”

“Okay,” he said, moving to his dental chair. “Okay, I know when I’m not wanted. I’ll just get a sandwich and sit here. Maybe I’ll listen to the radio or something. You just go on ahead and crash your party.”

Normally, Shelly did not know when he wasn’t wanted even when it was made as clear as I was making it.

“Come on, Shel,” I said. “But don’t blame me if it’s not what you expect.”

“Hah,” Shelly cackled, jumping up. “I knew I could count on you, Toby. We’ll have fun. You’ll see. And what Mildred doesn’t know …”

“Right,” I said. “Let’s go.”

He followed me out of the door through the small waiting room and into the hallway of the fourth floor of the Farraday. Someone was chanting in a foreign language down the hall.

“Whose party are we crashing?” Shelly said eagerly.

“Fella named Lipparini,” I told him. The name didn’t seem to mean anything to him.

We made one stop. It was far out of the way, but I had to make it. I drove up Laurel Canyon to the Valley and made my way to Bluebelle Street in North Hollywood. I told Shelly he could come in, but he preferred to stay in the car and rest for the big night ahead, which was fine with me. The screen door was open and I called, “Anyone here?”

“Toby?” came Ruth’s voice, followed by Ruth carrying Lucy, who was now old enough to walk but not very interested in that means of transportation. Ruth was skinny, tired, with tinted blond hair that wouldn’t stay up, and a gentle smile. Lucy looked at me with round brown eyes that showed recognition.

“Uncle Toby,” she said to her mother and scrambled to be let down.

“Where are the boys?” I said.

“In back,” my sister-in-law said. “I’ll get them. Toby, what happened to your face?”

Lucy had scrambled to me and I picked her up, checking her hands to be sure they weren’t concealing weapons. Lucy had a pet lock she liked to suck on and use to tap out a tune on an unsuspecting victim. She had her father’s blood in her, that girl did. She also had the same favorite victim: me.

“A little scrape with the law,” I said, stopping myself from touching my cheek.

“Phil?” she asked softly.

“No,” I said. “Phil and I are getting along like brothers.”

“Cain and Abel,” she supplied.

“Daddy shoots,” Lucy informed me, looking into my ear.

“Sometimes,” I told her, and then to Ruth, “How is he?”

“He” was my nephew Dave, who had recovered well from the collision with the truck. Dave was nine, and if he kept challenging trucks he would fulfill his destiny as my logical heir.

“He’s fine,” Ruth said, playing with the collar of her gray dress. “You’ll see.”

“The bills?” I went on.

“The bills.” She shrugged. “You want a cup of coffee?”

“No, I’ve got to go to a party,” I said. “Phil’s new job …”

“Oh, he got a raise,” she said, “a nice raise, but we still owe … a lot.”

I shifted Lucy into my other arm and she decided it would be interesting if our heads collided. She caught me just below the nose, which hurt her more than it did me. While she screamed, I pulled the envelope with the money out of my pocket. Ruth reached over to take the yowling kid, but I held onto Lucy and handed her the envelope instead.

“Toby I …” she said, looking down at the envelope with tears starting.

“Sure you can,” I said. “I hit the jackpot. Let me feel like big time once in a while. You think I have something better to do with my money? I’d blow it all on food, clothes, rent, luxury items.”

Ruth laughed and found a pocket to put the envelope in. “Thanks,” she said, kissing my cheek, the good one. Lucy leaned into my ear and used it for a microphone. I went deaf from her scream and lifted her over me and let her tummy rub against my head. The screams turned to laughter. I’d missed my true calling, kindergarten teacher.