High Midnight: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Six) (14 page)

We might still have been at the battle if Marco hadn’t found himself at Lola’s feet, following one of my better efforts at using my head as a battering ram.

“Don’t be apprehensive,” he told her and pushed his great body from the floor for another bruised charge at me.

“Hold it,” I shouted, trying to catch my breath. I held out both hands to hold him. He hesitated. “Why did
you
tell her not to worry?”

“I’m protecting her,” he said.

“From who?” said I.

“You,” he said.

The fear in Lola’s eyes was clear now. She was afraid of me, not Marco. I think I laughed. I know I groped my way to what was left of a chair. Marco picked up his gun and stood over me.

“What the hell made you think I wanted to hurt Lola?” I said.

“Mr. Lombardi said you maybe killed Larry and another guy and maybe you was planning to eradicate everyone in the Cooper movie, get them off Cooper’s back.”

“You thought I’d kill six or seven people just so Gary Cooper wouldn’t have to make a movie?” I laughed. “Who would kill for anything as—”

“Lots of guys,” said Marco, trying to button his shirt but unable to find the button I had chewed off. “I know guys have iced four, five other guys for less than five bills.”

“Right,” I said, thinking that Marco might be just such an icer. “But I told you I didn’t kill your brother-in-law, Larry? I didn’t even know his name and I don’t kill people.”

“I didn’t like Larry much,” Marco said, “but he was family and—”

“I know,” I stopped him. “What’s your wife going to say?”

“So?” he said.

“So Lombardi sent you to protect Lola from me?”

“You got it,” he said, finally finding a button and a buttonhole, though they didn’t quite match.

“Lola, you really thought …?” I smiled sadly, but it was clear that Lola really did think it was possible.

“You ever stop to think that maybe Mr. Lombardi had another reason for sending you to guard Lola with this bull-fiddle story about me? Maybe he just wanted to keep you busy, take your mind off finding out who stitched Larry?”

“Mr. Lombardi wasn’t culpable for Larry’s getting his,” Marco said, trying now to straighten his few strands of hair. We had broken the only mirror in the room, so he had to do it by feel. He managed to get two tufts up on the sides so that he looked like Porky the Devil. Then he pushed it back, but a crop of hair popped up in back, making him look like Tony Galento doing an imitation of Dagwood Bumstead. He was not a visually impressive mug, but he could throw a kidney punch with the best of them.

“Think about it,” I said.

Marco’s mind was not adapted to extended thought about much of anything. The idea of “thinking about it” seemed to cause him pain. He squinted to force the thought into action and gave it up.

“You’re pulling a fast one,” he said warningly.

“Suit yourself,” I said. “Lola, you have broken my heart. I thought we were music together.”

“Off-key,” she said protectively. I couldn’t tell if she was knocked-out drunk or shaky sober.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’m not after you.”

“Out,” Marco ordered.

“No,” Lola said hesitating. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

“You don’t initiate no orders,” Marco said in confusion. “I take my orders from Mr. Lombardi.”

“This is my apartment,” Lola rallied. “At least what’s left of it after you two played cowboys and Indians. You want to protect me, do it in the hall or downstairs.”

Marco was clearly confused. He couldn’t shoot the person he was supposed to protect. He could shoot me, but even he saw that it would get him nowhere. I wondered if he was still afraid of Los Angeles.

“You still in love with California?” I asked.

He snarled, plunked his gun in his holster and looked at Lola. “You’re making a singular mistake,” he said, pointing a hot dog finger at her.

“That’s my song,” she sighed, finally letting her feet touch the floor. She looked tired. “Go tell Mr. Lombardi I appreciate his consideration. It’s a real change from the memorable nights he tried to take me apart.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Marco repeated, looking at me suspiciously.

“Hey,” she said, standing on uncertain feet, “you’ve been a good fella. Don’t make me call the cops.”

Marco shrugged and went for the door. He stopped to think of another argument, but none came so he went out and slammed the door behind him.

“Well,” I said to Lola.

She said, looking around the room, “Christ, this place is a mess.”

“Sorry,” I said, rising and moving around to see if any Toby parts were broken or severely cut. My body told me that I had escaped with less than I would have falling down a high staircase.

“I suppose I should pack up and move out before the landlord sees what happened and tries to make me pay.” She picked up a lamp. It was a ceramic thing with a base shaped like a dragon. The dragon was now in two pieces. Lola held the two pieces, tried to fit them together, her mind on another planet.

I stepped forward and took the dragon halves from her, putting them down on the sofa. “Did you get any sleep?” I said, putting my arm around her.

“No,” she answered quietly, chewing her upper lip. Her eyelids sagged, and her voice was even more raspy than it had been before. She still held the smell of scented alcohol, and her hair filled my senses as she leaned into me. I wanted to cradle her, to look at her and try to sort out what I felt, what I wanted to protect. She was too wise and too innocent at the same time.

“I’ll put you to bed and sit out here while you get some rest,” I said, leading her to the only door in the room besides the one to the hall.

“You don’t have to,” she said, leaning into me as we walked, avoiding battle flotsam.

“I need a place to think,” I said, supporting her through the door.

The bedroom was little more than a large closet. I eased her into the bed and onto the pillow. She kept her arm around my neck and looked into my eyes.

“You are a homely creature,” she said, “but there’s something in those eyes.”

“Murine,” I said.

“Don’t wisecrack when the going gets serious,” she said, pulling me closer. “You’re a soft touch.”

Maybe she was right. I gave her a friendly good morning kiss, expecting her to lie back and dream, but she turned the kiss into something serious, opened up and held on till I eased next to her.

“Well?” she said, wavering between a confidence she once had with men and a quiver that said I might reject her for something she had become. What she didn’t know was that it was what she had become that brought me on the bed, not the tough girl that had started the whole thing.

Lola was warm and soft and tired. She was a wave, a soft wet wave and I floated on and in her. She was almost asleep when I finished but she managed a smile before she closed her eyes. I got up, covered her with a blue blanket and put my clothes on. Lola’s snoring didn’t bother me. In fact, I liked it. It was ironic. Lola had dreams of being a movie fantasy, a white-toothed, platinum creature with the sun behind her and Wolfgang Korngold music welling from the screen. She wanted to be a perfect fake. She was much more satisfying as an imperfect woman.

Since Lola was going to skip out on the apartment anyway, I didn’t think there would be anything wrong in my making a few phone calls. My first call was to my brother at the Wilshire station. They put me right through to him.

“Toby, you asshole,” he said, almost crushing his teeth. “Where are you?”

“Phil, let’s talk sense and talk fast. You having Seidman trace this call?”

“What do you think?” he said.

“You’re a cop,” I answered, trying to straighten up the room as I cradled the phone on my shoulder. “I didn’t kill that guy.”

“Which one?” he said wearily.

“The second one, both of them,” I said, looking around for a wastebasket and spotting a small one in the corner.

“I believe you,” Phil said. “Now, what do you want? I’m a cop, not God. I can’t say let’s just forget the whole thing and go out for chop suey.”

“Who was the guy?” I asked, trying to stretch the phone far enough for me to reach the wastebasket. I couldn’t, so I tried pitching smaller pieces of garbage into it.

I knew Phil would talk just to keep me on the line to trace the call. I also knew it would take at least five minutes for a trace, and Phil and I both knew that I wouldn’t be on long enough to allow that, but we had roles to play out.

“His name was Tom Tillman—small-timer, couple of arrests for extortion, one suspicion of murder,” Phil said. “A local. You didn’t know any of this?”

“No,” I said honestly, trying not to cut myself on slivers of mirror.

“You think you might come in here and explain the whole thing to me,” he said slowly, “so we can get working on it? The longer you stay out there, the worse it looks for you.”

“You mean if I come in with my hands up, you promise me a fair trial?”

“Jerk,” he hissed.

“And my old pal John Cawelti. You think he might get up a lynch party and rush the jail at night to string me up?”

“This isn’t Tombstone,” Phil shouted, finally losing what little temper he had left.

“Maybe it is,” I said over his heavy breathing.

“Get your ass in here now,” he shouted. I could imagine his face going to a purple-red like my father’s used to do in his infrequent rages. It was a rage like that that finally made his heart say the hell with it. I always thought it was ironic that a gentle man like my father should lose his life in a moment of anger. Maybe anger needs practice. It couldn’t just come once in a while. If that was true, Phil would live long.

“Phil …” I said, but he hung up. He had broken the rules. I considered calling him back. He had actually kept me on the phone for longer than I had planned, and I had almost forgotten the time. He wasn’t supposed to get angry and hang up. I was supposed to do it with a flourish.

With a patient operator and a lot of time, I made seven phone calls.

First, I reached Carmen at Levy’s and told her that I would pick her up at seven-thirty for the fights at the Hollywood Legion. I told her to come outside, where I’d pick her up. I didn’t think Phil knew about me and Carmen. Actually, there was nothing to know. If they wanted me badly enough, the police would eventually make the connection, but by the time they did that, I’d either have some answers or be wrapped up and ready for delivery to them.

Then I called Lombardi, Mickey Fargo, Gelhorn and Bowie, accused the first three of killing Tom Tillman and Bowie of knowing more than he’d told me. I insisted that they meet me at the Hollywood Legion at staggered intervals of fifteen minutes, starting at eight. It was worth a shot. My last calls were to Jeremy Butler, Gunther Wherthman and Shelly Minck. I asked each to be at the Hollywood Legion, to stay out of sight and to watch for me. At a signal each was to step out and be a witness when I confronted the confessed killer. None had a gun, but I didn’t think a killer would start blasting away in a crowded stadium.

There was no problem convincing Gunther. He simply said he would be there and asked no questions. Jeremy questioned the wisdom of the whole plan, reminding me of times in the past when my traps had turned into near-disasters for me.

“I know what I’m doing, Jeremy,” I said.

“Yes,” he agreed, “you are trying to get yourself killed. I’ll be there.”

Shelly was the toughest to convince. His excuses included: “Mildred wants me home to fix the oven”; “I have a sore toe”; and “My glasses are broken.” The thrill of playing detective had faded with the first corpse, but Shelly rose to the occasion and finally agreed when I threatened to turn him in to the dental society for malpractice.

There was a lot of time, and Lola was snoring pleasantly in the next room. I cleaned up, found some Quaker Puffed Rice and coconut juice. There was no milk so I poured the coconut juice on the cereal. It tasted pretty good. I ate and read the few pages of Lola’s newspaper that hadn’t been chewed up by massive Marco and me. The Japanese had bombed an Australian naval base, someone had caught a four-ton shark and the Frankie Carbo jury was deadlocked. Carbo was on trial for the killing of Harry “Big Greenie” Greenberg. More important than all of this was the fact that Sugar Ray Robinson had TKO’ed Maxie Berger in the second round of their fight in Madison Square Garden in New York. Somehow that reassured me that the world was still sane.

With a few hours to go, I looked in on Lola, who snored away. I found a razor in her bathroom, shaved and washed up. I looked presentable if I kept my jacket buttoned to hide the torn shirt.

I read a few pages of Lola’s copy of
Saratoga Trunk
, didn’t like it and turned on the radio. When Lola still wasn’t up at six-thirty, I kissed her forehead and went out.

Carmen was as reliable as California rain. Al Pearce was just coming on when she stepped out of Levy’s, her coat drawn around her shoulders. She looked big and strong and sure, even after a day of work; the reverse of Lola Farmer. I pulled up and got out of the car, looking around for cops, robbers, cowboys or Indians. The sun was dropping toward San Pedro when I opened the car door for Carmen.