“Peters,” he said, pushing me back gently, “anyone ever tell you you were a medical wonder?”
“Yeah,” I said. “A kid doctor in L.A. named Parry.”
He listened to my heart, thumped my chest, took my blood pressure and talked.
“You have another gunshot wound no more than a year old,” he said. “Several wounds from sharp instruments, multiple scars and bruises, a skull that should be pickled for posterity, and a variety of broken bones which have healed remarkably well. Your septum is also badly deviated.”
“And I have the worst lower back in Southern California,” I added.
“You’re worthy of Grand Rounds, Peters,” he said, looking into my eyes for signs of further decay, “but we have an even more interesting case. Nineteen year old brought into emergency in a stupor, grand mal seizure and vomiting. He was sweating and lethargic with slight abdominal tenderness. Trouble breathing and respiratory infection. You’re a detective. You know what he had?”
“Homesickness?”
“No,” said the doctor, “One hundred and eighty little rubber bags filled with cocaine powder in his stomach. He was sneaking them in from Columbia, South America. Could have killed him.”
“I’m enlightened,” I said.
“You’re all right,” he said. “Bullet didn’t hit anything, lodged in a muscle. You lost blood and you’ll have to change that dressing in a few days, but if you’re up to it, you can leave tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I said. “By the way, I can’t pay cash for all this.”
He stuffed his stethoscope in his pocket, being sure that enough stuck out to identify him.
“All paid for,” he said, “by your physician, Dr. Hugo C. Hackenbush. I told him all about your case, and he agreed that you could leave, but suggested that you see him and his associates in Los Angeles.”
“I will,” I said. “Thanks, doc.”
He left with his back straight. Ten minutes later a nurse came in and helped me walk around the room. She was a little thing with Barnum muscles.
In the morning, I got a long-distance call and a pair of short-distance calls. The long-distance call was from the Marx Brothers.
“In my medical opinion,” said Groucho, “you’re cured. And we’ve decided to help your career by not telling Louis B. Mayer what you’ve done for us.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Your pleasure,” he said.
One of the other two calls was from an accented voice. I thought at first it was Chico Marx, but I changed my mind fast.
“You got one day to get out of the city,” the man said. “Twenty-four hours. You understand?”
I said I did and he hung up. I got out of bed and started walking around the room and through the halls. Then I got my second local call. It was from Ray Narducy. He wanted to know if I needed him or his cab.
“Tomorrow morning at nine be in front of Cook County Hospital.”
“Right,” he said, moving into a heavy British accent that might have been C. Aubrey Smith, Charles Laughton, or Cary Grant. “I’ll be out there with bells on.”
I spent the rest of the day walking and tallying my expenses in my black book. I listed the losses at the Fireside as “essential information paid for.” The figures filled six pages. I couldn’t read a few in the front because blood or ketchup had gotten to the pages.
My figures came to $867.14. I added forty bucks for my return trip to L.A. and twenty bucks for a suit to replace the one with the hole in it. Then I called Warren Hoff, collect. It was after six in Los Angeles, but he was in his office.
“Toby,” he said sadly. “It’s good to hear from you, but I’ve got bad news. Mr. Mayer says you’re fired. I tried to reach you two days ago at the LaSalle, but you’d checked out. He says you didn’t get results, and he won’t pay for the last two days.”
“Tell him I love him, too,” I said, “and that Chico Marx’s problem is taken care of.”
“I think he’ll have mixed feelings about that.”
My eyes wandered to the blackness of a late February afternoon in Chicago, and my rear end itched. I wanted to be on a plane.
“Warren, I’m submitting a bill for $907.14, and I have to be paid fast.”
“I’ll do it,” he said.
“I don’t want you to pay for it,” I said. “I want Mayer and MGM to pay for it.”
“Mr. Mayer will pay for it,” he said. “He pays for what he orders, even if he doesn’t like it. I just don’t think you’ll be on his favorite people list.”
“Well, I’m in good company,” I said. “See you in the sun.”
I didn’t sleep much, just listened to the same woman in the hall moaning “madre mia” and “amore”, the cars skidding in the night and ambulances screaming from unknown directions.
In the morning I put on my last remaining pants, a wrinkled shirt, and my coat. I said goodbye to no one and tried to find the moaning woman, but couldn’t. She could have been any one of three down the hall.
Narducy was waiting for me on a day almost as dark as the night. Rain was falling. Thunder was cracking, and the piles of filthy black snow were being eroded to make room for the next cycle.
“Supposed to go down to zero tonight,” said Narducy, taking my suitcase and helping me into the front seat of the cab. He put my bag in the back seat.
“Streets’ll be an ice pond from Summit to Evanston,” he said, getting in and looking at me. “Geez, you look like Halloween.”
I looked in his rear view mirror. I reminded me of a skeleton mask I had worn when I was a kid.
Narducy drove me to Midway airport and helped me in. He didn’t do any imitations. He bought me a seat to L.A. with a stopover in Denver for fueling. I had seven bucks left after I paid Narducy. I bought him a sandwich while we waited and invited him to visit me in Los Angeles. I didn’t know where I’d put him or what I’d do with him, but it seemed like the right thing to say. He said he’d think about it. He shoved his glasses back, downed an egg sandwich in three bites and his Coke in four gulps.
“Carramba,” he said, wiping an imaginary mustache. “That was good.”
His timing was bad. There were no Mexicans around.
There was a stand-up bar in a corner and I bought a glass of wine. I went back to the sandwich counter where I had left Narducy and paid extra for a glass of orange juice and a raw egg. That left me with three bucks.
I took the Fleming cold remedy over to Chaney, who was sitting at a bench with Costello, watching us. They weren’t trying to hide. I handed the drinks to Chaney, who was blowing his nose.
“On me,” I said. “It’s good for a cold.”
“Thanks,” he said and downed the drinks. ‘Doesn’t taste bad.”
I didn’t say goodbye.
The plane took off just before noon. From the window, I watched Chaney, Costello and Narducy get smaller and disappear in seconds. The rain was still coming down. Just before we hit the clouds, I took a last look at Chicago. It looked green.
A stewardess with a blue uniform and blue cap brought me sandwiches and asked if everything was all right.
A chubby guy with a big mouth and a briefcase sat next to me at the window. He had a Southern accent and talked about how much flying he did. When we were about half an hour out, he turned pale and said the engines had stopped. I couldn’t turn any more pale than I was. The engine hadn’t stopped, but what was left of my heart did.
About six hours later, I got off the plane in Los Angeles. The sky was filled with smog and the sun was grey and warm.
15
