Murder on the Yellow Brick Road (11 page)

She held out her hand for my coat, and I gave it to her. Then she turned her hand down palm up toward my pants and left the room turning down the lights. I took my clothes off, put them on a chair and got into the bed. I worked over a couple of wisecracks in my head in case she came back in an apron with a tray of chicken. She came back without chicken, and I made no cracks. She was dark and beautiful, and came to me softly smelling of mountains. I dropped back with her on top of me. We didn't talk and moved slowly. It was better than I had imagined and the sound of the sea outside helped.

I almost fell asleep, but not quite, and she kissed me awake.

“Hungry?”

I said yes, and she got up slowly throwing her hair back and went toward the living room. I closed my eyes for a few minutes or half an hour.

She came back dressed in a black knit sweater and skirt.

“You've got five minutes,” she whispered.

I grunted and got up when she left. In a few minutes I was dressed. Before I went into the living room, I took another one of Shelly's just-in-case pain pills and gulped it down with tap water in Cassie's pink bathroom. There was better behavior for a bad back than what I was doing.

We had dinner in a corner of the living room next to a window where we could see the moon and the coast. We ate steak and corn on the cob, and there was plenty of it. We both had a beer and talked about nothing.

“Ever married?” I said when we had put the dishes away.

“Once, for a short time, a long time ago. You?”

“Once,” I said, “for a long time, until a short time ago.”

There didn't seem much else to say on the subject. We talked about Judy Garland. I told my life story, making myself look as tough as possible. She gave me a little about her life, but not much more than she had before. We talked about Hoff and made jokes about his first-naming and changes in personality, and I told her about my meeting with Mayer. She had never talked to Mayer nor been in his office in the years she had worked in the studio. She'd begun with M.G.M. shortly after she had come from Texas. Her career as an actress had passed after a few years, and she had devoted herself to her actress sister. When the sister died, Cassie had plunged into costume design and had done well as an assistant. She didn't talk about men, but I was sure she would if I'd asked.

Somewhere after eleven she said she had to get to bed alone because she had to be at the studio at six. We kissed and I started to prolong it, but she pushed me away gently with the promise of more in the future.

“I'll talk to you tomorrow,” I said.

“I'll be waiting,” she said, and I strode out to my Buick as if it were an armed charger.

When I got back home I felt confident about killing any dragons that might want to break into my castle. Besides, the dragon who was trying to kill me was a lousy shot. I was confident, but not stupid. I put my sofa in front of the door, kept the bathroom light out and put the gun under my pillow. My back felt great.

I dreamed Roosevelt was campaigning in Munchkinland, promising to keep the wicked witches out. A couple of Munchkins with long knives crept up behind him as he talked. The other Munchkins and Glinda, the good witch, saw the tiny killers but said nothing. It was up to me to save the President. I tried to run forward, but my back was too sore. I tried to shout, but nothing came out. I watched in helpless horror. Glinda, looking very much like Cassie and dressed in solid red, took me in her arms and comforted me. It felt good, and I felt guilty as hell.

6

Screw Chiquita Banana. I always kept my bananas in the refrigerator. They turned brown and looked like hell, but they lasted longer. I found one survivor behind a jar of grape jelly. Ignoring the color, I sliced it into little pieces and sprinkled it on top of my bowl of Wheaties. Then sugar and milk. Top with a cup of Hill's or Chase and Sanborn, and you have the Peters gourmet breakfast, which is just what I had that Monday morning while I read the newspaper. The previous tenant hadn't cancelled his subscription, and once in a while I got up early enough to grab the paper before a neighbor stole it. Today was such a day. I put my back to the wall of my little alcove kitchen, placed my .38 on the table in front of me and read while I ate.

An eight-column headline said the presidential election would be the closest since 1916. I tried to figure out who had run in 1916. It was too late for Lincoln and too early for Hoover. Gallup indicated that the Willkie trend was running strong.

With a fresh shirt on my back, a relatively clean tie around my neck, memories of Cassie James in my mind, another day's pay coming from M.G.M., a back free from pain and hope in my future, I stepped out of my door and into a puddle of mud. I fell on my ass. I had slept through a late season rain during the night.

A change of clothes put a new suit on my back and a wary look in my eye when I stepped out of the same door ten minutes later. The gods had warned me not to be such a smart ass about the future, and I read the warning.

John Franklin Peese's address on Main near Jefferson was a long walk from my place, but it could be walked. I drove and made it in less than ten minutes. It was one of those typically dingy neighborhoods that surround most downtown areas of big cities. I knew the area well; my office was a few blocks away. I parked in a garage on Broadway and walked back. Normally, I would have parked on the street, but with no windows that was asking for a stripped or missing car in this neighborhood.

Main was a busy downtown street, one of the busiest with fat buildings and restaurants. In this area there were nickel hot dog stands and flop houses.

I stopped in front of 134 Main. It was a flop. The sign read: “Beds 15 cents, Rooms 35 cents, hot and cold water.” Next door to the flop was a nickel movie house which boasted all seats for five cents. “Big Show. Little Price.” One sign said there were five pictures. Another sign said there were six. A poster showed Tom Tyler with a gun in his right hand and a girl in his left looking up at him. Tom was all in black and the picture was “The Feud of the Trail.” The nickel show also promised the first chapter of a Ken Maynard Western, “Mystery Mountain.” A guy in a milkman's suit with a thin jacket over it tilted his white cap back and studied the posters. I stood next to him wondering who it would hurt if I spent the day in the dark.

The milkman went in, but I didn't follow him. I went into the flop house. It took about thirty seconds to adjust from the light to the dusty darkness of a lobby of forty-watt bulbs.

The forty-watters were a good idea. They saved the management money, and they made it hard to see the lobby. The lobby was small and decorated in early 20th century junk. It was the kind of place in which Shelly Minck picked up most of his trade, and his trade picked up most of its diseases.

When my eyes adjusted to the dim yellow light, I went to the desk. I passed a guy sitting in one of the two lounge chairs in the lobby. I didn't give him a second look, but I held him in mind. He was too damn well dressed to be sitting around in the morning in a place like this. It was a warm day, and the parks were free. On a day like this even a bum knew enough to hike the few blocks to Exposition Park.

The guy behind the desk was wearing a ratty sweater and a jacket. His nose was running. He had a cold, and I didn't want to get too near him. It might not be a cold. He was bald with big freckles on his scalp. His chest was caved in as if he had taken one big cough and had never recovered. His belly flowed out and he could have been any age from 25 to 50.

“My name's Peters,” I said quietly and seriously. “I'm involved in an investigation and I'd like to have some information on one of your tenants.”

He blew his nose on a dirty handkerchief, pushed the handkerchief into his trouser pocket and looked at me with moist eyes.

“Mr?,” I tried again.

“Valentine,” he said. “I only use one name.”

“Like Garbo,” I said.

“She's got another name,” he said. “I only use the one.”

“You in show business?” I said.

“No,” he sneered. “Who you want to know about?”

“Peese,” I said. “John Franklin Peese.”

“Don't recall him,” said Valentine retrieving his handkerchief.

“You can't miss him,” I said softly, overcoming my repulsion and leaning toward him. “He's only about three feet tall.”

Valentine gave a good blow and seemed to be thinking about people three feet tall.

“Who's the night man?” I asked.

“I am,” he said. “I don't leave here. Sleep back there.” He pointed to a door behind him.

“Look in your book,” I said wearily.

“You ain't a cop,” he said turning away.

“Three bucks,” I said.

“Five,” he said.

“Goodbye,” I said.

“Wait,” he said.

We both knew how the conversation would go, but the rules of conduct made us ride out the race. I'd played it dozens of times, and I knew it wasn't over. I counted out three bucks and he said, “Room 31.”

I started to turn and he added, “But he's not there anymore. Moved out about five months ago. Glad to see him go. He was a mean little fart.”

“You got an address for him,” I said keeping my back to the counter. The well-dressed man in the lobby was pretending to read a book, but I knew he could hear what we said.

“He didn't leave one,” said Valentine, purring.

“You have some idea of where I can find him?” I said.

He took too long to answer “no,” so I knew he had something, maybe just a badly congested nose, but I took a chance. I didn't want to do it, but I couldn't horse around here all day playing games. I turned slowly, pulled two bucks out of my wallet and reached over the counter grabbing Valentine by the sweater. Part of it came off in my hands. I grabbed again and pulled him into the counter. Our faces were inches apart. He smelled like Friday's garbage on Monday morning. I thought both of us were about to throw up. Him in fear; me in disgust.

“I heard he was someplace downtown,” he squeaked.

“Where?” I asked with a forced smile.

“I don't know, one of the big hotels,” Valentine said gasping for air. “One of the guys who flops here saw him. He said Peese looked like he'd made the big time. Big cigar. The works. Peese wouldn't give him the price of a small flop. He's a bastard, that little one, a bastard.”

I let him down gently. His sweater was bunched up on his bird chest and he was panting. I must have looked to him like my brother looks to me.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “This'll buy you another sweater and a last name.” I dropped five more on the counter. He could get ten sweaters for less than that within a block.

“I don't want a last name,” he said putting the five under the counter. “What good's a last name done anybody?”

He had a point.

I walked into the sun, and my eyes closed. I waited until I was out of sight of the door before I wiped my hands of Valentine's grime. I knew a shortcut back to Broadway through an alley. I'd chased a kid through it once when I was doing a month as a bouncer at the Broadway Bar in '37. Since most of the customers were bar flies and winos, I'd built up a good win-loss record. But the two or three good losses were enough to make me go back to my private investigating, Depression or no Depression. One of the losses had left me with my scalp split like a car seat that spent too much time in the desert.

The happy memory faded as I stepped into the alley and realized two things. First, I had to look forward to a day of looking for a midget in downtown hotels. He might not even be in a downtown hotel. Valentine might have got the word wrong, or the bum who passed it might have messed it up or dreamed it, but I had to give it a try. Most of my investigating involved following leads that lead nowhere. The cops did the same thing, but there were lots of cops.

The second thing I realized was that someone was following me. I didn't want to turn back. If it was the dragon with the bad shot, he might shoot sooner than he planned if I turned. I kept walking through the alley around garbage cans looking for an open door and expecting a bullet in the back. I had taken one there not too long ago. I didn't want to press my luck. Even the bat who was trying to do me in would have the odds going for him eventually.

He didn't know how to tail, and I could see his long shadow out of the corner of my eye as it hit the brick wall. He was hurrying now to keep up, but I didn't want to break. My armpits were damp, and Broadway was just a dozen yards or so ahead. I made up my mind, reached for my gun as I walked and took a sudden turn into a doorway.

The guy behind me stumbled forward, and I moved out with my .38 under his nose and grabbed a hunk of his jacket. It was the well-dressed guy in the flop house lobby. I pulled him into the doorway and pushed him into shadow. He looked surprised, but only a little and not at all scared. I felt him for a weapon the way the Glendale cops had taught me a tenth of a century earlier. He came away clean, and I looked at him. He wore a light grey suit with a white tie and shirt. He wasn't dressed for tailing. He stood out like a snowball in a coal pile.

He was in his fifties. His face was round, and his mouth was small and a little weak. His nose was straight, and he wore round tortoise glasses. His hairline was falling back and his hair was thin, but he had it combed forward on the left to battle the receding glacier of time.

“O.K.,” I said, “Who are you, and why are you following me?”

He took out a pipe and lit it. His hands weren't shaking and his voice was a little high, but perfectly calm.

“My name's Chandler, Raymond Chandler,” he said getting the pipe going. “I'm a writer. I write detective stories and novels.”

“That doesn't explain why you were in the lobby of that bedbug palace and why you followed me,” I whispered through my teeth. It was my best shot at menace, but he looked interested and amused.