“Charles, you’ll lunch with Mr. Wherthman, Dr. Minck, and me,” said Stokowski. Sounded like a generous offer, but I had the feeling Gunther would wind up with the check.
“You might get in trouble for this, Maestro,” I said, getting out of the limo.
“Trouble is not unknown to me,” Stokowski said. “There are those who say I have courted controversy and both bedded and wed her.”
“Be cautious, Toby,” Gunther said.
“Am I ever anything but? Let’s meet in Lundeen’s office at seven.” I moved to the rear of the car.
I could hear Shelby’s voice as the trunk popped open.
“See his teeth, Stoki? Nice, huh? My doing? A year of work.”
“That’s admirable,” Stokowski said.
I opened a box in the trunk that looked right. It was. A freshly pressed uniform. I looked around for someplace to change. The street was deserted but the sun was high and bright. Hell. I took off my clothes and started putting on the uniform. I got it on without interruption.
“Good fit,” Charles said.
He was standing next to me, his cap off. He was older than I thought. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. His hair was curly, short, and white. His skin pinkish.
“Thanks,” I said.
“When the war started,” Charles said, “the Maestro moved to Columbia Records. One of the first things he recorded was ‘God Bless America’ and ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ coupled with the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag. I was in the orchestra. Bass viol.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Charles pulled off his right driving glove and revealed a hand with a thumb and two fingers.
“Went back to England,” he said. “London bomb patrol. War turned me into a driver. Got a son in the RAF and another on bomb patrol. Truth is, Stoki’s not that much fond of the British. His mum was Irish, but he made an exception in my case. Got me a job driving here in Frisco. He asks for me whenever he comes to town. The Maestro’s trying his best. I’d hate to see something happen to him.”
“Nothing will happen. I look okay?” I asked.
“Smashing,” he said with a smile, moving to the curb and pulling a newspaper from his pocket.
I got in the driver’s seat, pulled the cap over my eyes, made a U-turn and headed back for the Opera. It took no more than three minutes. The boys and girls of the Church of the Enlightened Patriots were back in business, even the fat lady, though she no longer had her bottle of RC and was sitting on the steps conducting the camp meeting rather than participating.
I pulled up to the curb, got out, winked at Stokowski, who gave me a small salute and said, “For some reason, I am hearing the Brahms First Symphony, which I have always found plaintive.”
“Shelly, find Snick Farkas,” I said. “Gunther, I’m counting on you to find out what happened in Cherokee, Texas.”
“I’m on the job,” said Shelly.
Gunther simply nodded.
I turned and started up the steps, head down. I got through the main doors and out of the corner of my eyes spotted Sunset in a corner, showing a uniformed cop who looked about twelve the proper stance to take against a right-handed pitcher. Sunset glanced over at me as I walked quickly toward the corridor. Then he went back to his batting clinic.
I went through a side entrance to the auditorium. A crew of women was dusting the seats and sweeping the aisles. On stage, about twenty men and women in overalls were putting up a Japanese house set. No Vera. No Lundeen. No Passacaglia. A few musicians were in the orchestra pit adjusting their instruments, playing a few bars.
I moved to the stage, cap still covering my eyes, went up the steps, and moved toward the back of the stage.
“Hold it,” a voice I recognized called from the rear of the auditorium.
I stopped and turned, pretending to shield my eyes from the light to cover my face.
“What the hell you trying to pull?” called Sergeant Preston.
He stepped out of the shadows under the balcony and pointed at me.
It had been a good try but I hadn’t made it. I considered running, but decided I was twenty years too late to make that a reasonable option. I reached up to take off the cap as Preston took another step forward yelling, “You, take that cap off!”
Since I was obviously in the process of doing just that, I paused. It was enough of a pause to realize that he wasn’t pointing at me but past me, at a workman about my size in overalls and a painter’s cap.
“Get out of the way,” Preston said, this time to me.
I stepped out of the way. The workman took his cap off. He was Oriental.
“All right. All right, put it back on,” Preston said. “Jesus, I should have been the second-rate crooner my mother never wanted me to be. And you,” he went on, pointing directly at me. “Stokowski says he wants you to hurry up.”
I nodded, touched the brim of my cap, and hurried into the wings.
Jeremy was standing, arms folded, leaning against the wall next to Vera’s dressing room. He glanced in my direction. His eyes seemed focused on a distant planet, but he took me in.
“Are you all right, Toby?” he asked.
“How’d you know it was me?” I asked, stepping in front of him.
Jeremy shrugged.
“The walk, the change in pressure on the backs of my hands, a sense of you.”
“Touch of the poet,” I said.
“It’s there for all of us to take,” he said, “It is the feminine within each of us we fear to explore, even women.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “What happened to Ortiz?”
“Following his hospitalization, he faces extradition to Mexico for a variety of crimes,” said Jeremy.
“How’s your back, where he bit you?” I asked.
“I’m directing my energy to it. It will heal.”
“Good. Vera all right?”
“She is fine,” he said. “The tenor is in there with her. There are police in all directions.”
“I know,” I said. “If they come by, keep them out if you can.”
“I can,” said Jeremy with a gentle smile.
“I know,” I said, knocking at Vera’s door.
Her “Come in” had an undertone of urgency. I went in and closed the door.
Passacaglia had Vera pinned to the wall. They didn’t recognize me.
“Get out,” said Passacaglia.
“Stay,” cried Vera. “Call the big man.”
“Out,” Passacaglia insisted. “You are intruding on a lovers’ quarrel.”
I stepped forward and put my hand on Passacaglia’s arm.
“Old man,” he said. “You are about to be embarrassed.”
I took off my cap, put it on Vera’s head, and showed Passacaglia my face.
“Toby,” Vera said with relief.
Passacaglia pushed away from the wall and hit me across the bridge of what was left of my nose with the back of his hand. It was a reasonably powerful clout. I didn’t reach up to check for blood. I didn’t want to mess up Charles uniform.
“Killer,” hissed Passacaglia. “Killer of women.”
I grinned and took a step toward him. He backed up.
“Do not hit,” he warned, with one hand up. “Do not touch my face or my diaphragm.”
I pushed his hand out of the way. He tried another backhand. I caught that with my shoulder and threw a short right to his stomach. He doubled over. Vera gasped behind me. Passacaglia held one hand on his stomach and threw another backhand at my face. I stepped back and slapped at his face. He turned away from the slap and it
