something.
Phil and I said nothing all the way to the Wilshire station. When we got inside, Phil didn’t bother to greet the old sergeant on duty, and when we got upstairs, the only ones in the detective squad room were a cleaning woman and Cawelti, a guy with tight clothes, a smirk and hair parted down the middle and plastered like a Gay Nineties bartender. We waded through the day’s garbage and into Phil’s office, where he sat heavily in his chair behind the desk. I sat in the chair opposite him. We looked at each other for a few minutes, and for the first time I realized that Phil’s office was about the same size as my office. Not only that-he had laid it out the same way mine was, even down to his cop diploma on the wall and a photograph, only the photograph was of his wife and kids. I tried to remember whose office had come first. I thought it was his. I considered pointing out the resemblance we both had missed, but Phil picked up his phone.
“Get me two coffees,” he barked. The person on the other end, who I assumed was Cawelti, said something and Phil nodded politely before continuing. “That’s a sad story, John. I don’t care if you have to run down to the drugstore and break in. I want
“Pa wanted you to be a lawyer,” he said out of nowhere.
“I didn’t want to be a lawyer,” I said. “I liked my hands in my own pockets.” I’d read that somewhere, but I didn’t know the source and was sure Phil wouldn’t.
“You could have been a police officer. You were …” He stopped. We had been through this and it got us nowhere. He reached into his drawer and found a pad of paper. He reached deeper and found a pencil. He shoved them both to me and told me to write out a report, the whole thing. He didn’t even say “or else.”
I asked Phil what time it was.
“You’ve got a watch,” he growled.
“Pa’s watch,” I explained. Phil told me it was three in the morning.
I pulled out the card Cooper had given me and called the number while Phil stared at me.
“Huh?” came Cooper’s sleepy voice.
“This is Toby Peters. We’ve got a complication.” I explained what had happened without giving anything away to Phil and hoped that Cooper hadn’t fallen asleep. Then I concluded, “I think I should tell them about your involvement and ask for their discretion.”
“I don’t like it,” said Cooper finally.
“I’m not throwing a party over the whole thing myself,” I said.
“A man has to do what a man has to do,” said Cooper. “I say things like that in my movies but I don’t know what they really mean. So you do what you have to as long as I don’t have to back it up in public.”
I hung up and began the report. I was just finishing when Cawelti brought in the coffee. He was not happy about bringing in the coffee. He was not happy about seeing me.
“Thanks, John,” Phil said.
“Thanks, John,” I added, and Cawelti left, slamming the door behind him.
The coffee was cold, but it was coffee. My report was all truth. I left out a lot, but what was in there was bonded stuff that would hold up.
“Do I get a ride home?” I said.
“It’s a nice morning,” said Phil, finishing his coffee. “You can take a streetcar or taxi. It will give you some time to think and us some time to tidy up your room.”
I said thanks and went into the squad room. Cawelti was gone, but the cleaning lady had accumulated a shoulder-high pile of rubble.
“You a cop?” she said in a pretty good Marjorie Main imitation.
“No,” I said.
“You’d be surprised at the junk I find in here sometimes,” she said, starting to shovel her pile into a barrel on wheels. “Found an ear once,” she said. “How can you lose an ear?”
I left her musing on life as I went out and into the first chill hint of dawn. I didn’t have to walk home, as it turned out. I went half a block toward the drugstore, from where I planned to call a cab, when a car pulled along next to me and Marco looked out and back at the station.
“Get in,” he said.
“I think I’ll walk,” I said. “Fresh air will do me good.”
“Get in,” he insisted, showing his gun. “In back.”
“We’re half a block from the police station,” I reminded him.
“And you’re a few seconds from termination, if you don’t get in,” he said.
I liked his reasoning and got into the back seat. I wasn’t alone. Lombardi sat with one hand rubbing the bridge of his nose. He had a headache, and it was probably me.
“Our friends from Chicago are very upset at this turn of events,” Lombardi said softly. “And I am not pleased, either. We understand that Mr. Santucci has been murdered.”
Marco squirmed in the front seat and nearly whimpered, “What do I tell my wife? He is supposed to be breaking me into the business and he gets killed. How do you think she’ll feel after what happened to her brother?”
“Bad?” I guessed.
“We all regret this shocking tragedy,” said Lombardi. “Now, you must first convince us that you are not responsible. Our colleague is killed in your room with your knife. He was following you.”
“How do you know about the knife?”
“I have a headache,” Lombardi said. “Talk very quietly, very quietly. I have a friend in the police department. Actually, it is the friend of a friend. That’s all you have to know. On the other hand, there is so much a person in my position has to know. Being a businessman is not as easy as many people think. One has responsibilities.”
“I didn’t kill him,” I said softly. “Look, someone is still trying to get rid of me. Someone who took a couple of shots at me today. He’s the guy we should all be looking for. Him and whoever hired him.”
“I must be quite disoriented from my headache,” Lombardi said, “because what you are saying makes sense. I think you should find this person or persons and quietly stop them.”
“Wait,” growled Marco.
“And,” Lombardi continued, “if you come up with the name of someone who should be made quiet especially the someone who did this terrible thing to our friend from Chicago, then you will tell me and the bereaved brother- in-law will speak to them. You of course understand. I haven’t time to be more subtle. Here,” he called to Marco.
Marco turned his huge face to us. “You mean we just let him go?”
“Yes,” said Lombardi, “for now. Now go, Mr. Peters.”
I got out, and the car pulled away. I was still about two miles from my room, but I had things to think about. I found an all-night grill I knew and ate a couple of bowls of Wheaties with a cup of coffee.
The grill always had a rear table full of guys who looked like truck drivers, but I had never seen any trucks parked on the street. Their conversation was usually about the war, food and the movie industry.
While I downed the dregs of my bowl and considered ordering another, a guy who looked and sounded like Lionel Stander shouted angrily at another mug, “What are you talking about? Bette Davis can act rings around her, rings around her. Joan Crawford got no range, no reserves of emotion to draw on, you moron.”
The Joan Crawford advocate rose to the occasion and clenched his fists, countering, “Is that so? Crawford in
The two critics snarled at each other, and I got out before a brawl developed. My vote was for Olivia DeHavilland, but her name hadn’t entered the conversation.
CHAPTER SIX
The body was gone when I got back to my room. I saw a few bloodstains, but I was too tired to tidy up. Mrs. Plaut had trapped me briefly. She wanted to know if I needed a new knife. I told her I would make do with my remaining sharp one.
