No answer from me.
“I see. You think I might be …”
“It’s easier not to tell you and not to have to think about it, especially when you owe me five hundred bucks. One more thing.”
The pink-faced night clerk came over to the open booth, bearing a white mug filled with steaming coffee. I nodded and took it gratefully. She looked pleased.
“What?”
“Taylor wants twenty-five thousand dollars by tomorrow to return the last clock and the last painting. Can you get it and give it to Gunther when he comes?”
I took a sip while he thought about it. The coffee was bitter, strong, with grounds at the bottom. It was just what I needed.
“Cash?”
“Cash.”
“I can’t believe Taylor … I’ve got that much in the house. I’ll give it to your dwarf when he comes. I’ll want a receipt.”
“He’s a little person, not a dwarf.”
“I’m sorry,” said Zeman. “I don’t know the protocol. I know …”
“… cars,” I finished. This was deteriorating into the same conversation I’d had with Taylor. “Since you’ve got cash around, give the five hundred you owe me to Gunther in a separate envelope. Still think Salvador’s a good investment?”
“Yes,” he said. “You want to know what you should do with that five hundred?”
“What?”
“American Bantam. Out of business. Making Army vehicles now. You can pick up any one of the 1941 line for about three hundred. They’ll be worth thousands in twenty years, maybe ten.”
“Thanks.” I hung up.
Then I called Jeremy. Alice answered.
“I woke you,” I said, looking at my father’s watch, said it was nine, which was a lot closer than it usually got. I figured the time for two or three in the morning.
“No,” she answered. “Jeremy was reading to me. He just finished a new poem. I’ll get him.”
I was down to the thick grounds at the bottom of the cup. The pink-faced clerk seemed to sense it and appeared next to me, gesturing with the tilt of an imaginary cup to her lips. I nodded yes and handed her the cup.
“Toby,” said Jeremy. “I just finished a poem I’d like you to hear.”
I was about to ask the man to leave his work, his wife, and his baby to drive a lunatic painter’s wife to Carmel. The least I could do was listen to his poem. “Go ahead,” I said. And he did:
“I like it,” I said.
“What did you feel?”
“Sorry for the insurance man,” I said.
“Yes,” said Jeremy. “Yes.”
I told Jeremy what I needed. He listened, then asked if I really felt this was essential. I said it was and he agreed. I thanked him, hung up, and dialed Mrs. Plaut’s, wondering if I felt sorry for the insurance man for the same reason Jeremy did.
Mr. Hill answered the phone and told me that he had to be up in two hours to get to the post office and sort his mail. I told him I was sorry, that it was an emergency.
“Nice New Year’s party,” he said.
“Nice party,” I agreed, and he went to get Gunther.
“Toby?” asked Gunther in a voice coated with sleep.
“Gunther, I need a favor.”
I explained and he readily agreed to pick Dali up and take him to my room.
“Gwen had to go back to San Francisco for a few days,” he explained.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Just a few days,” he reminded me in his Swiss accent, which to too many people sounded suspiciously Germanic.
“I appreciate this, Gunther,” I said.
“I have not always appreciated Senor Dali’s insensitivities,” he said, “but I am intrigued by his art. It should be most interesting.”
“Thanks, Gunther,” I said and hung up.
I had one more call to make, but I wanted to think about it for a few seconds. The counter woman came back with the second cup of coffee.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Glad to,” she said. “Slow at night. Most nights. I’d close it up but my son, it’s his store. My husband and I take turns nights till Miles gets back from the war.”
“Army?”
“Marines,” she said with a big smile. I could see both pride and fear in it.
“It should be over soon,” I said.
“Admiral Halsey, Bull Halsey, says we’ll have the war won by 1943.”
“He should know,” I said.
“Commander of the South Pacific Force of the Pacific Fleet,” she said. “He should know. Want something to eat?”
“I don’t want you to …”
“I like the company,” she said brightly.
“Got cereal?”
“Just Wheatena left.”
“Sounds great.”
As she bustled back to the lunch counter, I dropped my next nickel and called the Wilshire District Police Station. I didn’t have to look up the number.
“Briggs?”
“Sergeant Briggs, right,” came the Irish-accented voice.
“This is Toby Peters. Someone just stole my gun.”
“Stole your gun,” he said flatly. “You got a story to go with this? Some bullshit. Things are slow here and I could use a tale or two.”
“Someone broke in my car, took it out of my glove compartment. I’m reporting it. I was parked on Santa Monica near La Cienega. Happened about four hours ago. I just noticed it when I went to lock it up at home.”
“Maybe the Japs took it. Or those Fifth Col-youmnists.”
“Could be. You want the serial number? I’ve got it right-”
“I’ll get it off the records,” he said. “But you’ve got to come in and fill out the papers. You know.”
“Can it wait till morning, late?”
