“I’m going, Phil,” I went on. No answer. He picked up the phone, pushed a button, told Seidman and Cawelti to come in, and waved me away as if I were a fly on a hot day.
Cawelti and Seidman passed me in the hall, the former giving me a look of hatred, the latter ignoring me. I found Shelly, Jeremy, and Gunther in the squadroom, told them to follow me, and we made a package exit that would have been pointed out by tourists if we were on the street. But in the Wilshire Station we were part of an average day.
“And we are free?” said Gunther. “No more questions?”
“No more questions,” I said. “The president thanked us and closed the case.”
“Dolmitz and Jane,” said Jeremy, trying to hail a cab. One slowed down, looked us over, and sped away. “She is really a very good illustrator. Perhaps she can work on the children’s book from prison. I don’t know the rules.”
“Maybe,” I said.
Shelly was looking glumly at the sidewalk. Another cab came cruising and I stepped into the street in front of it. The cabbie had to stop or face two to five years for manslaughter. He stopped.
We piled in and I told him to take us to the Farraday. He hummed all the way to keep from dealing with us, and I watched Gunther try to maintain his dignity on the jump seat in front of me. Shelly wasn’t worrying about his dignity. He bounced and talked to himself.
Back at the Farraday, I checked on the dog, which Jeremy had locked in his office. He was all right. Then I called Carmen, after thanking Gunther and asking Shelly to wait.
Carmen was. angry but we still had time to get to the fights if I moved quickly.
“Shelly,” I said, hanging up. “How about calling Mildred and telling her to meet us at the stadium. Tickets are on me. Gunther and Jeremy are coming too.”
With a little coaxing, Shelly agreed. The idea had come to me without bidding, and as soon as it had come I knew that my chance of getting alone with Carmen for the night was down to nearly nothing. As it turned out, I was right. Alice Palice also joined us for the evening and we easily filled two cars.
By the time I dropped Carmen off and Gunther and I headed back to Mrs. Plaut’s, I was flat broke.
“I would like to have offered to drive the car back here,” Gunther said, “so that you might have remained to bid Carmen good night, but I am, as you know, unable to drive any automobile but my own or one-”
“Forget it, Gunther,” I said, looking back at the dog curled asleep in the back seat. “I’ve got too many bruises for anything more tonight.”
Mrs. Plaut didn’t greet us. It was far too late for that. Gunther went to his room. I went to mine, talked to the dog, and shared some puffed rice with him before going to bed. When I turned the lights out I realized that I wouldn’t have the dog the next night. Something threatened me with a feeling I didn’t like, so I shut my eyes and went over my bill to Mrs. Roosevelt. It was like counting sheep for me. Repair of torn sleeve, two dollars; gas, two dollars; repair of Olson’s (now my) pants where shepherd had bitten, eighty cents; taxi from the warehouse where I met Keaton, a buck eighty with tip; five for the manager of the Gaucho Arms; medical bill from Doc Hodgdon, five dollars; wind-breaker zipper, forty cents; car door, twenty dollars; two hot dogs, two pepsis and a taco for the dog, a buck.
In the morning, the dog and I went back to my office after having coffee and some donuts at Manny’s. The bodies were gone, and a man was already putting a new pane in my window. Shelly was nowhere around.
It took me about seven calls to find the person I was looking for. and I arranged to meet him in an hour. That was about how long it took me to find the place, a deserted farmhouse on the way to Santa Barbara.
When I pulled into the side road, the dog climbed up to look out the window. We drove about half a mile and then stopped. A pile of dust was moving toward us. When it got close enough, maybe fifty yards away, I could see a man running toward us, arms churning, one hand holding a little hat on his head. Behind him a truck was bouncing along the road with a movie camera mounted in the seat grinding away.
When Buster Keaton was about fifteen yards away, the man in the truck shouted, “Cut!”
Keaton stopped, leaned over, panting, and coughed. I got out of the car, leaving the dog behind, and walked over to him.
“Getting a little old for this,” Keaton said.
“We’ll have to do it again,” the man in the truck yelled.
“Like hell we will,” Keaton croaked back.
“That damn car is in the shot,” the director said, pointing to my car.
“Then we’ll work it in,” Keaton said, catching his breath. Turning to me, he said, “We’ll rent your car for an hour. Twenty bucks.”
“Fifteen,” shouted the director, hearing our conversation.
“Fifteen will be enough for gas and to get me through a few days till a client pays me,” I agreed.
“Fifteen then,” said Keaton. “Wish it could be more.” He shouted back at the director. “We’ll go to a point of view shot of me looking at the car parked in front of me. Then a shot of the car and Emil getting out. I’m trapped. I give it a gulp, same shot continues after a point of view. Then I start running again, right over the car. Pull the truck off the road and shoot me from the side, one take.”
“Sounds good,” said the director.
“It’ll do,” said Keaton. “Give me a day and I’ll come up with better, but for this, it’ll have to do What can I do for you, Mr. Peters? I can’t offer you a drink. The suitcase is back at the farmhouse. But you’re not a drinking man, are you?”
“The dog,” I said.
“You brought the dog? It’s not Fala?”
He stood up and looked over at the car while I explained. His eyes were straining. He pulled out a pair of glasses and put them on to see the dog in the window.
“How much you want for him?” said Keaton.
“Nothing,” I said. “Guy he belonged to can’t take care of him anymore, and you already paid once.”
“And you don’t want to keep him?” Keaton said, walking with me to the car.
“No,” I said. “In my business there’s no room for a dog.”
Keaton opened the car door and the dog jumped out and ran circles around us. I watched Keaton’s face. His expression didn’t change as he took off the glasses and put them under his coat.
“He’ll be good in the movie,” Keaton said.
“I’m sure,” I agreed.
“Buster,” shouted the director from the bouncing truck driving off the road.
“Okay,” said Keaton.
I took the dog and moved to the side of the road, out of the frame, and let Keaton and the crew take over. I held the dog and kept him calm while he watched Keaton with fascination. Since the shot was silent, I didn’t try to stop him from barking.
After the shot was over, I agreed to stay around for lunch, which consisted of sandwiches back at the farmhouse. I accepted the fifteen bucks for the use of my car and shook Keaton’s hand as I got back in after reaching down to pet the dog.
“What’s his name?” Keaton said, as I closed the door.
“I don’t know. I thought I knew for a while, but …”
“Give him a name,” Keaton said, watching the little black dog run back toward the farmhouse. Beyond the building, weeds and grass waved in the May wind. “I was going to call him Fella, but the honor’s yours.”
“Murphy or Kaiser Wilhelm,” I said.
Keaton looked at me blankly. “Kaiser Wilhelm?”
I turned the key, pulled the choke, and stepped on the gas. “I once had a dog with both names.”
“Then that’s it,” Keaton said, stepping back and waving. “Kaiser Wilhelm.”
I drove down the dusty dirt road and watched Keaton in my rearview mirror turn and follow the dog toward the farmhouse. I found a gas station as fast as I could and used a few of the fifteen dollars to fill the tank. Then I headed back to Los Angeles.
I got back late in the afternoon and called the office. Shelly said he was busy, that the sign painters were coming in to put the names on the door, and that I had had a call from Anne.
I found some change and the number of Lyle’s house and called. Anne Lyle answered the phone.
