The Fala Factor

ten times to look for leads on missing people or people with not too savory reputations.

The Peerless Book Shop had a good collection of cheap used books. There were also some new ones that went for used prices because the owner, Morris “Academy” Dolmitz, would, from time to time, pick up four or five hundred copies of some title from a source he didn’t want to know too much about. When I walked in this time, the place was piled with copies of John Steinbeck’s The Moon is Down and Robert Frost’s A Witness Tree. There were other books all over the place, in boxes, on shelves. If Academy had to rely on book sales, he would have been a poor man. As it was, his main income came from bets he placed in the back room.

No one was in the shop but Academy, who sat behind the counter on his stool, his mop of white hair falling into his eyes, a white zippered sweater over a red flannel shirt covering a little pot belly. Academy was around sixty-five and had seen and heard it all.

“What can I do you for?” he said, looking up at me with tiny gray eyes and a smile of even false teeth.

“I’m looking for a fella,” I said.

“I deal books,” said Academy, holding out his hands, “not fellas. You know that, Peters. Ask me one. You know what I mean. Ask?”

He sat up, waiting.

“Best actor, 1934,” I said.

“Victor McLaglen, The Informer,” he said, in disgust. “Give me a hard one for chrissake. Whatdya think I am, a dumb putz here?”

“Best cartoon, 1935,” I said.

“Three Orphan Kittens, Walt Disney, Silly Symphony. One more.” He grinned, eyes open wide.

“Sound recording, 1929,” I said.

Academy was bouncing in his chair like a kid.

“You’re a good one, Peters, a good one. Douglas Shearer, MGM, for The Big House.”

“I’m looking for a mountain named Bass,” I threw in, and Academy stopped grinning. His mouth closed tight, and his false teeth went clickety-clack. “You can’t miss him.”

“Not a familiar name,” he said through his teeth, trying to go back to his book.

“Your memory’s suddenly failing you?”

“It happens like that,” he said with a shrug. He opened the book and pretended to go back to his reading. I reached over the counter, closed the book, and looked at it.

“That’s a dirty book,” I said.

“It’s a classic,” he answered, reaching for the book. “What do you think you are doing here anyway?”

I held the book away from his hand and he sat back, shaking his head. “Peters,” he clacked. “You know I got a button down here and you know I can push it and you know two guys’ll come through that door and squash you like a rose between the pages of a bible.”

“Colorfully put, Academy, but I’ve got questions and a big mouth,” I answered, handing him the de Sade. “You know my brother’s a captain now?”

“I know,” he said. “Things like that I know. It’s my business. What are you, threatening me or what?”

“Threatening you,” I agreed.

“So that’s the way it is,” he said, feigning defeat. “Human nature. All these books, you know, they’re about human nature. I know human nature.”

“And who won the Academy awards,” I said impatiently. “Bass. He worked for you. I want to know why you hired him, where he is now, who his friends are, or who else he’s been working for.”

“Ten bucks,” said Academy, folding his arms on his chest.

“Come on Academy,” I said. “You don’t need my ten bucks.”

“Principle’s involved here, Peters,” he said. “I give you something for a threat and pretty soon every bit player on the avenue’s in here paying in closed fists and loud voices instead of cash. I’m running a business here. Know what I mean?”

I fished out the ten and handed it across the counter.

“Bass is a putz,” he said.

“Everybody’s a putz to you. Give me something hard.”

“Bass is special putz,” he said. “Doesn’t show a temper. Cold, a little dumb, one of those that likes hurting. You know the kind?”

“I’m waiting for news here, Academy,” I said impatiently.

He clacked his teeth and went into the spiel.

“He did about four months in the back room. Customer named Martin, got an office around here someplace, sometimes a customer, recommended him. Bass was some ways okay. He collected for me when a guy came up slow with the gelt. Trouble was when Bass collected, the guy he collected from didn’t show up here anymore. He was making guys pay but he was losing me repeat customers. You need a kind of festive atmosphere back there,” he said, nodding over his shoulder at the solid wooden door. I’d been back there once.

“There is no way short of Cedric Gibbons and an MGM crew of making that dirty brown betting room festive,” I said.

“You know we got free coffee going in there all the time?” he went on. “So, I told this Martin that it would be nice if Bass found another job. I didn’t want, you might guess, to tell Bass myself. Anyway, this Martin guy says it’s all right, he’s got a good job for Bass working for some animal doctor.”

“Two questions,” I said, holding up two fingers. “Where does Bass live and how do I find this Martin?”

Dolmitz puffed out some air, clacked his teeth and said, “Bass lives some place on Sixth near Westlake Park. I don’t know the address. Martin’s got an office around here is all I know. He’s maybe fifty-five, young guy, thin, gray hair, not too big, wears those little glasses like Ben Franklin. I don’t know what he does. That’s the best you get from me, pally.”

“That wasn’t ten bucks’ worth,” I said, holding out my hand for change. Dolmitz’s hand went under the counter where I knew the button was.

“Take a book or two,” he said. “We’ll call it even.”

I grabbed a copy of The Moon is Down and the Frost poems and went for the door.

“You want to know who won best film editor in 1938?” he called, as I went to the door, the books tucked under my arm.

“Ralph Dawson for The Adventures of Robin Hood,” I said. He had come up with the wrong question. I had been on the security force at Warners when Dawson won. I’d seen him come back with the Oscar in his hand.

“Son of a …” Dolmitz began, but I was on the street before he could finish.

“Half an hour later I was back at Mrs. Plaut’s knocking on Gunther’s door.

“Come in,” he called and turned around in the small chair at the small desk where he worked.

“Did you eat yet?” I said. “I had a change in plans.”

“No,” he said with a small smile. “I wanted to finish this troublesome passage. The quiche is best at room temperature, in any case. I shall bring it right in with the beers.”

Back in my room I set the table, took off Olson’s jacket and tie, and turned on the radio. The quiche was great. So was the beer. We ate and listened to “Truth or Consequences” and I gave Gunther the Steinbeck book, for which he thanked me.

“Gunther, if you’ve got time tomorrow, you could do me a favor and go down around Broadway and Eleventh and try to track down a guy involved in the case.”

Gunther, after finishing the final small morsel of quiche on his lap, agreed with enthusiasm, and I told him what I knew about Martin.

“You’ve had a busy day, Toby,” he said, sympathetically. “I’ll go back to my work and leave you to your rest.”

“A good dinner, Gunther, thanks.”

Gunther gathered his plate and his book and had made it to the hallway when we heard the phone on the