A Few Minutes Past Midnight (24 page)

“As clear a prophecy as you’ve ever given me,” I said.

“No prophecy,” she answered, taking a compact out of her purse and examining herself in the mirror. “Remember the Vasquella brothers, the twins who come to see me on Tuesday mornings?”

“No.”

“Well,” she went on, touching her nose to smooth something out, “Manuel limped just like that. No swelling. Kept the tape on. He was fine in two days. How’d you hurt it?”

“Stepped on a dead woman in a grave,” I said.

“Told you,” she said with a wink before she jangled off.

The usual office noises and echoes greeted me in the Farraday lobby along with the familiar and comforting smell of Jeremy’s Lysol. There was no possibility of my going up the stairs. I was happy to make it to the elevator, close the metal-grated doors, push the button, and lean back.

The sound of an off-key trombone slid by on the first floor. A duet of clacking typewriter and someone shouting in Spanish serenaded me on the second floor. By the time the elevator got to my floor, I had been treated to a symphony of less than pure delight.

When I opened the outer office, Violet looked up at me. So did a couple in the two waiting-room chairs. They were about seventy, looked scared, and were holding hands.

“What happened?” Violet asked.

“Tripped,” I said, not wanting to go over it again.

“Rocky’s coming home,” she said eagerly.

“He’s okay?”

“Perfect,” Violet said. “His time’s up. Says he doesn’t think he wants to box anymore. Got the letter right here.”

She held up a thin, blue, V-mail letter.

“Great,” I said. “How soon?”

She shrugged.

“Soon is all I know.”

“Soon is pretty good,” I said.

“Pardon me,” said the old woman. She had a European accent. “Are you Doctor Minck?”

“That’s …” Violet began, but I cut her off.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Mine husband. He has a tooth, a bad tooth. Maybe two bad teeth.”

The man said something softly in whatever their language was and the woman nodded her head.

“What made you pick this office?” I asked.

“We were visiting cousin who is making zippers on this floor,” she said. “We pass by, see the sign. I tell Max he must see tooth doctor now.”

“I don’t think I can work today,” I said sadly, looking at my crutches. “There’s a dentist two buildings down, across the street, name’s Zanderoff. I think you’ll be better off there.”

The woman translated. The man said something.

“You sending us to different tooth doctor?”

“It’s the right thing to do,” I said. “I think you’d better get him over there right away.”

The old man and woman got up, thanked me, and hurried out the door.

“You plan to tell Shelly?” I asked Violet.

She shook her head no.

Shelly came through the door and said, “Who were those two, the ones who just left here?”

“Foreigners. Wrong office,” I said.

Shelly looked at Violet for confirmation. She said, “Foreigners. Wrong office.”

Shelly walked past me through the door to his office. I followed him. He was wearing a green sports jacket, dark green slacks pulled high on his belly, and a fresh cigar. He adjusted his glasses and plucked an almost clean white dental apron from the rack near the door.

“We caught him, Shel,” I said.

He turned to look at me, blinked, and said, “Sawyer?”

“His real name is Pultman,” I said.

“You said ‘we caught him’?”

“Anita Maloney and me,” I said.

“Good. He shoot you in the ankle or kick you in the shin or something?”

“Something,” I said.

“I think I deserve some credit here,” Shelly said, moving his metal torture tool table and examining his weapons.

“You’re definitely a hero, Shel,” I said.

“A day’s work,” he said humbly.

“Fiona Sullivan was working with him,” I said. “She isn’t dead.”

This got his attention. He turned in my direction and pointed a sharp metal object with a thin wire at the end.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey. Then I’m not responsible for getting her killed.”

“She’s not dead,” I said again.

“I’ve got a feeling this is gonna be one hell of a great day. Two fillings at nine. An extraction at ten. Braces on a kid at two. Full plate. Life is good, Toby. Life is good.”

“It’s great Shel,” I said, heading for my office.

“I wanna show you something new I’ve been working on,” he said, reaching toward something at the end of the metal table.

“Later,” I said, not wanting to see what he was going to come up with. “I’ve got some calls to make.”

Inside my office I opened my window, sat down behind my desk, and pulled out a pad of paper, a pen, and my bottle of Carter’s Ink. My bill to Chaplin lacked only one thing, the price of fixing my headlight. I called Arnie. He told me what it would cost and I told him to fix it. Then I took out my notebook, looked at some of my expense notations, and composed my letter.

Dear Mr. Chaplin,

With the successful conclusion of the case for which you hired me, I herein submit my bill for services under our agreement of twenty-five dollars a day, plus twenty dollars a day for a protective agent.

Since you gave me a $200 advance, I owe you twelve cents plus the cost of replacing the window in your house and the lamp that Woodman shot. Let me know the cost of the window. It’s been a pleasure knowing you.

Sincerely,

Toby Peters

I took out my wallet and dug into my pockets. I put twelve cents in an envelope, put Chaplin’s name on it, and licked it closed.

It was nine. I took a chance and called. A woman answered.

“Mr. Chaplin, please,” I said.

“He’s just getting out of the shower, but who should I say is calling?”

“Toby Peters.”

“Toby,” Chaplin said eagerly a few seconds later. “Any news?”

“We got him,” I said.

“Where?”

“Dressed in women’s clothes and about to get on a chartered plane at two this morning.”

“God, I wish I had been there.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to give a statement,” I said. “But I’m not sure.

“Can’t be helped,” he said with resignation. “This has been an amazing experience, one I’ll not forget. This adventure has given me the inspiration to write a complete screenplay. It is no longer
Lady Killer
, but in honor of Mrs. Plaut I am calling it
Monsieur Verdoux.
I think calling it
Mister Voodoo
would be more apropos for an Abbott and Costello film, don’t you think?”

“I do,” I said. “I’d like to drop my bill off with you and ask you a favor.”

“Name it,” said Chaplin.

I told him.

“When?” he asked.

“This afternoon possible?”

“Can we make it tonight,” he said. “I must take my wife to a luncheon at Janet Gaynor’s. One can’t afford to slight friends when one has so few.”

“Tonight will be great. Name a time. I’ll pick you up.”

“No, I’ll have a driver. I’ll pick you up at Mrs. Plaut’s at, shall we say, six?”

“Six is fine.”

“Oh, by the way,” he said. “How much do I owe you? I’ll have it with me in cash.”

“You gave me a two-hundred-dollar advance. I owe you twelve cents,” I said. “Plus the cost of your window and lamp.”

“Let’s call it even,” he said.

“Let’s,” I agreed.

“See you at six.”

I hung up, tore open the envelope, pocketed the dime and two pennies, and sat back. Twenty minutes or so later, while I was picking through old mail and paying a few small bills, Jeremy came in.

“Sheldon tells me you caught Pultman,” he said.

“For once, Sheldon is right. Thanks for your help, Jeremy.”

“You are welcome. I’ve finished a poem about Juanita. Extraordinary woman. Would you like to hear it?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

He stood and read:

No-nonsense sanctum, four unmatched chairs and a table,

Behind a door that says “Juanita,” next to Albert Dew

A baby photographer who has no patience with children who

Find him unfunny and smelly too. His clients are few.

On the other side of Juanita are two brothers named Whales

Whose income is derived from whoopee cushion sales.

Maintaining class in company such as this

Is but a consummation devoutly to be wished.

But Juanita, born Jewish in the Bronx, has a long list

Of Mexicans, Negroes, Creoles, and others who exist

To hear her in Brooklynese unrepentant and pure

Tell their future in words and images obscure.

Juanita’s power came unbidden, gift and curse,

For her thoughts, images, fragments come in a burst

Never quite clear in their meaning

Till in hours or days the future becomes the beginning.

“Do not eat meat today and stay away from green,”

She told me yesterday riding the rickety Farraday elevator.

“I don’t eat meat,” I said, “and I’ll avoid the green.”

“You can’t,” she sighed. “Only when passed is it seen.”

“Then what good does it do to know?”

Her long earrings dangled as she turned quite slow.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “I only see.

Do you know who Cassandra was?” She looked at me.

“A poor Greek shiksa who couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

No one believed her. They thought she was a nut.

It’s the seer,” she said, patting my cheek.

“We know what we’re saying, but to you it’s all Greek.”

The elevator creaked doors open at the fourth floor.

“My curse, my blessing. As the raven once said, Evermore.”

“I like it,” I said.

Jeremy handed me the neatly printed copy of the poem. I put it on the desk.

“But that encounter yesterday was not the end. At lunch I almost choked on a Brussels sprout. You see the irony in her vision? I eat no meat and came close to death from a green vegetable.”

“What happened?”

“I punched myself in the stomach. The Brussels sprout came out.”

“There’s a moral in this somewhere,” I said.

“There’s a meaning too deep to penetrate,” he said seriously.

“That’s life,” I said.

“Precisely,” said Jeremy. “Precisely.”

EPILOGUE

C
HAPLIN CAME EXACTLY
at six in a black limo with tinted windows. He got out of the car and smiled at me. He was wearing a gray suit and vest and a perfectly matched tie. His shoes were polished and bright.

“Is dear Mrs. Plaut in?” he asked.

“She’s in,” I said.

“Excellent.”

I followed him inside where he knocked at Mrs. Plaut’s door. Westinghouse went mad inside. And then the door opened.

“Mr. Voodoo,” she said, holding out her hands.

Chaplin took both of them and said, “My dear, I have engaged in a charade. I’m not Mr. Voodoo. I am Charlie Chaplin. Truly.”

Mrs. Plaut looked at him for a moment and then said, “How wonderful. I’ll have to tell my friends. I love your movies.”

“Thank you for your inspiration and hospitality. I savored your sweetbread and tongue delight.”

“You are very welcome,” she said, removing her hands from his.

“We must be going now,” he said. “If you would accept an autographed photograph, it would be my pleasure to send you one.”

“I’d love it,” she said. “I’ll put it in a frame on the porch right next to Eleanor Roosevelt.”

Chaplin bowed and walked out the door in front of me. I started to hobble after him on my crutches, but Mrs. Plaut whispered, “Mr. Peelers.”

I turned to her.

“Mr. Voodoo is a crazy man. I think he’s harmless but you never can tell. The man looks nothing like Charlie Chaplin. Be cautious.”

“I’ll be cautious,” I said.

I went out the door and caught up with Chaplin at the car. When I got into the back seat with him, I gave the uniformed driver the address.

There was a black hat box next to Chaplin.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“That?” he said, looking at the box as if he had never seen it before. “That, I don’t know what that is.”

We drove to North Hollywood and the driver parked directly in front of my brother’s small house. Chaplin and I got out and went to the door.

“Oh, I forgot something,” Chaplin said hurrying back to the car.

My nephew, Dave, opened the door. His brother, Nate, and two-year-old sister, Lucy, were right behind him.

“Uncle Toby,” shouted Nate. “Mom, Dad, Uncle Toby’s here.”