The Devil Met a Lady (18 page)

“You smell like puke,” Stevens said.

“Flattery won’t make the offer better,” I said, putting the paper down.

“What offer?”

“Tell me where Jeffers and Wiklund have Bette Davis,” I said. “And you walk with two hundred bucks.”

Up close across the table in morning sunlight, Stevens didn’t look quite as young or as stupid as he did at night.

“Two hundred dollars,” he said, rubbing his chin as if he were considering the offer.

“And you walk,” I said.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

“Good. You talk. I pay.”

“I need a toilet first,” said Stevens, standing as Rusty the waiter clanked down two cups of coffee.

“By the door where you come in,” said Rusty the waiter.

“I saw,” said Stevens, moving behind me.

I drank my coffee. It wasn’t bad. Rusty hovered over the table, waiting for my reaction.

“Good, Rusty,” I said. “How’s it look?”

“He’s going for the door now,” he said.

I drank more coffee without looking back over my shoulder. I heard the door close gently, but I didn’t look up or back.

“Now?”

“Cab coming down Spring. He’s waving him down.”

“Driver?”

“Little fat guy, bald, thick glasses, cigar,” he said. “He’s gettin’ in.”

“Got any bananas to go with the Wheaties, Rusty?”

“We got bananas, Toby.”

“They gone?”

“Cab’s gone,” Rusty said, moving back toward the kitchen.

I finished the
Times
slowly, ate my Wheaties, left Rusty a ten-buck tip, as we had negotiated over the phone two hours earlier, and headed for my office.

I parked in an illegal space, hanging over into the crosswalk on Hoover. I had a fifty-fifty chance of making it through an hour or two without a ticket. It was worth the risk, considering my condition.

I took the elevator and listened to the sounds of the Farraday—the wails, cries, laughs, even something that sounded like a snore. Since Shelly was out driving a hack he borrowed from one of his patients who owed him for bridge-work, I had to use my key to get into the office.

Something didn’t feel right. The lights were off and the sun was coming through the windows. The sink was full and old dental journals were piled on the white painted-metal dental chair in the center of the room. It should have felt normal.

My office door was open. Dash came running out and stopped in front of me to meow in complaint, which I read as either: (a) I’m hungry as hell, (b) what the hell happened to you last night? or (c) something funny’s going on here and you are about to find out.

All three were right.

Sergeant John Cawelti of the Los Angeles Police Department stepped into the doorway of my office. His thin red hair was parted down the middle. His pockmarked face was beaming with approaching victory. He adjusted his blue tie and said, “I can’t make up my mind if you smell worse than you look.”

“Take your pick,” I said, not moving.

He took a step toward me. “I go for fragrant,” he said. “Come on into your office and we’ll have a talk.”

He backed out of the way and motioned toward the open door. Dash let out a warning meow, but it was too late. I moved past Cawelti into my office and went around the desk. Dash just made it in as Cawelti closed the door. I sat slowly, carefully.

“Nice picture,” he said, nodding at the Dali on the wall.

“Me and Phil,” I said.

“Nice.” Cawelti sat back and folded his hands.

“You booking me, John?”

He shook his head no as Dash jumped onto the desk, sending a pile of bills floating to the floor. “County attorney’s office says there’s enough to pull you in on suspicion of withholding information on a murder, but not enough to hold you for the deed,” he said. “Could haul you for littering, taking the name of the Lord in vain, abetting a suspect to jump bail.”

I reached over to rub Dash’s head. He did me a favor and allowed me to scratch. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t look at the phone that was now ringing.

“Matthew Stevens,” Cawelti said. “Lockup a few hours ago. You posted for him. You wanna answer that?”

I picked up the phone.

“Toby?” asked Shelly Minck.

“Yes,” I said, watching Cawelti’s green eyes.

“It was great,” Shelly said. “He had no idea. My Brooklyn accent took him in.”

“Terrific,” I said, smiling.

“You know where this guy wanted to go?” asked Shelly.

“Panama,” I said.

“Panama?”

“How should I know where? You were driving.”

“I’m doing you a favor here, Toby,” Shelly said, turning sullen.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Cawelti sat forward, eyes narrowing.

“Well …”

“Can you just give me the information?” I said. “I’m having a conversation here in my office with an old friend, John Cawelti.”

“The cop who …”

“Yes,” I said. “Now if you’ll just …”

“Who’s on the other end, Peters?” asked Cawelti, getting up out of his chair and leaning toward me.

“Nice place,” said Shelly. “Coldwater Canyon. Up on a hill.”

He gave me the address just before Cawelti ripped the phone from my hand.

“Who is this?” he demanded.

I don’t know what Shelly answered, but it didn’t please Cawelti, who slammed the receiver down and leaned toward me, both palms flat on the desk. His face was turning red but he was smiling through.

“I owe you, Peters,” he said, thumping a forefinger into my sore chest. “I owe you. You made an ass of me more times than you’ve got hair up your ass. Your brother kept me from ripping you before, but your brother has other things on his mind now and it’s just you and me.”

“John,” I said, rising. “I’m really enjoying this conversation. We should take more time to get together, air our feelings, exchange recipes, but I’ve got places to go.”

Cawelti just shook his head.

“I don’t have places to go?” I asked.

“Not places you want to get to. You’re hurting, Peters. You could hurt a lot more. I’m a fair man. Ask anyone on the street. Hard, maybe, but fair. You tell me what the hell is going on, who you’re working for, and what you know about the Niles killing. Tell me and tell me straight, and you walk without me putting a hand on you.”

Cawelti stood away from the desk and showed me his palms. “My word on it,” he said.

“Bygones are bygones,” I said, moving around the desk and giving Dash a final head scratch.

“Let’s not go that far,” he said. “I’ll let you walk without more pain and I’ll live and let live unless you cross me. Something big’s going on. I know it. I feel it. I need it, Peters.”

I was face to face with Cawelti now, and there was something Irish, wild and dancing, in his green eyes.

“I’ve got nothing to tell you, John,” I said.

He put his hand on my shoulder and found another sore spot. It didn’t take much of a search. It could have been worse but it was bad enough.

“Reconsider, Toby.”

He let go of my shoulder and tapped a finger against my chest. It took him almost no time to find the broken rib. My face gave me away.

“You understand where we are here?” he asked softly.

It is not a good idea to hit a cop, even if the cop is Cawelti. It can get you some bad jail time. Worse, it can get you a beating or a bullet in the stomach, but I still gave the idea some fast, serious thought. A knee to the groin, a good right to the belly, and I had a better than even chance of getting as far as the hallway, but there was no way short of breaking his legs that I’d get out of the Farraday.

Something creaked beyond my office door. Cawelti didn’t hear it, but I hoped it was the cavalry.

“John,” I said, raising my voice. “Since we’re alone here and I don’t see how anything I could say would make it worse, let me tell you that you and I have very little chance of being buddies. I know that hurts, but all you have to do is look at your face in the mirror to figure out that you do not light up a room when you enter. Now, I’m doing my best here to kiss and make up. If I’m not getting through, just give me a few pointers.”

I did not like Cawelti’s smile or his hand grabbing my belt.

I did like the knock at the door.

“Come in,” I said.

“Get out of here,” shouted Cawelti.

The door opened and my brother’s partner, Steve Seidman, stepped in. That about did it for my office. Three people were definitely a crowd.

“Get out, Seidman,” said Cawelti. “This is my case.”

Seidman paid no attention. “Phil wants you at the hospital, Toby,” he said. “Ruth’s not doing so good.” Then he turned to Cawelti, who still held my belt. “That is,” said Seidman, “if it’s all right with you, John.”

Cawelti’s hand was shaking as he let go. I staggered half a step back to keep from falling. Dash purred behind me and leapt onto my desk to get a better view of the action.

“Take him,” he said. “We’ll talk later.”

I went out in front of Seidman. “You coming, John?” I asked, not wanting to leave him alone with Dash. “I’d like to lock up the office.”

“I’ll be along,” said Cawelti, leaning against my desk.

“Citizen wants to lock his office, Sergeant,” said Seidman.

“Well, then, Lieutenant,” Cawelti said, following us into Shelly’s office, “I think I better come back again soon.”

“You do that,” I said. “We’ll always have a pot brewing for you.”

I went with Seidman in his car, a dark Buick with leg room.

“How bad is she?” I asked.

Seidman shrugged. “They need blood. Phil gave. Says you’ve got Ruth’s type.”

We rode the rest of the way without talking. I checked my father’s watch once or twice without thinking and got no information. I kept repeating the address Shelly had given me in Coldwater Canyon and wondered if I’d have time to get there before Jeffers, Wiklund, and Stevens decided to take Bette Davis somewhere else.

When we got to the hospital, I checked the lobby clock over the visitor’s desk. It was almost noon. In half an hour I was supposed to call Arthur Farnsworth.

Seidman led me into a room off the emergency entrance. A young doctor in white hurried over to us. “Blood transfusion,” Seidman said, nodding at me.

The kid doctor looked at me and said, “He should be lying down. I’ll have to check on the blood supply and donors. Who’s your doctor?” He adjusted his glasses and tried to guide me to a wheeled hospital cart.

“He’s not getting blood. He’s giving it,” Seidman explained.

“He doesn’t look very well,” said the kid.

“But he’s still alive,” I said. “And if you have any more questions, you can point them toward me and my blood. Ruth Pevsner in 310.”

“You’re the brother-in-law?” he asked.

“Right.”

“We’ve been trying to find you. Lie down. Let’s get this moving. I’ll have a nurse prep you and get you up to the room.”

Seidman stood back while the kid doctor stepped back and whiffed the air.

“Me,” I said.

“I know,” answered the doctor, moving to the door. “Anders Poultice. Great stuff. Haven’t smelled it or seen it used since I was twelve, back in South Carolina. Brings back memories of my grandmother.”

“My mission in life,” I said.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

I
sometimes feel that I spend about a third of my waking time on the phone and another third on my back, a solid part of that in hospitals.

When I finished giving blood for Ruth, I got up and wobbled to the telephone in the emergency-room waiting area. The waiting room was empty except for a skinny kid about thirteen in a baseball cap, looking at a Big Little Book in a chair right in front of the phone. It was almost a quarter to one. Seidman had gone up to the third floor to be with Phil. I had told him I’d be up in a few minutes.

“You making a call?” the kid asked. I could see that the Big Little Book was
Skeezix on His Own in the Big City
, complete with flip pages. I could also see that the kid’s baseball pants were rolled up and that both legs were in casts.

“Yeah.”

“My mom’s calling me back on that phone to pick me up.”

“I won’t take long.”

“Fell off the back of a pop truck,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Broke both legs,” he went on.

“Tough break,” I said. I dropped my nickel in the slot, dialed Farnsworth’s number, and waited half a ring before he picked up the phone.

“Mort and Walker Cooper signed with the Cards,” said the kid. “You know that? Brother battery. Ain’t that somethin’?”

“Sure is,” I said, and then Farnsworth’s voice came over the line.

“Yes?”

“Peters.”

“You’re late,” he said.

“I’m here now,” I said. “Where and when?”

“They want me to bring the plans and the record to the Hollywood Bowl at six tonight.”

“Don’t go,” I said.

“They said …”

“I’ll be there,” I said, watching the kid flip pages of his book. “Besides, I’ve got a lead. I may be able to get your wife back before six o’clock.”

The kid looked at me and the phone.

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’ll get back to you when I can.”

I hung up and looked at the kid, who was trying to scratch under the top of his cast with a lead pencil.

“Itches,” he said. “You okay? You look …”

“I’ll live,” I said. “Take care of yourself.”

The kid didn’t answer. He flipped the corners of his
Skeezix
book and half closed his eyes.

Phil and Seidman were waiting outside Ruth’s room. Phil had lost his tie or shoved it in his pocket. His jacket was buttoned one button off and he needed a shave. Seidman leaned against the wall and watched.

“How is she?” I asked.

Phil ran a thick hand through his bristly gray hair and shrugged.

“They think she’ll make it,” he said. “Thanks for the blood. Doctor says …”

A hefty nurse came out of Ruth’s room and examined us through blue horn-rimmed glasses. “One of you named Toby?” she asked, looking at us as if she wished the answer would be no.

“Me,” I said.

“She wants to see you,” said the nurse.