'They are assembled,' she said.
She had something in her hand. I blinked. It was a small garden shovel covered with dirt.
'You've been reading,' she said, pointing the shovel at the pile of papers.
'And you've been planting,' I countered with aplomb.
'A garden is a lovesome thing,' she said, returning her shovel to parade-dress military position.
'I'll remember that,' I said, sitting up. 'Now if you'll…'
'I'm going downstairs,' she said, taking the yellow poultice from my hand. 'I'm brewing some hot mixed- berry saft and there is many an orange snail muffin remaining. Have you finished reading about Brother in Puerto Rico?'
'I have,' I said. 'Murryhill was an interesting character.'
Mrs. Plaut sighed and looked toward my window.
'I would have considered a marriage offer from him had he but importuned,' she said. 'Instead, Fatty Arbuckle and the Mister.'
'Fatty Arbuckle?'
But she had turned her back and exited. I got up, arranged Mrs. Plaut's manuscript on my little kitchen table, and put a box of dominoes on the pile. I had my pants and shoes on and was considering whether to wear the clean white shirt with the missing button, the not-so-clean blue shirt with the small salsa stain, or the fashionable off- white with the un-fashionably frayed collar. I took the off-white and was buttoning it when Dash leaped through the window.
'Wait'll I tell you about my day,' I said.
Dash seemed interested, but I was in a hurry. I opened the cabinet over the small refrigerator in the corner near the window and pulled out a can of Strongheart dog food. I had picked up a dozen cans by mistake and discovered that Dash liked the stuff.
Over my shoulder I checked the Beech-Nut clock near the door. Three-forty. I found the can opener while Dash sat back watching me.
'People are getting killed, Dash,' I said. ' Dash's pink tongue darted out and back while I poured the dog food into a bowl, tried not to smell it, and set it on the floor. Dash moved to the food and began eating.
'And killers are sending me poems about it.'
Dash slurped away at the Strongheart.
'Will you answer a question for me?'
Dash paused to catch his breath. I took that for a yes. He went on eating. — .
'Is it too late for me to grow up? I'm asking you this because the loony who's writing these poems may want to kill me too. And, I ask you, what will I have left behind if he kills me? A cat, a few friends, no money, a Crosley that should be turned in for scrap metal.'
Dash didn't care, but Mrs. Plaut, who had returned and opened the door without my hearing her, did have some ideas.
'First,' she said, ignoring my yelp of surprise, 'it is most assuredly too late for you to grow up for you have already done so. Second, I do not know what you will leave behind if Wendell Willke kills you. Actually, I think you must be seriously deluded to believe that Mr. Willke would have the slightest interest in you. But if you were to be hit by a Red Car on the Melrose line, I, though grieved, would request that one of your cronies take your cat.'
'You are always a comfort to me in moments of indecision and self-doubt,' I said.
'They are still waiting downstairs. They have consumed all of the remaining orange snail muffins, and the little fat one with the thick glasses and odious cigar has drunk one quart of saft and spilt another pint on the rug.'
'I didn't invite Shelly,' I said.
'And I hope you have not invited Keats or Byron,' said Mrs. Plaut. 'I am playing the 'Song of India' for those assembled, but while I am the gracious landlord, I always ask myself what the departed Mister would say in a situation.'
'What would he say?' I said, buttoning my shirt.
'Tell them to keep their feet off the furniture, including the hassock, and that minimal refreshments will be served this day.'
'I'm on the way down,' I said.
'You said that once before,' she said.
I took the box of dominoes off the manuscript, hoisted the tome in two hands, and handed it to her.
'Fascinating,' I said.
'And all of it a factual chronicle,' she said.
Far behind her, well beyond her doubtful hearing, someone shouted, then someone answered, then the shouting rose.
'I think we'd better get downstairs,' I said, moving past her.
Dash dashed between my feet into the hallway, and Mrs. Plaut mumbled to herself that the age of chivalry had gone to rest with the Mister.
I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth and hair, and looked at myself in the mirror. Mrs. Plaut's poultice was doing its job. The cut was clean, tight, small, and no longer discolored. I was ready for guests.
When I got to the day room, Shelly was standing in the center of the floor squinting through his bottle-bottom glasses at Gunther, who stood below him but didn't give an inch.
Jeremy sat on the sofa, arms folded, ignoring the confrontation and making notes on a pad. Next to him was Clark Gable, who sat, arms folded, shaking his head in disbelief. He was wearing a pair of worn khaki fatigue pants and an olive-colored long-sleeved shirt with a turtleneck.
Mame Stoltz sat on the Mister's rocking chair, reputed to have been the property of Mr. Abraham Lincoln's secretary of something or other. Mame was sleek, lean, hair short and dark, piled up to show her neck. She wore a gray blouse and matching skirt, with white pearls and plenty of makeup. She looked up when I came in and smiled.
'Toby,' she said. 'Landlady or no landlady, Clark and I are going to smoke.'
Gunther and Shelly continued to glare at each other. Shelly made a low growling sound.
'Is that what they're fighting about?'
'They're fighting about someone named Mildred,' Gable said, rubbing his forehead.
Without turning his gaze from Gunther, Shelly whined, 'He made remarks about my wife.'
'I said that Mrs. Minck bore no resemblance to Miss Stoltz,' said Gunther, who looked at me seriously.
'Mildred is a Venus compared to her,' Shelly said.
I glanced at Mame, who was playing with an unopened pack of Old Gold's.
'Mrs. Minck is of no anatomical distinction,' Gunther insisted. 'Physiological comparisons are of the most superficial kind.'
I tended to agree with Gunther but I knew that folly and defeat lay in pursuing it with Sheldon, who had an unexplained loyalty to Mildred who vaguely resembled Marjorie Main on a bad day. Mildred had once run off with a Peter Lorre imitator and when he was dead returned to Shelly and took all the money the beachball of a dentist had hidden in an old vase.
'Shelly,' I said, going for the idea that a strong offense would obscure the argument, 'what are you doing here?'
This got his attention and he turned to me somewhat sheepishly while Gunther moved to Mame's side. Seated in the rocker, Mame was about the same height as Gunther, a mating made in Hollywood heaven.
'I heard that we were meeting. Jeremy said…'
'I did not,' Jeremy said without looking up from his pad.
'Sit down, Shelly,' I said.
'But that little…'
'Down, now, Sheldon,' I said.
'I'm not apologizing,' Shelly said, looking for a chair and finding a wooden one in the corner. 'No. He'll apologize.'
'Fine,' I said, 'let's…'
'But I will apologize to Mr. Gable,' Shelly said, standing next to the chair.
