“I was just over at his place. He wasn’t there.” I started on my tuna sandwich. It had too much mayonaise, which is just how I like it.
“He’s working out down at Santa Monica,” she said. “This is the time every day. I thought you were his friend. You’re a friend, and you don’t know that?”
“I’m a business friend,” I said. “I work for M.G. M and I’ve got to reach him about a film he has. If I can find him fast, it could mean a big difference in his life. You know the name of the place in Santa Monica where he works out?”
She looked at me suspiciously, and I went on drinking my coffee without looking at her. I looked at my watch.
“I’ve got to be back at the studio with an answer tonight,” I sighed. “I’d sure like Barney to get this chance.”
“Cimaglia’s,” she said. “Cimaglia’s Gym on Main.”
I said thanks, forced myself to finish my coffee slowly, overtipped, and went out onto La Brea. There was a drug store on the corner. I went in and headed for the phone booth.
The first call was to Andy Markopulis at M.G.M. I described Grundy and told him Grundy was probably our man. He said he’d get the word to Woodman and Fearaven, who were still keeping an eye on Judy Garland.
Then I called my brother.
“Toby,” he said too calmly, “I’ve been looking for you. I’d like you to come over to my office for a little talk.”
“I’ll be over as soon as I make a stop,” I said just as calmly. “I know who killed Cash. He also killed another midget named Peese about an hour ago.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Toby,” Phil’s voice said slowly. “We’ve got a desk clerk who gave us a pretty good description of you. Seems you were in Peese’s room when he took the fall. A cop saw you, too. Now I remember you saying you were looking for a midget. I’d like to have the officer take a look at you. You mind coming down here?”
“I wasn’t in the room when he was tossed out,” I said. “I was on the sidewalk watching a woman spill her Chinese dinner. I’ve got a witness.”
“Fine,” said Phil, the familiar edge coming back. “You just come in here, and we’ll talk it over.”
“The killer is Grundy. Barney Grundy. Your witness who saw Wherthman talking to Cash on Friday. Grundy, Cash, and Peese were in something together, something to do with movies.”
“This town is running out of midgets,” said Phil. “It’ll be a lot safer for little people if you come in here. Now I’m getting tired of asking you.”
His voice was up to its familiar level of rage, and I was glad he didn’t know where I was.
“I’ll be right there,” I said.
“You’ve got thirty minutes,” he said, and hung up.
I looked up an address in the phone book, found my Buick, pulled into traffic, almost hitting a new Chrysler, and headed in the opposite direction of my brother’s office. Santa Monica wasn’t far, and I wanted to talk to Barney Grundy.
Cimaglia’s was a one-story white brick building a block or so from the beach on Main. This Main Street was not related to the Main Street where Peese had flopped until his sudden wealth. Los Angeles is a jigsaw puzzle of over 140 towns jammed next to each other. There are over 800 duplications of street names. After forty-four years I still got lost once in a while. Cimaglia’s didn’t look like a gym from the outside, but inside it looked like a training center on Krypton. Behind the small counter stood a guy about five-six. He was about fifty and built like a smaller version of Grundy. He wore a blue tee shirt over his muscles, and his black hair was cut short like a field of grass. He had a towel over his shoulder and identified himself as Cimaglia. Beyond Cimaglia was a big open room with about ten guys built like Grundy. Some were pumping chucks of iron on pulleys; others were lifting weights. There wasn’t much sound other than some panting and the clank of metal. Whatever they were doing, they were serious about it.
“What can I do for you?” said Cimaglia. I didn’t see Grundy among the grunters in the room.
“I’m looking for Barney Grundy,” I said. “I’m a friend of his, and he has something for me.”
“Left about five minutes ago,” said Cimaglia. “Didn’t stay long. Just did the weights.”
“Did he say where he was going?” I asked.
Cimaglia said no.
“Did he have anything with him?” I tried.
“Just his bag,” said Cimaglia, who saw something in the room beyond that he didn’t like, so he shouted, “Slower Rocco, slower! A lot slower.”
Cimaglia watched Rocco for about a minute, and when he was satisfied he turned to me.
“Wait,” he said. “Barney had something else with him. A big round tin box.”
“He brought it in here?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I think he left it in his locker.”
The locker room door was behind Cimaglia, and my mind moved fast. I had figured Grundy for a cool killer who had calmly thrown a man out of a window and then went to his favorite gym for a workout. It didn’t fit with the nervous killer who kept botching attempts on my life. Grundy had come to Cimaglia’s to hide the film he had taken. For some reason, possibly the fear that the cops or I might search the place, he hadn’t taken it back to his studio home. He probably didn’t trust anyone to hold it for him. A locker at Cimaglia’s would be a perfect place to put it.
The problem was getting into that locker.
“Thanks,” I said, turning for the door.
“Want to leave a message in case Barney comes back?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Tell him Peese is looking for him.”
“Will do,” he said, turning to watch Rocco.
There was a window in the outer door of Cimaglia’s, and from the street I could see the counter and Cimaglia looking back into the gym. I hung around for ten minutes, keeping an eye on Cimaglia and trying not to look too suspicious to the guy in the gas station who stared from across the street.
One of the muscle builders came out, and I said hello to him. He said hello back and headed down the street. I looked back through the window, and I could see Cimaglia moving into the gym. I went back in, holding the door so it wouldn’t make noise, and watched Cimaglia move to a far corner to show a sweating Hercules how to curl a bar of steel.
I moved along the wall near the door and ducked into the locker room. It was smaller than I expected. Just enough room for two benches and two rows of lockers. There was a toilet in the corner and a stall with two showers. The locker room was clean and empty with a few spots of water on the floor where someone had dripped after showering.
The lockers had pieces of adhesive tape on them and a name in ink on each piece of tape. Grundy’s locker was in the corner near the shower. I moved fast, not wanting to be caught in there, but I knew I had to deal with the lock. I put the barrel of my. 38 into the loop of the lock and tugged. Nothing much happened, but the top of the locker did give a little. I pulled again with one hand and got a few fingers into the space at the top of the locker. I pulled some more and wormed a few more fingers in. The locker snapped against my hand but I kept the space open. I put the. 38 away so I could have two hands working. In about twenty seconds I had worked up a sweat, but I had a good two-handed grip on the top of the locker.
The locker bent a little when I pulled. Luckily for me the lockers weren’t built for high security, just for privacy. I did my best to violate that privacy and finally did with a grunting tug that snapped the latch. The lock didn’t break, but the door banged open. It made a lot of noise. The can I was looking for sat on top of a pair of shorts behind an orange towel that had been drapped over it. I tucked the can under my left arm and stood up.
There was one door to the locker room. I had come in through it, and now Cimaglia stood in it. Behind him stood Rocco and there was another bulky body behind him.
“What’re you doing?” asked Cimaglia.
I was fresh out of lies. I pulled out my. 38 and pointed it at him. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Grundy stole this film,” I said. “Now I’m stealing it from him. If you want to take a bullet for someone else’s
