I grunted and got up when she left. In a few minutes I was dressed. Before I went into the living room, I took another one of Shelly’s just-in-case pain pills and gulped it down with tap water in Cassie’s pink bathroom. There was better behavior for a bad back than what I was doing.
We had dinner in a corner of the living room next to a window where we could see the moon and the coast. We ate steak and corn on the cob, and there was plenty of it. We both had a beer and talked about nothing.
“Ever married?” I said, when we had put the dishes away.
“Once, for a short time, a long time ago. You?”
“Once,” I said, “for a long time, until a short time ago.”
There didn’t seem much else to say on the subject. We talked about Judy Garland. I told my life story, making myself look as tough as possible. She gave me a little about her life, but not much more than she had before. We talked about Hoff and made jokes about his first-naming and changes in personality, and I told her about my meeting with Mayer. She had never talked to Mayer, nor been in his office in the years; she had worked in the studio. She’d begun with M.G.M. shortly after she had come from Texas. Her career as an actress had passed after a few years, and she had devoted herself to her actress sister. When the sister died, Cassie had plunged into costume design and had done well as an assistant. She didn’t talk about men, but I was sure she would have if I’d asked.
Somewhere after eleven she said she had to get to bed alone because she had to be at the studio at six. We kissed and I started to prolong it, but she pushed me away gently with the promise of more in the future.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I said.
“I’ll be waiting,” she said, and I strode out to my Buick as if it were an armed charger.
When I got back home I felt confident about killing any dragons that might want to break into my castle. Besides, the dragon who was trying to kill me was a lousy shot. I was confident, but not stupid. I put my sofa in front of the door, kept the bathroom light out, and put the gun under my pillow. My back felt great.
I dreamed Roosevelt was campaigning in Munchkinland, promising to keep wicked witches out. A couple of Munchkins with long knives crept up behind him as he talked. The other Munchkins and Glinda, the good witch, saw the tiny killers but said nothing. It was up to me to save the President. I tried to run forward, but my back was too sore. I tried to shout, but nothing came out. I watched in helpless horror. Glinda, looking very much like Cassie and dressed in solid red, took me in her arms and comforted me. It felt good, and I felt guilty as hell.
6
Screw Chiquita Banana. I always kept my bananas in the refrigerator. They turned brown and looked like hell, but they lasted longer. I found one survivor behind a jar of grape jelly. Ignoring the color, I sliced it into little pieces and sprinkled it on top of my bowl of Wheaties. Then sugar and milk. Top with a cup of Hill’s or Chase and Sanborn, and you have the Peters gourmet breakfast, which is just what I had that Monday morning while I read the newspaper. The previous tenant hadn’t cancelled his subscription, and once in a while I got up early enough to grab the paper before a neighbor stole it. Today was such a day. I put my back to the wall of my little alcove kitchen, placed my. 38 on the table in front of me, and read while I ate.
An eight-column headline said the presidential election would be the closest since 1916. I tried to figure out who had run in 1916. It was too late for Lincoln and too early for Hoover. Gallup indicated that the Willkie trend was running strong.
With a fresh shirt on my back, a relatively clean tie around my neck, memories of Cassie James in my mind, another day’s pay coming from M.G.M., a back free from pain, and hope in my future, I stepped out of my door and into a puddle of mud. I fell on my ass. I had slept through a late season rain during the night.
A change of clothes put a new suit on my back and a wary look in my eye when I stepped out of the same door ten minutes later. The gods had warned me not to be such a smart ass about the future, and I read the warning.
John Franklin Peese’s address on Main near Jefferson was a long walk from my place, but it could be walked. I drove and made it in less than ten minutes. It was one of those typically dingy neighborhoods that surround most downtown areas of big cities. I knew the area well; my office was a few blocks away. I parked in a garage on Broadway and walked back. Normally, I would have parked on the street, but with no windows that was asking for a stripped or missing car in this neighborhood.
Main was a busy downtown street, one of the busiest, with fat buildings and restaurants. In this area there were nickel hot dog stands and flop houses.
I stopped in front of 134 Main. It was a flop. The sign read: BEDS 15 CENTS, ROOMS 35 CENTS, HOT AND COLDWATER. Next door to the flop was a nickel movie house which boasted all seats for five cents. “Big Show. Little Price.” One sign said there were five pictures. Another sign said there were six. A poster showed Tom Tyler with a gun in his right hand and a girl in his left looking up at him. Tom was all in black and the picture was The Feud of the Trail. The nickel show also promised the first chapter of a Ken Maynard Western, Mystery Moun tain. A guy in a milkman’s suit with a thin jacket over it tilted his white cap back and studied the posters. I stood next to him wondering who it would hurt if I spent the day in the dark.
The milkman went in, but I didn’t follow him. I went into the flop house. It took about thirty seconds to adjust from the light to the dusty darkness of a lobby of forty-watt bulbs.
The forty-watters were a good idea. They saved the management money, and they made it hard to see the lobby. The lobby was small and decorated in early 20th century junk. It was the kind of place in which Shelly Minck picked up most of his trade, and his trade picked up most of its diseases.
When my eyes adjusted to the dim yellow light, I went to the desk. I passed a guy sitting in one of the two lounge chairs in the lobby. I didn’t give him a second look, but I held him in mind. He was too damn well-dressed to be sitting around in the morning in a place like this. It was a warm day, and the parks were free. On a day like this even a bum knew enough to hike the few blocks to Exposition Park.
The guy behind the desk was wearing a ratty sweater and a jacket. His nose was running. He had a cold, and I didn’t want to get too near him. It might not be a cold. He was bald with big freckles on his scalp. His chest was caved in as if he had taken one big cough and had never recovered. His belly flowed out and he could have been any age for 25 to 50.
“My name’s Peters,” I said quietly and seriously. “I’m involved in an investigation, and I’d like to have some information on one of your tenants.”
He blew his nose on a dirty handkerchief, pushed the handkerchief into his trouser pocket, and looked at me with moist eyes.
“Mr…?” I tried again.
“Valentine,” he said. “I only use one name.”
“Like Garbo,” I said.
“She’s got another name,” he said. “I only use the one.”
“You in show business?” I said.
“No,” he sneered. “Who you want to know about?”
“Peese,” I said. “John Franklin Peese.”
“Don’t recall him,” said Valentine, retrieving his handkerchief.
“You can’t miss him,” I said softly, overcoming my repulsion and leaning toward him. “He’s only about three feet tall.”
Valentine gave a good blow and seemed to be thinking about people three feet tall.
“Who’s the night man?” I asked.
“I am,” he said. “I don’t leave here. Sleep back there.” He pointed to a door behind him.
“Look in your book,” I said wearily.
“You ain’t a cop,” he said, turning away.
“Three bucks,” I said.
“Five,” he said.
“Good-bye,” I said.
“Wait,” he said.
