Down for the Count: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Ten) (4 page)

“That is very terrible,” he said. “Mrs. Howard must be most overly distraught.”

“Most overly,” I agreed.

“And who did this?” he asked. I could now make him out in the moonlight. He was perfectly shaped and, as I knew he would be, wearing a robe underneath which would be well-pressed pajamas. The last pair of pajamas I owned had been torn in my mother’s wringer washer when I was six or seven. She had died a little after that. I’ve slept in underwear since then.

“Cops don’t know yet,” I said. “I’m going to do some checking. I think I better get some sleep now, Gunther. Let’s talk about it in the morning. How about a late breakfast, let’s say ten in my room?”

“I shall bring the coffee,” he said. “Good night, Toby … and I’m most sorry about how your former wife must be feeling.”

“Thanks, Gunther,” I said, finding the door to my room.

I went in, closed the door behind me, and in the darkness imagined Joe Louis throwing a short right-left-right combination to Ralph’s face and following it with solid punches, probably when Ralph was lying on his back unconscious. It wasn’t right. I wasn’t sure the police would see that it didn’t make sense, especially Meara, who was ready to nail Ralph’s murder on anyone who had a wooden chest and no good alibi. When I had left, Meara had begun seriously working on Paitch as a suspect. He hadn’t given up on Anne and me being in some kind of conspiracy, but it was Paitch’s turn. I had told Anne I wanted to stay, but she insisted that I go. I didn’t like leaving her with Meara. He was the kind of methodical plodder who would simply go through everyone in Ralph’s life one person at a time, suspecting them all. Meara was a thorough son of a bitch.

I didn’t turn on the light. There was no reason to. I knew where the sofa was with the two doilies. I knew where the alcove was with my wooden table and two chairs, where the small refrigerator stood, where the Beech-Nut Gum clock looked down from the wall, humming through the night, and where my mattress lay waiting. I didn’t grope for the closet, just took off my jacket and shirt, massaged my chest through my undershirt, and took off my pants, checking to be sure that the notebook I had taken from Ralph’s pocket and the photograph of Ralph that Anne had given me were still there. They were. I tossed my pants, jacket, and shirt in the general direction of the sofa, sat on the mattress and took off my socks. My mouth and teeth felt fuzzy and the black stubble on my chin was hard and bristly with more gray hairs than I wanted to see. I should have found my toothbrush and Dr. Lyon’s powder and made my way down the hall to the community bathroom, but I didn’t. I’d scrub myself in the morning. Right now I wanted to sleep. I found the blanket crumpled at the top of the mattress, spread it out, located the first pillow for the back of my head and the extra pillow to hold onto to keep from rolling over on my stomach and destroying my back. I tried not to imagine that the pillow was Anne as I fell asleep.

A gentle knock on the door woke me up, and I rolled over on my back to look up at the Beech-Nut Gum clock on the wall. It was ten on the nose.

“Come in, Gunther,” I said over a sandy tongue, and in he came balancing a tray on his right hand and opening the door with his left.

“I have awakened you,” he said.

“It’s time for awakening,” I said, sitting up and rubbing my scratchy chin. “I’ve got a client.”

“That is good,” Gunther said, closing the door and carrying the tray to my table. Gunther was dressed, as always, as if he were the president of UCLA. He wore a three-piece tan suit with a white shirt and tie. The tie was light brown with vertical tan stripes. His key chain, tastefully silver, dangled from his watch pocket. He reminded me of Alice’s white rabbit.

“What’s all that?” I said, getting to a sitting position.

“Breakfast,” he answered. “Toast lightly buttered with orange marmalade, coffee, and a newspaper.”

I got up, allowing the smell of coffee to get through to me.

“The coffee will remain hot,” Gunther said. “Why do you not freshen up for the morning while I find you a clean cereal bowl?”

I could take the hint. If my odor matched the way I knew I looked, only a Main Street bum would be willing to look at me across the table. I staggered out of the room and down the hall, trying to get used to the sunlight. That was easier than what I faced in the mirror. There were a few more gray wiry strands in my wild hair and stubble. My thrice-broken nose looked even more like a carelessly discarded piece of bubble gum than it had the last time I had looked. Lava soap, a shave with what was left of my Molle shaving cream and Gillette blade, which had lost the sharpest edge ever honed a few dozen shaves ago, and a tussle with a comb made me look clean if not respectable. I tossed my towel carelessly over my shoulder and tried to whistle the music from the Andy Hardy movies. It usually made me feel better, but I couldn’t remember it. Instead of the happy face of Mickey Rooney, or Lewis Stone, I kept seeing the battered face of Ralph Howard.

Gunther told me the news of the day while I had my coffee and went through a bowl of Shreddies with milk. I had to be careful with the amount of sugar I put on the spoon-sized shredded wheat since Mrs. Plaut, who might any moment come bursting into the room with some new demand, had most of my sugar ration. Closed doors did not slow Mrs. Plaut, and locked ones delayed her only a moment.

I had four bottles of Spur Cola I’d picked up a few days earlier and would have washed the toast down with one, but I didn’t want to offend Gunther any more than I had to.

“I continue to be perplexed by your Li’l Abner,” Gunther said, a perplexed look on his clean-shaven face. “Mammy Yokum has revealed this day in the newspaper that she has no concern for the rationing of gas for she runs her car on ‘corn leavin’s and strong coffee.’ I do not know what these corn leavin’s are, but I doubt if strong coffee could substitute for petrol.”

Humor eluded Gunther. I explained the joke while I dressed in the same suit I had worn the night before. It was all I really had and I was down to my last fifteen dollars. Gunther nodded knowingly and shook his head to indicate that American humor was a continuing mystery to him.

“I will clean up the dishes, please, Toby,” he said, neatly piling plates, bowls, and crumbs on his tray. I knew he preferred not to think of my less than sanitary cleaning methods. “Is there some way I can be of service in your investigation of the demise of Mr. Howard?”

“The dirty little coward who smashed our Mr. Howard,” I said, tightening my tie. “When Jesse James retired he took the name of Howard, and a guy named Bob Ford shot him.”

“I know of Jesse James,” Gunther nodded seriously. “And what became of this Robert Ford?”

“Henry Fonda shot him in the sequel,” I said. “I’ll stay in touch, Gunther. Thanks for breakfast.” And out I went.

Gunther would, neatly dressed, probably spend the day at his small desk translating into English from one of the six languages he knew. Gunther’s business had been booming since the war, mostly with government work. My business hadn’t fared as well. With war and death on a grand scale in ten countries, people were a little less interested in the homegrown one-on-one crime I dealt in.

Maybe I could stretch out my few bucks for a week or take on a retainer from Anne to help me check on Ralph’s murder. I was going to do it anyway; I had a client. That reminded me. With the five from Joe Louis, I’d be up to twenty bucks, if he paid me. Who said there was no war boom in California?

When I reached the top of the stairs, it was time for my daily choice. I either ran down and tried to outdash Mrs. Plaut’s curiosity, or I tiptoed in the hope that she wouldn’t hear me. The latter had not worked the night before in spite of her deafness, so I chose reckless abandon. I ran like hell to the door after hurrying down the steps. No Mrs. Plaut behind, no Mrs. Plaut on the porch. The sun was blazing and neighborhood kids were in school.

I got in my car, hit the dashboard a few times in the hope of jarring the gas gauge into working, failed, and drove down Heliotrope. When I parked at No-Neck Arnie’s garage, Arnie stepped out from behind a Ford hoisted on a jack in the oily rear.

“How’s it going, Arnie,” I said over my shoulder.

“Making a dollar a minute,” he called back, which wasn’t far from the truth. The war was making a lot of people rich. A thought insisted on coming forward, reminding me of the security job at Grumman Aircraft. Salary, normal hours, easy work. Jack Ellis, a hotel dick I sometimes filled in for, had told me about it, knew the guy who was hiring. But that was last-ditch stuff. At Grumman I’d have to wear a uniform. I had an allergy to uniforms. I’d worn one as a Glendale cop and as a security guard at Warner Brothers. It was no longer part of my life style. That’s what I told myself when I had a hundred bucks in my frayed wallet, a few clean shirts in my closet, and a full refrigerator.

The lobby of the Farraday Building on Hoover near Ninth was, as always, clean and smelled of Lysol, which my landlord, the former wrestler and now poet Jeremy Butler, used generously, which was fine with me. I liked most strong smells: Lysol, gasoline, rubbing alcohol. They were the only ones that could get past the mashed wreckage of the cartilage in my nose.

The white tiles on the floor were worn down, a few of them showing inevitable cracks. I listened to the echo of my footsteps as I started up the fake marble stairs. There was an elevator in the Farraday, but it moved slower than a panhandler giving you change. I walked up past the floors of offices closeting bookies, disbarred lawyers, alcoholic doctors, insolvent baby photographers, some tenants whose business I didn’t want to think about, at least one psychic I tried to avoid because she scared the hell out of me, and one publisher of semi-pornography named Alice Pallice. Alice was a particular friend of Jeremy Butler. She almost matched the bald giant in size and strength. She had been known to shoulder her printing press and get down the fire escape in less than a minute when the call came that vice cops were on the way. Lately, she had begun publishing children’s books and poetry with Jeremy as author. A match made in Oz.

On the fourth and final floor of the Farraday, I made my way to the door of the offices I shared with Sheldon Minck. Someone down the hall was singing an operatic aria. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. On the pebbled-glass door in front of me was written, in gold letters:

DR. SHELDON MINCK, DENTIST, D.D.S., S.D.
PAINLESS DENTISTRY PRACTICE SINCE 1916
TOBY PETERS
DISCREET INVESTIGATIONS

Shelly changed the sign every month or two in the hope of increasing business, but few of the people on the way to Axel the bookie down the hall were struck by whatever Shelly put on the door.

I went through the door and into the small waiting room with its two wooden chairs, a small table with a neat pile of old
Collier’s
, and an ashtray. The place had been cleaned up by Shelly because of a recent investigation by the County Dental Association following a complaint about Shelly’s less than sanitary technique. When I stepped through the next door I could see that the brief period of near-sterility was already passing. Dishes, cups, and instruments were beginning to peep over the rim of the sink near the door to my slightly-more-than-closet-size office. I could live with that, had lived with it for half a dozen years, but then I saw something that really got to me.

“Stop,” I shouted.

Shelly turned his face toward me and away from the patient in the chair. It took Shelly a second or two to find me through his thick glasses. He was dressed in an almost white dental jacket and he held a sharp metal instrument in his pudgy right hand. With his left hand, he pushed back his slipping glasses. A small bead of sweat meandered down his forehead searching for his nose.

“Toby,” he said. “What the hell—”

“I think you should get out of the chair,” I said, trying to control my voice.

Joe Louis looked at me in some confusion and started to remove the towel from his neck. Shelly turned to stop him, but not even Shelly’s determination had any effect. Louis removed the towel and stood up.

“What is this anyway?” Shelly said, looking around for something and then seeing it. He put down the sharp instrument and replaced it with a cigar he had left smouldering on the porcelain work table. “You don’t come in and pull patients out of my office and …” He stopped, realizing that he had just shoved one of my clients in his chair, and not for the first time. Anyone who came to see me risked mutilation at the hands of the Beast of Bad Breath.

Louis looked at both of us without expression. He had wandered into the heavyweight warmup before the main event. Louis was dressed in a light gray suit that looked as if it had been pressed by a maniac who tolerated no lines. I couldn’t guess the cost, but it must have been at least ten times that of the broken lots I picked up for ten bucks from Hy’s Clothes for Him in Hollywood.

“Mister Peters,” he said, trying to work his way into the act.

“We’ll go in my office,” I said, pointing to the door, which he looked at with the knowing eyes of one who knows a closet when he sees one. He shrugged and walked toward the door.

“Toby …” Shelly said aggressively, adjusting his glasses once more, poking his cigar in my general direction and preparing a new complaint.

“Shelly, what the hell is this ‘discreet investigations’ crap on the door?” I threw in before he could attack.