“Mr. Peters?”
“Yes, Violet.”
“Jimmy Bivins is five-to-six to beat Tami Mauriello Friday. I’ll take Bivins and give you four-to-six on six dollars with an extra two dollars that say the fight goes the distance.”
“Our Ortiz-Salica bet still on?”
“I’ve got Ortiz, two dollars.”
“You’re on on the Bivins fight,” I said and hung up.
I lined up Pook Hurawitz and Jerry Rogasinian, both bit actors and part-time stunt men who could be counted on for a good show if you paid them. They both looked like what they frequently played, gangsters who helped fill out the gang and never uttered a word. I was type-casting them.
Pook asked who we were working for. He upped his price to twenty bucks a day from the fifteen I offered him. I could have gotten Rogasinian for fifteen but I was sure they’d talk about what I was paying them so I just offered the twenty. Jerry was grateful.
“Jerry, you ever work on a film with Preston Stewart?” I asked after we had agreed to terms.
“Twice,” he said. “On
“What’s Preston Stewart like?”
“Good guy,” Jerry said. “No star crap. Drank coffee with the rest of us. Joked around. Polite to the women. Good guy. Why?”
“I think he’s going to marry my ex-wife.”
“I take it back,” Jerry said. “Stewart was an asshole.”
“Too late, Jerry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hung up the phone and went back to the counter to eat my sandwich and drink a Pepsi.
“Toast is cold,” the waitress said, hands on hips, challenging me to blame her or deny it. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“Cold toast is fine,” I said. “Can’t sit. I was spanked by a giant from India.”
“Want me to do it again?”
“Nope. I’m in enough pain already.”
“No,” she said. “I meant, do you want me to give you fresh toast?”
“I’m all right. I could use a little ketchup.”
She nodded. “You’re Tobias Pevsner, aren’t you?” she said, handing me the bottle of Heinz.
“Right,” I said, pouring ketchup and looking a little more closely at her.
A distant aunt? A former client? She sagged under an oversized white starched uniform; tight curls of white hair crept out from under her Nurse Duncan cap. Her skin was pale and her lips colorless.
“Anita Maloney,” she said.
“Anita?”
“Tobias,” she said. “You took me to the senior prom. You tried to get under my pink crinoline dress and into my cotton panties.”
There was one other customer at the counter, a round man wearing a delivery cap. He had three folds of skin on the back of his neck. He ate slowly, mechanically, from a bowl that looked as if it contained the same swill that the Count of Monte Christo was forced to gulp down in the Chateau Des Ifs. He tried not to look at me and Anita. I forced myself to look at Anita. She was a year, maybe two years younger than me and she looked like someone’s angry grandmother.
“Anita,” I said, putting down my sandwich. “How the heck have you been? You look terrific.”
“You look pretty much the same,” she said, eyeing me. “A few more kicks in the face. A few more pounds. Eat your food before it gets too cold.”
I ate and shook my head in an isn’t-it-a-small-world shake.
“So. .” I said with a mouthful of tuna, “how the heck have you been?”
“Life story fast?” she asked, leaning forward.
“Sure,” I said.
“Married Ozzie Shaw. Remember him?”
“Football team, straight A’s?”
“That’s him,” she said with a grin.
“How is he?”
“Dead,” she said. “That’s why I’m grinning and happy to be on my feet behind a counter hauling grease.”
“I gather it was a less than happy union.”
“Liar, womanizer, hitter, shiftless. And those were his good points.”
I smiled, keeping my mouth shut as I chewed, and looked over at the man with the extra-thick neck. He was still shoveling.
“We had one kid, Lonny,” she said. “Here.”
She reached under her apron and came up with a pocket-sized cardboard folder. She took out a photograph and slid it forward next to the plate.
There was the Anita Maloney I knew. I didn’t recognize Ozzie, who had his arm around her shoulder. The kid standing between them was maybe five or six.
“Cute,” I said, sliding the photograph back. “Ozzie changed.”
“That’s not Ozzie,” she said, putting the photograph back. “That’s Charlie, Lonny’s husband. He’s in the army. Prisoner of war. Japs. The boy is my grandson, Mal.”
“Great-looking kid,” I said.
“That’s not the end of my story,” she said with a smile that suggested much more. “But we’ll save that. What’s your short-and-sweet tale? I heard you married Anne Mitzenmacher. How’s your brother?”
“Anne and I were married and divorced, no kids,” I said, dipping fries in ketchup and wondering how I’d escape. “And Phil’s a captain with the L.A.P.D. Three kids.”
“You still a cop? I heard you were a cop.”
“Not for a long time,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.”
“Like Mike Shayne?”
“A little,” I said, looking at my wristwatch.
“You got a card? I’ve got something you might help with.”
I found a withered edged card in my wallet and handed it to Anita. She looked at it and put it into the pocket of her white uniform. There was no check and I didn’t want to wait for one. I pulled out two bucks, plenty for the drink, sandwich, and salve, and the most generous tip Anita Maloney was likely to get in her entire career, at least from a sober customer.
“Generous,” she said, picking up the bills and my plate.
“You know where I can get some potatoes?” I asked.
“Potatoes?”
“Five pounds.”
Anita shrugged and disappeared into the kitchen. I exchanged looks with the eating machine. Anita was back almost instantly with a paper bag.
“This is about five pounds,” she said, handing the bag to me. “Thirty cents.”
“Thanks, Anita,” I said, reaching into my pocket for change.
“You left more than enough,” she said, holding up the two dollar bills. “Maybe we can get together some time and talk about Glendale,” she said. “Here, I’ll write down my phone number.”
She pulled out a pencil and scribbled her name and number on a napkin and handed it to me.
“It’d be fun,” I said, folding the napkin and stuffing it into my pocket.
“I clean up real good,” she said.
“That makes one of us,” I said over my shoulder, heading for the door. “Take care, Anita.”
The eating man’s stomach gurgled. He pulled out a red-and-white package of Twenty Grand cigarettes and looked around for matches.
