my eyes and waited for my dream companion, Koko the Clown, to lead me out of nowhere, but he didn’t come.
When my eyes opened, I was looking into the pale face of Dot’s mongrel dog, which was neither stuffed nor dead. He had rotten breath, like all dogs.
The room was small and filled with spare auto parts and small animal cages. The cages contained newts, snakes, and a few field mice. There was a small window in the corner, and beyond it was darkness.
“You ain’t dead,” said Dot, his hands in his pockets looking down at me.
“Thanks,” I answered sitting up.
“Car’s dead though,” he said, handing me a bottle of Pepsi, which was just what I needed. I sat up, sipped it, and wondered what I had broken this time, but nothing hurt very much. In fact, my back felt better than it had before the crash.
I looked at the flannel shirt and torn pants Dot had put on me and said, “Thanks.”
“Trade,” Dot said, filling a pipe that appeared magically from his fist. “Those duds, the Pepsi, a meal, and a phone call for the wreck.”
I gurgled the Pepsi and thought about it.
“You can keep the Wheaties, the gun, and the statue of Alcatraz,” he said.
“A deal,” I agreed, toasting him with the Pepsi.
The deal completed, Dot lit his pipe, patted the mongrel, who panted appreciatively, and went to the hot plate in the corner, where something was cooking. He came over with a bowl of chili and some Wonder Bread. I spooned down the chili, sopped up what was left with the bread, and downed the last of my Pepsi before trying to stand. I did a pretty good job and found that I was thinking again.
“My suit,” I said. “And your phone.”
“Suit’s in a box by the front door with the gun, Alcatraz, and Wheaties. Suit’s not dry. Needs some cleaning, though Thomas licked some of the milk from it when I pulled you out.”
“Thanks,” I said, going for the phone.
He waved his pipe at me and said, “Used to know Sergeant York, Alvin York back in the last war.”
“That a fact?” I said, trying to raise the operator.
“Fact,” he said with satisfaction as he took the empty chili bowl away.
Shelly had left the office. No answer. I could have called him at home, but that would have meant the possibility of talking to his wife, Mildred, who, when we were at our best, refused to speak to or about me. I was definitely a bad influence on Shelly. Jeremy owned no car. I could have called Phil, but that would mean driving all the way back to Hollywood with him. I didn’t think I could take my brother for that long, and I knew from experience that he couldn’t take me.
So I called Mrs. Plaut’s boardinghouse and prayed that Mrs. Plaut would not answer. She did.
“Mrs. Plaut,” I shouted. “This is Toby, Toby Peters. Is Mr. Wherthman there. Gunther Wherthman.”
“Plaut’s Boardinghouse,” she said patiently. It was a subject of intense debate at the boardinghouse. Since Mrs. Plaut could hear practically nothing, we wondered why she insisted on answering the phone and, in fact, fought off anyone who tried to take it from her. We also wondered how she heard it ringing. Perhaps it was the vibrations or a sixth sense given only to the ancient and feisty.
“Gunther Wherthman,” I shouted, loud enough to wake Thomas, who had dozed off on the cot where I had been lying.
“Mr. Wherthman,” she gasped. “Why are you calling? I just saw you into your room.”
“Oh shit,” I sighed softly.
“You needn’t blaspheme,” retorted Mrs. Plaut. “Even in your native tongue.”
Dot looked at me without curiosity, puffed on his pipe, and dreamed of Sergeant York.
“Peters, Peters, Toby PETERS,” I shouted. The veins on my forehead ached.
“Mr. Peelers?” she said after a pause.
“Yes,” I gasped.
“He is not here and the police are looking for him again,” she explained.
“The police …”
“I’ll let you talk to Mr. Wherthman,” she said, and I heard the phone clink against the wall in the hall.
“Used to work in the estuary down near San Luis,” Dot told no one in particular as he took his pipe out and looked into the bowl before returning it to the corner of his mouth.
There is no end to the eccentricity of this world, I observed silently waiting for Gunther, who finally came on after a scraping of the chair in the hall on which he always stood to cope with the phone.
“This is Gunther Wherthman here,” he said with his usual accent and dignity.
“This is Toby, Gunther. I’ve had a slight accident.”
“Toby, are you all right?”
“I’m O.K. Can you come and get me? I’ll tell you where I am. What did Mrs. Plaut mean about the cops looking for me?”
“You are, it seems wanted for interrogation concerning the murder of a Mr. Grayson. I heard through the door. As you know I am not fond of the Los Angeles police.” He paused politely and waited for my next question.
“Was my brother one of the cops who came?”
“That is correct,” he said.
I gave him directions and spent the next hour and ten minutes playing poker with Dot, who took me for four bucks and informed me that he would use the money to go into town and see Veronica Lake in
“She gets kissed by Robert Preston,” he said, his eyes glazing over with the look he reserved for Sergeant York and Veronica Lake.
“I’ll have to catch it,” I said.
When Gunther arrived, I picked up my package, thanked Dot, petted Thomas, and got into the car next to Gunther. Gunther’s Olds was equipped with built-up pedals so he could reach them.
“Little fella,” said Dot, pointing at Gunther with his pipe.
“I hadn’t noticed,” I said, and we pulled into the night heading back to L.A.
CHAPTER 5
The next morning I got up early, had some coffee and the Wheaties, and put on my last suit, a brown wool that looked reasonably good if you didn’t get too close. Since it was Sunday, I couldn’t get my milk-smelling suit cleaned and the button sewed on, and I couldn’t contact Arnie to try to make a deal on the ’38 Ford before the price went up again. Dot had remembered to take the license plates off the old Buick and drop them in the box with the other goodies.
A call to the Wilshire District Police Station told me that Phil was in and working. Crime doesn’t stop on Sunday. In fact, Saturday night is usually enough to make Sunday a cop’s daymare.
No backache. No major bruises. I decided to walk the three miles and take in the California sea air, but by the time f hit Fairfax, the rain had started. I ducked into a doorway and looked for a cab. The streets were not quite empty, but Sunday mornings are not carnival time in Los Angeles. Everybody always seems to be someplace else. Too much land too spread out to absorb us all, but the war was helping make up for it by sending thousands in every day. Common sense would have had it the other way. The coast was the most vulnerable part of the States to Japanese attack. The Japanese were warning us every few days that they were coming. Maybe the bombing of Tokyo last week would give them something else to think about, maybe it wouldn’t.
What brought people were the jobs. Soldiers, sailors, and marines shipped out from the coast. The fleet was always coming to San Diego. The big money was in the armed forces, and the jobs were where the big money was.
California was having a love affair with men in uniform. They could drink, shout, maim, and abuse, usually one another, and they’d be forgiven like cute three-year-olds. Civilian guilt paved the way until their time ran out and they had to get on those ships and sail to hell island.
