Fala Factor (12 page)

“Hold your fillings,” he said, backing away “I'll clean it out by tonight.”

“I'm coming back in the morning,” I said. “If it isn't all out of my office, I'm going to dump it on your nice clean floor.”

“You are a tenant,” he reminded me, stepping forward again and almost slipping on a moist spot.

“I'll be back in the morning,” I whispered, looking at him and then stepping into the waiting room and out into the hall. Emmet Quigley was still gargling as I stomped past and went down the stairs. I was shaking my head on Hoover when a bum came up to me.

“You work in there?” he asked.

“Right.”

“You ain't no cop?”

“I ain't no cop,” I agreed.

“They're giving out sugar ration books come Monday,” he said, breathing muscatel into my ear. “I got one coming. I'll sell it for a price. I can get plenty more from guys, you know?”

“Not interested,” I said, walking down the street. He followed me.

“You know a guy who might?” he said. He was wearing a long coat under which I guessed there might be nothing.

“Dentist back in the Farraday,” I said. “His name is Minck. You and your friends might go see him.”

I moved faster and left the bum behind muttering his thanks.

My life is and was a series of lows, lows, lows, and highs. There weren't many highs, but those that came were right up there with going a full round with Henry Armstong. The trouble was the lows. I legged it to Arnie's and ignored his warnings about the scratches on the side of my car.

“The whole damn chassis is going to rust out in maybe a month, two,” he said, pronouncing chassis as chas-siss. “You better let me fix it up.”

“We'll talk about it Arnie,” I said, moving past him. “I turn most of the little I earn over to you as it is and what do I have to show for it?”

“Transportation,” he said emotionlessly.

“A zombie line of wrecks without fenders, paint, working gas gauges,” I went on.

“Having a bad day, huh?” he said, spitting into a corner.

“You could call it that,” I agreed.

I had three boxes of cereal stashed back at Mrs. Plaut's but I wasn't about to go there. Instead, I stopped at a restaurant off of Melrose called Herrera's, ordered two tacos, a bowl of shredded wheat, and a Pepsi. Herrera didn't blink his lazy eyes. He brought the order and I downed it. Back when I was first married, Anne had spent two years coaxing, threatening, challenging, and tricking in the hope of getting me to change my diet. For the last two years of the marriage, she hadn't cared much, though she had occasionally brought it up in her quite reasonable catalogue of my faults.

“You eat like a nine year old whose parents don't give a damn,” she had once said. Since she was probably right, I hadn't answered. I get along fine with nine year olds.

My stomach filled, I paid the buck I owed, including a dime tip, waved to Herrera and the belching guy who had taken up the stool next to mine, and set off to do what my brother had warned me not to do. My answers, if there were any, were back at Olson's clinic or house.

O
ne slow drive down the cul-de-sac alongside Olson's animal clinic convinced me that no one was watching the place. There were no cars on the street and as far as I could see there were no cars down the narrow lane that ran back to Olson's house. However, as far as I could see was not very far. There were many ways to handle this. Most of them involved exercising some caution. Caution was a word that, in spite of many attempts to engrave it on my skull and spine, had never made its way into my brain.

I found a driveway across from Olson's, drove in far enough to be sure the car wouldn't be seen from the street, and found a space between a pair of trees. I took out my little notebook and pencil and left a message under my windshield wiper for whoever lived there that my car had broken down, that I had come to deliver something to them, and that I'd be right back. That should hold off a call to the police, at least long enough for me to do whatever I was going to do.

It must have been around four. My watch was no help. The sun was bright and I was in a hurry. I walked straight across the street and up to the front door of the clinic. The door was locked and there was a sign on it saying the clinic was temporarily closed due to Dr. Olson's death. It was spelled correctly and in an even hand.

In case anyone was watching from a nearby bush, I knocked at the door, tried to peer through the tiny window, and then started up the driveway. Out of sight of both the street and the house, I doubled back and circled the clinic from the rear, looking for a door or window.

There was a door, but it was locked. Behind it I could hear barking and some sounds I didn't recognize. The first two windows I tried were locked and unforgiving. The third window was locked too, but the lock didn't have its heart in the job. I managed to get my fingers under the bottom of the window, trying not to think of what would happen in the next second or two if Bass were behind the window and decided to lean his weight down on my fingers.

There was a guy named Stumpy Fredericks, California middleweight champ around 1924 or '25. He had no fingers on his hands Stump's were like rocks, fingers never got sore, but his seconds had a hell of a time keeping his boxing gloves from flopping around. I tried not to think of Stumpy, who never told how he had lost his fingers. I failed. Maybe it was the thought of those fingerless boxing gloves flapping in the face of some confused kid out of Monterey that gave me the extra push that broke the lock. The window flew up and rattled a dozen dogs into something like song.

Instead of jumping through the window, I stood still for a second listening, trying to hear if someone were inside, or if someone outside might have heard the noise. I waited, waited, and waited, and then I crawled in, closing the window behind me.

The dogs had calmed down a bit but the parrot I had seen in the office the day before was somewhere croaking “I'm Henry the Eighth I am.”

There was plenty of light from the window. I was in one of the surgery/treatment rooms. I moved around the metal table in the center and went to the door. The door wasn't quite closed so I pushed it open slowly, carefully, and stepped into the hallway looking both ways. “Monks, monks, monks,” the parrot called and I followed his voice back into the building to a closed door. Even with the door closed I could tell from the smell that I had found what I was looking for. I opened the door and the barking and croaking started again.

“Shh,” I whispered. “Everything's okeydokey. No one's going to be operated on. Everyone's going to be fed.”

One massive German shepherd in the cage on my right didn't believe me. He rolled back his upper lip and showed some less-than-inviting teeth. The room was big, but the cages weren't full. It took no more than a few seconds to scan the cages and see there was no black Scottie.

My next step was going to be a look through Olson's papers. It would have been my next step if, when I turned, Anne Olson hadn't been standing there. Her hair was combed straight. He slacks were dark and her sweater white. Her eyes were also clear and sober and the gun in her hand was blue. She was color-coordinated.

“What are you doing?” she asked. Her voice quavered and quivered a little but it was a reasonable question.

“I came to return the suit,” I said. “Is mine dry?”

She shook her head no.

“Well,” I sighed, “then I'll come back some other—”

“That's not why you came back. You're looking for something. You killed Roy for something and now you've come back for it.”

“I didn't kill your husband,” I said. “If the police haven't told you that by now, you should figure it out yourself. Remember, the water was dripping? I ran up the stairs. How the hell fast could I have drowned him? And by the way, what happened to you last night? And since I'm asking questions, is your name Laura or Anne?”

The gun stayed on my chest and the parrot behind me cackled more about Henry the Eighth and monks.

Mrs. Olson said nothing.

“I came here looking for a dog,” I said, “a black Scottie. I think your husband took President Roosevelt's dog and brought him to California. I think that had something to do with his being killed. If I can figure it out, the police can figure it out and they will. I've got a deal to make with you. You put the gun away and tell me what you know about what your husband did, and I'll see that you get no trouble and a lot of credit for finding the dog.”

The gun stayed up as I smiled and held out my right hand. The bullet, which would have made a hole in it had I not slipped on something wet, pinged off the bar of the cage behind me and took off the head of the parrot in mid “monk.”

“Cut it out,” I shouted, backing away, trying to make myself heard over the animals, which had gone wild from the noise, my fear, and the feeling of sudden death.

The second shot took a piece of the ear of the German shepherd, who was nowhere near me. Anne or Laura Olson was now crying and shooting, her eyes full of tears and her finger not knowing what it was clicking off. I took the three or four steps toward her, grabbed her hand, and pulled the gun away. The one-eared shepherd managed to get its snout out and sink his teeth into Olson's pants. I pulled away hearing the tear and feeling the tug. The noise shivered through me as I reached behind the woman, opened the door, and pushed her through. I followed her and slammed the door closed behind us. It was better but not perfect.

“You're going to kill me now,” she sobbed. “That's what I get. I've never hurt anyone or anything in my life and this is what I get.”

I considered reminding her that she had just sent a bird to parrot heaven and created a funny-looking dog, but I let it pass. Instead I led her to the small operating room, where I found what looked like a clean cup and filled it with water for her.

She took the water in two hands and downed it in the same number of gulps.

“You're not going to kill me,” she said, looking up at me from the one chair in the room. “If you were going to kill me, you wouldn't give me water, unless you're some kind of sadist or you plan to torture me for some sick reason, or you want me to tell you something I don't know, or …”

“You want some more water?”

She shook her head no and went silent. Her right hand came up automatically to brush back her hair. I took the cup and touched her hand.

“I was drunk the other night,” she said.

“I didn't notice,” I answered. “You want your gun back, without bullets?”

“It was Roy's. I got it out of his office. I don't know much about guns,” she said.

“I wouldn't know it by the way you were mowing down pets in … I'm sorry.”

“I accept your apology,” she said with dignity, finding a handkerchief in the pocket of her slacks. “I didn't love Roy Olson.”

Since I hadn't asked, I nodded in sympathy.

“He was a friend of my father's back in Washington. It just happened. I'd been through a divorce and Roy was there and going to California and I wanted out. It was a mistake. Have you ever made a mistake?”

“Never,” I said. “Did you make a mistake with Bass?”

The shudder was real. “He's a … a … one of those things with no sex.”

“Politician,” I helped.

“No … you're joking.”

“I hope so,” I agreed. “What do you know about the dog?”

“He had a black Scottie when we came here,” she said, looking up at me and taking my hand. “But I never thought it was, what's his name, Fala. I still don't understand. Why?”

“That's what I want to find out. Do you know a friend of your husband's named Martin something?”

She stood up and seemed to be trembling a little more. “You think this Martin killed Roy.”

“Or Bass, or both,” I said.

“You didn't do it, then,” she said, stepping toward me.

“That's how we started this conversation. I didn't do it. All I want to do is find the dog. To do that, I might have to find out who killed your husband.”

“Could you come back to the house with me for a while,” she said, holding my hand. “I … I don't want to be alone in there, where he was killed. Whoever did it might come back. I thought it was …”

She put her arms around me and laid her head on my shoulder.

“You have a bad habit of not finishing your sentences,” I said, putting the gun on a nearby table so I could hold onto her and keep from toppling over.

“I wasn't completely drunk the other night,” she said. Her hair was in my nose. It was dark, clean, and smelted like some flower I couldn't place. “I don't see people, go anywhere. My husband never even wanted to make love.” Her head came back and her mouth was inches from mine.

“I've got to find a dog,” I said.