High Midnight

I almost tripped over Gelhorn when I found him leaning back against a tree, panting and looking downward, with his gun searching out rattlers in the dark. His curly hair was dangling in his eyes, and he seemed terrified.

“Give me the rifle,” I said, leveling my pistol at him.

“Get me out of here,” he pleaded, handing me the weapon. I took it and waved for him to follow me. I don’t know what made him think I was any better at saving us from snakes than he was, but I figured I was no worse.

“First,” I said, “you tell me everything about the High Midnight project.”

“He’d kill me,” said Gelhorn.

“I suppose that’s possible,” I agreed. “I’m not sure what I’d do in your place. Remember there’s a lunatic behind us with an ax, and we’re in a woods full of rattlesnakes. I’d say you have a more immediate problem than Lombardi. You’re headed for a nice safe jail cell.”

I couldn’t see Gelhorn’s face, but I could hear him trying to catch his breath. “Lombardi,” he said. “Told me his part in it had to be kept quiet. He had two conditions. I had to get Cooper, and Lola Fanner had to be in the picture. It seemed like such a great idea. It was my chance. I took some of his money and developed the script, started seeing people, worked on publicity …”

“You spent a pile of Lombardi’s money, and you found that you couldn’t deliver Cooper and you couldn’t give back the cash,” I said.

Gelhorn brushed a bush of hair from his face and agreed.

“What else?” I urged him on.

“They told him to drop the idea,” said Gelhorn.

“They?” I said, trying to locate Gelhorn’s face.

“The mob, the mafia, whatever it is,” squealed Gelhorn. “They didn’t want the movie made, didn’t want the publicity. They wanted Lombardi to keep a low profile. That was one of the conditions of letting him semi-retire to Los Angeles.”

An animal moved in the trees nearby, and Gelhorn sobbed.

“Then why did he …”

“He told them it would be all right. I heard him on the phone. He told them not to worry, that he would keep his name out of it, that they should trust him.”

“He wants to make movies and corned beef,” I said.

“That’s about it,” said Gelhorn. “Now will you get me out of here?”

“Who killed Larry the Hood?”

“I don’t know.”

“And Tillman?”

“Tillman?”

“The guy who was hired to pressure Cooper, to blackmail Cooper, threaten Cooper into making High Midnight,” I explained, trying to ignore the animal sounds that were scaring me almost as much as they were Gelhorn.

“I hired him, but I didn’t kill him.”

I grabbed Gelhorn’s arm and started to walk him in a direction I thought would get us out of the woods. I believed him, and that left me nowhere. When we got out of the real woods twenty minutes later, I was still in the woods about the two murders. We groped our way to my car and got in.

“My car’s over there somewhere,” Gelhorn said.

I threw his rifle in the back seat and told him he could send for it or pick it up when he got out of jail for attempted murder. Maybe pigs would wedge open the door and live in the car. Maybe birds would nest in it and rattlesnakes wend their way through the exhaust system. I didn’t much care.

I put the Buick in gear, got stuck backing out, tried again and finally got the car turned around. We made it to the main road in twenty minutes, and I turned toward Los Angeles.

“I’ve never had a break,” whimpered Gelhorn, pushing his bush of hair from his face. I glanced at him and saw that his cheek was splotched with dirt. He looked like a sulking kid whose mother wouldn’t give him a dime for the Saturday matinee all the kids were going to.

“You don’t just have breaks,” I said. “You make them. Some people can make them. Others spend their lives sitting around waiting for them.”

We didn’t stop to sleep, though I did go to an all-night diner where they thought Gelhorn and I were escaped lunatics. We both looked it. I got down two egg sandwiches with mayonnaise in six bites. Gelhorn had a chocolate donut and a cup of coffee. He ate only half the donut. I ate the rest.

From that point on we said nothing. I didn’t listen to the radio, and I didn’t hum, whistle or sing. I tried to think, but I was down on my list of suspects. Lombardi was the logical choice at this point … or maybe Lola … or Bowie or-who the hell knew?

It was a little after three in the morning on Saturday when we pulled up to the Wilshire District Station and got out.

“Holy crap,” bellowed the old desk sergeant, “what have you been wrestling, mountain lions?”

I didn’t answer but pushed Gelhorn ahead of me toward the stairs. The old desk sergeant shouted at us to stop, but I kept on pushing, and Gelhorn stumbled forward up the stairs. The squad room was almost empty. The cleaning lady from a few days earlier was at it again, or still at it. She looked at us as if we were more garbage she had to take care of.

At his desk in the corner, Seidman was asleep with his feet up. I prodded Gelhorn toward him as the desk sergeant came running in, gun in hand.

“Hey you,” he yelled, waking Seidman.

“I didn’t think you ever slept,” I said.

Seidman’s eyes cleared immediately, and he put his legs on the floor as he waved for the desk sergeant to be quiet. “It’s all right, Bert,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

Bert the desk sergeant put his gun away and went out, muttering and complaining about the lack of respect of the public for the police, though I could see no connection between the subject and what had happened.

“You’re under arrest,” Seidman said to me, rubbing his mouth and searching his drawers. He found what he was looking for: a toothbrush and a bottle of Teel tooth liquid.

“I’ve got answers coming,” I said. “Soon.”

Gelhorn found a desk and sat against it with his eyes down.

“When?” said Seidman quietly.

“Tomorrow; no later. Then I’ll come in whether I’ve got something or not. You want me to promise on my mother’s honor?”

Seidman smiled a terrible gaunt smile. “Who’s that?” he asked.

“Name is Gelhorn, a movie director. He and an actor named Mickey Fargo just tried to kill Gary Cooper. Cooper is bringing Fargo in. I think,” I said in a whisper, “you might want to ask them some questions about a hood named Lombardi.”

Seidman was writing notes without haste.

“Cooper’ll press charges against him and the other guy?” asked Seidman, getting up. His voice was down too to keep Gelhorn from hearing.

“I don’t know. He’ll probably bring Fargo in, but I don’t know if he’ll go for charges. Gelhorn and Fargo aren’t going to try it again, not when you and the police department know about them. Besides, they were so bad at it that I’m not sure what they did would constitute a serious attempt. They’re the ones who almost got killed.”

“Tomorrow?” asked Seidman.

“Cross my heart and spit three times,” I said.

“There’s a coat on the rack near the door left by an unknown client,” said Seidman. “Why don’t you take it and disappear? I’ll wait till morning to tell Phil.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You can get the gas chamber in this state for attempted murder,” I said to Gelhom as I passed him. “I’d tell them what they want to know about Lombardi.”

The desk sergeant looked over at me as I came down the stairs in the coat several sizes too large for me. It did cover my ragged clothes. His face indicated a clear distaste for me and the direction of crime I probably