Fala Factor (22 page)

The hell with it. I took my .38 from the glove compartment along with the clip-on holster that went over my belt. I put them on and got out of the car to ring the bell and work my magic. If Lyle answered, I would improvise.

“Yes,” came a distorted woman's voice from the speaker imbedded in the brick column to which the gate was anchored.

“Bullock's. Delivery,” I croaked.

“Bullock's?” returned the woman.

“Gift,” I said, straining my voice to its gravelly limits.

Something clicked in the gate and it popped open slightly.

I pushed it the rest of the way, got back in my Ford, and drove up the path, leaving the gate open in case I wanted to leave in a hurry. I drove up the driveway, turned the car around so it would be heading the right way, checked my gun, and got out. A curtain rustled in the room off the doorway, and I hurried to the door. It opened before I got there.

“Thanks,” I said to the woman in the doorway.

“Thanks?” she said.

“For returning my suit,” I told the woman I had known as Anne Olson. “It's drying out now. Got caught in the rain yesterday.”

I wasn't sure she looked better, but she certainly looked classier in the doorway. Part of it was what she was wearing, a blue skirt and matching jacket with the high Joan Crawford shoulders. Her blouse was white and fluffy and her dark hair was pulled back.

“Can I come in?” I said.

She stepped back, holding the door open, and I entered, smelling some flowery perfume as I passed her.

The house was decorated in early Zorro, serapes on the wall, paintings of Mexican peasants. Even the furniture was rustic and covered in handmade blankets.

“How did you find me?” she said, walking ahead of me and into the open room on our right, the living room.

“Deduction, logic,” I said. “Is Lyle a friend of yours, too?”

“He is my husband,” she said, turning to look at me, her chin up as if to say, go ahead and hit.

“Your …”

“My name is Anne Lyle,” she said. “The night you found me at Roy Olson's I was visiting as … as …”

“As …” I finished. “You and Olson were very good friends?”

She nodded in agreement, her mouth closed tightly without speaking.

“You have a lot of good friends,” I said, sitting on the solid wooden arm of a sofa.

“Not too many, but a few,” she said. “Roy Olson was a decent, sensitive man, not an obsessed … Would you like a drink?”

“A Pepsi, no ice, if you've got it,” I said charmingly. “Is this story true? I mean, everytime I see you you have a new story and they're all good and all sincere. Is your husband here? I mean I'd like a little verification this time. Don't tell me. All I have to do is run up the stairs and find him. He wouldn't be in the bathtub, would he? No, you wouldn't hide him in the same place twice.”

“Pepsi,” she said. “I'll see what we have. The maid is off and Martin isn't home.”

“Don't surprise me,” I said, following her out of the room and over the wooden floors covered with colorful throw rugs.

The kitchen was big, bright, and had a giant, heavy table of dark wood in the middle. She went to the refrigerator, found a Pepsi, and removed the cap with an opener attached to the nearby counter.

“No glass,” I said, taking the bottle from her and gulping. “Won't you join me?”

“I didn't kill Roy Olson,” she said. “I don't know who did. Roy was upstairs when you came. He was a decent man. His wife was the one who pushed him into meeting with Martin. When you came to the door, and assumed I was Mrs. Olson, I thought Martin had sent you, and I was admittedly a little drunk. I didn't know there was going to be a murder, that I …”

“And your husband killed Olson,” I said, shaking the Pepsi bottle with my thumb on top.

“I don't know,” she said. “Someone must have been waiting for him upstairs. Must you do that?”

I sprayed the Pepsi into my mouth.

“Sorry,” I said. “I'm overdoing the you-can't-hurt-my-feelings crude act.”

“I didn't trick you,” she said sincerely. “Not to hurt you.”

“But you tried to shoot me back in the clinic,” I said, finishing the Pepsi and putting the bottle down.

“No,” she sighed, her breasts rising softly “I came to the clinic to do just what I did, to shoot that damn bird of Martin's. He loved that bird. I thought he killed Roy Olson because he was jealous, but I couldn't bring myself to shoot Martin, as much as I would have liked. Shooting Henry helped.”

“The dog?” I said.

She shrugged. “That was for show. I didn't want you to think I knew what I was doing. It was just his ear. My father is an army general. I can shoot as well as you can with that gun you're hiding behind your back.”

“If you can only shoot as well as I can,” I said, “I was lucky to get out of that clinic with my ears. Who did you tell about shooting the bird?”

“No one, but Martin knew. He was almost in tears. Only that bird and the mention of Daniel Webster or Henry Clay can do that.”

“Or General Patton,” I added. “I told Martin about the bird.”

“Thanks,” she said with a small, pained smile. “I wasn't pretending with you in Roy's office.”

“You didn't seem to be,” I agreed. “But I've been fooled before. Hell, I've been fooled almost every time before.”

“I'd like to prove it,” she said, taking a step toward me, her hand out.

I didn't step back, and I didn't pull away. She took my left hand and kissed the palm.

“Where is Lyle?” I said.

It was a difficult moment. Her face was moving close to mine. I could smell her and I knew a Pepsi burp was on the way to spoil the mood. I beat the bad joke by pulling away and walking across the room.

“Not now,” I said. “Maybe not ever, but not now. I've got to find your husband and I've got to find the dog. Is there a dog here?”

“Martin doesn't like dogs,” she said, opening a cabinet and finding a bottle that looked like bourbon. “Dogs eat birds.”

“So do people,” I added.

She poured herself an unhealthy drink and shrugged.

“Martin isn't overly fond of people either.”

“Where might he keep a dog?” I tried again.

She downed half the glass of amber liquid, rubbed the glass against her cheek, and said, “Who knows? If he's in this with Bass, Bass probably has it.”

“Then,” I said, “I better have a talk with Bass.”

“He's a scintillating conversationalist,” she said, refilling her glass. “Another Pepsi for the road?”

I said no thanks and headed for the front door. She followed, drink in hand, opened the door for me and, holding my arm, rubbed her cheek against mine.

“You could use a shave,” she said. “Martin has a collection of razors.”

“Another time,” I said, almost giving in.

“Another time,” she repeated in a way that made it clear that she didn't expect there to be another time.

“I'll be seeing you, Anne,” I said, going to my car. I seemed to spend a lot of time saying good-bye to people named Anne.

I didn't look back. The sky was cloudy but I didn't think it would rain. I stopped at the front gate, pulled out my notebook, and checked the address that Academy Dolmitz had given me for Bass. When I got there, however, Bass wasn't around. In fact, unless Bass lived in Manuel Ortiz's Shoes-Repaired-While-U-Wait shop, Bass wouldn't be around.

Dolmitz was in when I got to the shop. There were a few book-buying customers out front.

“Peters,” he greeted me sourly. “No threats this a.m., okay? I talked to my lawyer. So, you turn around and march out.” He demonstrated “march out” with two fingers of his right hand on top of the counter.

One of the customers, a young guy with glasses, tried not to look at us over the old book in his hand.

“Bass wasn't at the address you gave me,” I said. “No one but a shoe repair guy was there.''

“It's the address I got for him,” Dolmitz said. “What can I tell you? You think Bass is such a brain he can't get his own address screwed up? Who knows where he is?”

“You couldn't give me another address,” I said, smiling and walking over to the counter.

“I could give you a lot of them,” he said. “2225 West Washington. That is the Arlington Bowling Center. Or—”

I eased my .38 out from behind my back and placed it on the counter as gently and discreetly as possible. The young guy with glasses saw the gun, put his book down, and tried to walk to the door as if he were in no hurry.

“Threats?” said Dolmitz. “I get threats from you? You know what I can have done to you, to what remains of a face on you? Threats? I've got in the back room a zlob who'll tear your heart out for a sawski.”

“This is big,” I whispered to Dolmitz, leaning over the counter.

“Touch me and you are carry-out chop suey,” he said, backing away against the wall behind the counter.

“I'm feeling crazy, Academy,” I said. “I'll even take on a big political influence like you.”

“Try the Gaucho Arms on Delospre,” he said, “you crazy bastard you.”

I put the gun away and smiled.

“Thanks,” I said. “The best song, 1936?”

“The hell with you,” Dolmitz said, resuming his seat but still sulking. But I could see it was too much for him to resist. “You mean original song written for the movie?”

“What else is there?”

“Nothing,” he agreed. “In 1936 we're talking “The Way You Look Tonight” from
Swing Time
. Kern and Fields. I got one for you. The last assistant director to win.”

“I don't give a shit, Dolmitz,” I said, sweetly turning to the door. “And if you've given me more crap about Bass, I'll come back and beat you to death with an Oscar.”

“Ha,” he shouted, “shows what you know. Robert Webb was best assistant director in '37 before they ended the category. Shows what you know.”

Dolmitz hadn't lied about Bass's address. According to the man with the flannel shirt and suspenders who served as manager of the Gaucho Arms, Bass did have an apartment there.

“We ain't what you'd call amigos,” said the manager, a tub-gutted type in his sixties with a pipe clenched in his teeth. “Less I see of him, the better.”

“You wouldn't know if he has a dog in his apartment or had had one there recently?” I said, showing a five-dollar bill.

“You're overpaying, son,” he said, taking the five and putting it in the shirt pocket next to his suspender strap. “I'd know. Walls are thin here and I keep an eye out. No dog in his place. Not much of anything. Truth to tell, I'd send him packing if I had an excuse and the nerve. ‘Fraid I'm just a dandelion.”

He chuckled, the pipe still clenched in his yellow teeth. “Got that from the cowardly lion in the Wizard of Oz,” he explained. “Bert Lahr fella is a laugh.”

“Bass have visitors?” I said.

“Okay, you paid for a lot of answers,” he said, still chuckling. We were standing on the narrow lawn in front of the Gaucho Arms and he was holding a hose in his hand. He had been about to turn it on when I had come up to him. “Not a social type,” the manager said.

“Mind if I look around his room?” I said, showing another five-dollar bill.

The manager rubbed his right palm against his faded pants, looked at the five, sucked in some air between his stained teeth, and said, “No, couldn't do it. Cash would be nice. Got a granddaughter visiting and I'd like to take her down to Pebble Beach for the glass-bottom-boat trip. Heard lots about it, but much as I got bad feelings about Mr. Bass, I don't violate his home.”

“Take the five anyway,” I said, holding it out. “I'm on an expense account.”

“That don't give you the right to throw someone else's money away or me the right to take it,” he said. “I'm not trying to offend you none, son, but that's the way it is.”

I pocketed the added five and shook the manager's hand.

“I'll find another way,” I said. “Thanks for the information.”

He went back to watering the Gaucho Arms lawn and I found a place on Santa Monica Boulevard for a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and an order of fries. It made my back feel better and I was starting to prepare myself for the showdown with Bass or whoever was going to show up at Olson's clinic with Fala.

Carmen was just coming on at Levy's when I called. She had the message from Sol.

“You said wrestling,” she said blandly.

“We can wrestle after the fight,” I answered. “Henry Armstrong, we can see Henry Armstrong, right there in the ring.”

“The Mad Russian of Minsk is wrestling,” she countered.

“The Mad Russian of Minsk is an ex-pug named Madigan,” I explained. “He takes off the beard and he's Irish Joe Flannagan. He puts on a wig and he's The Wild Kentucky Hillbilly.”

“All right,” she said, not fully convinced. “Sol says Armstrong's fighting two guys.”

“Two guys. One at a time,” I said. “I'll pick you up at seven,”

“Regular food this time,” she said before I could hang up.

“All food is regular,” I reasoned.

“Manny's tacos is not date food,” she said.

“Regular food,” I agreed.

I hung up and drove back to the Farraday.

I was halfway up to the first floor when Jeremy appeared from two floors above and called to me. His voice echoed, and I looked up to see him.

“Toby,” he said evenly. “She is gone.”

“Gone? Who?” I answered, but I knew it wasn't Alice.

“Jane,” he answered. “Alice left her to go out for groceries at the apartment and when she came back, Jane was gone.”

“Bass,” I said.

“We must find him,” Jeremy said softly, but the Farraday echo picked it up and sent his determined words echoing out of dark corners.