“She won’t believe you,” said Sheldon Minck, angrily attacking his patient s mouth. The wretched woman whimpered.
“I know how to handle Mildred,” I said, loading the gun. The patient in the chair was watching me through her suffering, and I couldn’t tell if the fear in her eyes was resulting from seeing me load a gun or pain from Shelly’s attack.
“You can’t handle Mildred,” he said. “She doesn’t like you, doesn’t believe a thing you say. She says you’re a bad influence on me.”
“She wants you to play with the other kids,” I sympathized. “The ones from the right side of Figueroa.”
“Something like that,” Shelly said, going at the woman again, who groaned.
“What are you doing to her?” I asked with mild interest.
“Cleaning her teeth,” said Shelly, pausing to wipe his sweating forehead and relight his dead cigar.
“How dirty are they?” I said.
“So-so,” he countered, tossing the frubble-squeezer in the general direction of the sink and missing. The frubble-squeezer bounced onto the floor, and Shelly ignored it.
“We’ll talk about it later, Shel,” I said.
“Sure,” said Shelly sullenly. I left and went down the stairs two or three at a time. Alice Palice of Artistic Books, Inc., was in the hall on the third floor, arguing with a couple of men in the shadows. They seemed angry. I hoped for their sakes they didn’t get too angry.
Jeremy stood when I got to the step he was working on.
“These are good steps,” he said, “but no creation of man can withstand man’s own determination to destroy the artifacts of his culture. In Europe people still live in adequate houses built five hundred years ago. Here we marvel if a building stands seventy years. We are a wasteful society.”
He gathered his pail and brush and walked with me down the stairs. We deposited the cleaning things in a janitor’s closet and started out the front door. The street was crowded with Saturday-morning shoppers. Pulling into a space half a block away was a police car. Cawelti jumped out. Jeremy and I backed into the Farraday lobby before he could spot us. I nodded toward the rear and Jeremy followed me, moving more quickly and quietly than I did, though he outweighed me by almost a hundred pounds.
We went out the back door and through the alley. At the corner we turned right on Wilshire while I told Jeremy my plan and asked him to stay near his office phone. I might need some reliable help with little notice. He agreed, and I told him what I knew as we walked through Westlake Park. We sat for a few minutes under the eight-foot nude black-cement Prometheus, who held out his torch and globe.
“That was erected by Nina Saemundsson for the Federal Art Project in 1935,” Jeremy said, looking up at the statue with admiration. “An underappreciated work. There is also a magnificent mural of Prometheus by Jose Orozco in Fray Hall at Pomona College in Claremont. It shows a huge Prometheus holding up the sky with small, gaunt people encouraging him.”
I looked at the statue, pretending to share his admiration for Prometheus. My mind was on real bodies, not myths.
“The cost of bringing truth to men is often pain and eternal suffering,” said Jeremy the poet, looking toward the playground in the distance. “I have a poem that might help you,” he said, turning to me and putting a hand on my shoulder. “You want to hear it?”
I said sure. What else do you tell a 270-pound former wrestler with hairy arms thicker than radiators? He recited quietly:
There is no end but death.
We look for start, middles and end
to give our lives a diameter
controllable limits that send
us a feeling of security,
suggest an order
that is not there.
If there is a border,
we create it; and sense
is just a matter
of whose story sings
and whose song
you remember the melody of.
“Nice,” I said, having, as always, understood none of it.
“It will be published in the Gregory Press 1943 edition of new poets,” he said proudly.
“I’ll look forward to it.” I shook his hand and remembered when I did that in spite of his strength, his shake was firm and gentle. When you have the touch and are really confident of it, you don’t have to prove it. I would have liked Hemingway to shake Jeremy’s hand.
I stayed away from Hoover to be sure I didn’t accidentally run into Cawelti on the prowl. Schoenberg let me use his phone to call Carmen at Levy’s.
“Levy’s,” she answered.
“Carmen,” I said weakly, “is that you, Carmen?”
“Toby,” she said with anger touched with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Police after me,” I panted. Schoenberg, who was a sagging man in his sixties with a sagging tailor’s lip, stared at me over the pair of pants he was sewing. “Thursday at the fight I was kidnapped by Fascist spies. I’m working on a secret case. If I had gone back in the stadium for you, it might have involved you, and I couldn’t do that.”
“I thought you …” she began.
“No, never,” I said. “I’ll explain when I get this case wrapped up. Trust me. Got to hang up now. I hear them coming.” I hung up.
“Take off that coat,” said Schoenberg, “and I’ll sew it good like new.”
“No time,” I said.
“It offends me esthetically as a tailor,” he said with a heavy Yiddish accent. “I’ll do it for free.”
Five minutes later I was back in my Buick and headed for Santa Monica. The day was warmer, and the radio told me my time was running out. I’d promised Seidman that I’d turn myself in, killer or no killer, sometime today. Officially, today ran till midnight. I took Santa Monica Boulevard, Route 66, and tried to think out my dialogue with Lombardi.
Ann, the former Mrs. Toby Peters, had once said that my greatest drawback was my inability to plan ahead, even when not doing so might be dangerous to life and limb. While I had to agree with Ann that it was a shortcoming, I couldn’t rank it at the top. To give her credit, she was constantly changing the item to top the list of the major drawbacks of life with Toby Peters. Just before she walked out for the first, last and only time, we agreed that the list of my faults, if published, would rival the Greater Los Angeles telephone directory in volume.
So I headed for a confrontation with Lombardi in the hope that the right words would come when the time came. It was my style, and I accepted it. It was a simple plan which had seen me through life but done my body no great good. Step one, plunge yourself in and make your opponent angry. Step two, provoke him or her a little more. Step three, hope they respond to prove you were right. (Parenthetical remark to step three: hope you survive the attack.) Step four, set up a trap so you nail them. I knew there were smarter ways to work, but a man gets into habits and learns to live with them and even savor them. This was the patented Toby Peters method. I could open a school and teach it: a half-day course in being a private detective.
I remembered a line from Jeremy’s poem and asked myself, “Whose song do you remember the melody of?” The music to “Over There” popped into my head. It was my father’s favorite song, along with “The Bird in the Gilded Cage.” I sang them both on the way to Lombardi’s and finished when I pulled into the now-familiar parking lot.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
