High Midnight: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Six) (21 page)

The threat of my own kosher future hovered in the air with the smell of garlic and spices as I walked to the door and reached for the handle.

“Hold it,” shouted Steve, running up to my side. I held it.

Steve patted me down and found the .38. He pulled it out and gave me a dirty look.

“You almost let me get by with that,” I said with a shake of my head, to indicate that he might be losing his touch. “I won’t mention it to Mr. Lombardi.”

“You’ll get it back on the way out,” he said. “If you go out.”

I knocked on the door as Steve stood back to stand guard and wait for the roar of Lombardi that would end my brief passage on earth in human form. Lombardi said nothing, so I stepped in, closed the door behind me and counted on whatever gods there might be to provide me with the right words.

Lombardi had his back turned, and I started to talk.

“Before you do something you and I will regret,” I said, “let me talk. I’ve told someone I’m coming here. If anything happens to me, he’ll tell the police. I’m supposed to give him a call every fifteen minutes. I don’t want any trouble. I just want to straighten things between me and the police.”

Lombardi said nothing and didn’t turn around. There was something in the atmosphere of the room, something I recognized from experience. It was the silence of death, and since I was still alive and Lombardi wasn’t moving, I placed my bet on him. I went around the desk and found out I was right.

This time the knife was in his chest. Lombardi looked surprised, skewered in his own sausage factory, his plan of corned-beef conquest ended before it really began.

With the departure of Lombardi’s soul, if there were such a thing, went the last clear suspect on my list. I was back at the start—well, almost at the start. Lombardi was now off my list of suspects. Most victims have that as doubtful consolation.

“Everything all right, Mr. Lombardi?” asked Steve outside the door. I could see his shadow on the glass.

“It’s okay,” I said, holding my hand over my mouth. I tried to put some anger in the words, but I didn’t want to use enough words to make him doubt the voice.

“I’ll be right out here,” said Steve.

I grunted and went on, talking in my own voice.

“Okay, so we understand each other. You’ve got my word that I’ll never bother you again, and you agree to let me step out of this with my own skin instead of the one you put on the hot dogs. I appreciate your understanding, and you can count on me.”

My choices were few. I could call Steve in and show him Lombardi’s corpse. There was an outside chance he would believe I hadn’t just walked in and played Zorro. But even if he believed me, there was a chance he might not let me go. I had no gun and could find none on Lombardi’s corpse or in his desk.

Lombardi’s white smock was stained with red now, and he looked like a butcher who had been turned against by one of the steers ready for slaughter. There was no blood on me as I went to the door, saying “Thanks” to the corpse as I backed out and shut the door.

Steve faced me and looked at the office door.

“Mr. Lombardi says he doesn’t want to be disturbed,” I said, putting out my hand for the gun.

Steve hesitated, looked over at his co-worker and handed me my .38.

“Mr. Lombardi is a very understanding man,” I said, going to the front door and turning the handle. The door was locked. I tried not to show panic as I walked past Steve and headed for the door leading to the dark room beyond and the parking lot and the relative safety of my car beyond that.

I was almost touching the door when it opened and Marco stepped in.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, looking at me. “I go out five minutes and this mug is on the premises. You can’t see Mr. Lombardi. He don’t want to see you.”

“I just saw him,” I said. “We’ve got everything straightened out.”

Marco cocked his big bald head and looked at Lombardi’s door.

“I want to hear him say that,” he said.

“It’s true,” said Steve, backing me up with what he thought he had heard. “Mr. Lombardi doesn’t want to be bothered now.”

Marco looked back at me suspiciously as I walked slowly through the door. Once in the dark, panic came, and I rushed toward the spot of light on the far wall that marked the exit. I cracked my knee on something short and hard and hobbled forward without making a noise. The Buick was at least six hundred yards away in the parking lot. Well, maybe it was twenty yards away. I was carrying the ball through mud, knowing the tacklers were not far behind.

The car stalled in the mud and the wheels spun. I took a deep breath, counted to five, took my .38 out and put it at my side, watching the door while I tried again slowly. This time the car moved backward, and I let it have its own head till I felt the wheels touch something solid. Then I tore forward over rubble, leaving the lot and the factory behind.

As I drove, I mused over whether by nightfall there would be any organized group in the Greater Los Angeles area that would not be trying to find me. I wasn’t sure who I’d prefer to take my chances with, Cawelti or Marco and company. The only one I could think of who might frighten both of them was Luís Felípe Castelli, but he had his Fascists, assumed and real, to deal with. My battle was on a less global scale but no less important to me.

My stomach grumbled with hunger. I told my stomach it was just doing that because I was confused and scared. It always tries to distract me when things go wrong, but there is no reasoning with an insistent stomach. I fed it some burgers and a Pepsi and then cursed it for its impatience when I spotted a taco stand a block further on. I stopped for the taco anyway, and my stomach got quiet. Then the Buick began to complain and with good reason. It was out of gas. I coasted for half a block to a Texaco station and pushed the car the rest of the way to the pump.

Next stop: the Big Bear Bar in Burbank. The front door was open, but there was no sound from inside. This time I just stood inside the door while my eyes adjusted. Nothing stirred. In a few seconds I could see Lola across the room sitting at the piano, staring at nothing and not playing. For a second she looked like the girl in
White Zombie
, but the smell of death wasn’t in the room.

“Lola,” I said quietly.

She turned around and looked at me. Something like a smile touched the corner of her mouth. She automatically reached for a drink on the piano, but it wasn’t there, so she shrugged instead and started playing “In the Good Old Summertime.”

“Lola,” I said again, and she stopped.

“You have bad news,” she said. “I can spot the bringer of bad news two blocks away. I know a guy who has been known to knock off bringers of bad news.”

“Just like the Greeks I remember reading about in high school,” I said.

“He is no Greek,” said Lola with a small, sad laugh.

“You talking about Lombardi?” I said, walking through the tables.

“None but,” she said, fingers poised over the keys.

I sat down and put my arm around her. She sagged next to me.

“Lombardi is dead,” I said. I could feel her shudder, and I didn’t like myself. I hadn’t told myself what I was doing, but I knew. I had been testing Lola, had held her to see her reaction, to judge if she might have punctured Lombardi or if she knew about it. I would have bet she didn’t, but then again she was an actress.

“Dead?”

“Dead,” I repeated.

“That’s the end of Lola’s comeback,” she said, hitting one key and sending the echo of its music through the darkness. “That was a selfish thing to say, but it’s what I was thinking.”

“Then you might as well say it,” I said, cradling her head. “Can you answer some questions for me?”

She didn’t speak, just leaned against me, dreaming of the movies that would never be.

“Lombardi put up the money for
High Midnight
,” I said. “Why?”

“He said he owed it to me,” she answered dreamily. “But you know what I think? I think he just wanted an excuse to put the screws on Cooper to even things up. Lombardi and I were through a long time ago, but he hated Cooper for the few days I spent with him almost, hell, eight or nine years ago. He didn’t forget all that time. Lombardi is … was … the kind that wanted the score at least even, even if the game didn’t matter anymore. He thought it was a sign of weakness if you left a situation with the other guy up on you.

“The boys back East told him to forget it,” she went on. “They said it nice at first and then they said ‘or else,’ but old Chuckles Lombardi wouldn’t let go.”

“So you think somebody back East ordered Lombardi killed?”

“Who knows?” she said, pulling away from me and heading for the bar. “I’d say our dear departed Mr. Lombardi left a trail of enemies from Naples to Frisco.”

Lola went behind the bar and mixed herself something while I sat in silence, and the minutes ticked away. I started to play chopsticks, and Lola, drink in hand behind the bar, laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh. She hustled back to the piano, sat at my side and joined me. We played seriously, sour, missing notes, and sat still when we finished the only piece I knew.

“And now?” I said.

She was wearing a yellow dress made of some silky material. The dress matched the color of her hair, at least in the darkness.

“The Big Bear Bar in Burbank,” she said, taking a drink. “That’s the end of the road for Lola Farmer. Can I confess something to you?”

“My pleasure,” I said.

“My name is not really Lola Farmer,” she said in a confidential whisper. “I used the name Farmer because my father was a farmer. My name is Betty Davis. I swear, Betty Davis. Now there just isn’t room in Hollywood for two Betty Davises, so I decided nobly when I was a kid to back away and choose another name. You know who picked the name Lola Farmer? Lombardi.”

“Lola, I’ll be back when I get some things settled,” I said, getting up and touching her shoulder. She shrugged, and I went on, “I’ve got to turn myself in to the cops. Maybe they’ll figure out who carved up Santucci, Tillman and Lombardi. I sure as hell can’t.”

She waved at me without looking up and started to play and sing the saddest version of “Happy Days Are Here Again” that a human could create. Off-key and all, I liked it.

On Buena Vista I found a phone booth and gave the operator the number while I watched the sun start to go down. It was still afternoon and there was still time for a miracle, but I wasn’t counting on one. I called my office and let the phone ring about fourteen times before Shelly answered.

“Sheldon Minck, oral surgeon,” he said.

“You are not an oral surgeon,” I said. “You are a dentist. You can go to jail twenty years for saying you’re an oral surgeon. How the hell do you know who’s going to call you and hear you say that?”

“I don’t tell you how to be a detective so you …” then he remembered the masquerade of his which had started the whole thing. “Maybe you’re right,” he said sullenly.

“Any calls, Shel?” I asked.

“Maybe I could become a real surgeon,” he said. “I know a place in Ventura that will give me a degree for $40. That’s pretty steep, but …”

“Shelly, any calls?”

“Yeah, just a minute.” He dropped the phone and wandered off in search of the message. I could hear cups, metal and paper being moved in a search for the message. In about three minutes he came back and said, “Here it is. A number. You’re supposed to call right away. Urgent.”

“Who is it?” I said, taking the number he gave me.

“Hayena, or something like that,” said Shelly. “Say, will you call Mildred tonight and explain to her about Carmen? I don’t think I can go home and face that”

“I’ll probably be in jail tonight, charged with murder,” I said. “Three murders.”

“They let you have a phone call,” Shelly said. “You can call Mildred.”

“I’ll think about it, Sheldon,” I said, hanging up. I answered the urgent message from the man named Hayena.

This time the phone was picked up after one ring. “Yeah?” came the voice.

“Toby Peters,” I said. “I’m returning your call.”

“I gotta talk to you, Peters,” he said. I recognized the voice. It was Marco.

“Your name is Hayena?” I asked.

“Hanohyez,” he said impatiently, “Marco Hanohyez.”

“I never knew your last name,” I said quietly.

“Well, now we been introduced formally,” he said. “Let’s get together.”

“I didn’t ice Lombardi,” I said.

“I know,” he answered. “I think I know who did. Can you rendezvous with me? I want to get this over with and get back to Chicago. I think I felt an earth tremor today.”

“Why don’t you just tell the cops who killed Lombardi?” I said suspiciously.

“Sure,” he said with reasonable sarcasm. “The cops’ll listen to me.”

“How do I know you’re not setting me up because you think I knifed Lombardi?”

“Suit yourself,” he said.

What did I have to lose besides my carcass?

“Where do you want to meet?” I said.

“That Coney Island place,” he said. “I don’t know my way around, but I am capable of getting there from here.”