Stuart Kaminsky - The Fala Factor

“I’m going,” I said, backing away. “My car is in Sherman Oaks. It’s on your way back to North Hollywood. How about dropping me off?”

“Go,” said Phil so softly that I could only tell what he was saying by watching his lips. I went.

I was almost to the front door of the station when Seidman caught up to me.

“I’ll take you to your car,” he said.

“You don’t live in the valley.”

“Can’t sleep with this toothache,” he said. “Besides, Phil doesn’t want to take a chance on you going back to Olson’s when you get the car.”

Seidman led the way to his car and we drove without talking. The sun was just coming up on the far side of the valley when we made the turn onto the cul-de-sac. It was Saturday morning. Seidman took my thanks without comment and waited to be sure I made a U-turn and drove away. He followed me and then veered off when he was sure I was on my way up Coldwater Canyon Drive. He had no worries. I was headed home wearing a dead man’s suit. When I got over the hills, a stop light caught me and a guy on the radio said Robert S. James, the rattlesnake killer, had just been hanged at San Quentin. He was, said the announcer with a pregnant pause, “calm to the end.”

I looked in the rearview mirror at my face. My chin was covered with stubble just like my brother’s, the same gray field of hard times.

Mrs. Plaut was singing her Fanny Brice rendition of “I’m Cooking Breakfast for the One I Love,” complete with Yiddish accent, when I pushed open the door of her boarding house on Heliotrope. My plan was simple, to get to my room and fall asleep, but to accomplish that I had to make it past Mrs. Plaut.

She didn’t hear me come in. There wasn’t much that Mrs. Plaut could hear, but she made up in determination what she lacked in hearing. She stood about four and a half feet high and was somewhere in the range of eighty years old. Her age, sex, and hearing impairment deprived the U.S. Army of the services of the most able assistant General Patton could have hoped for.

The door to her rooms on the main floor were open. I moved past slowly and quietly, noticing that she was back in the kitchen and the smell of something good was wafting into the hall. I got to the first step when her voice stopped me.

“Mr. Peelers,” she shouted. “Mr. Peelers. You must wait for comments and messages.”

I put one hand on the wall and turned to face the inevitable. Not only did Mrs. Plaut not know my name, but she had latched onto the delusion that I was a pest exterminator who was somehow involved in the publishing industry. My periodic efforts to explain something approaching the truth to her only managed to tire me out and thrust the woman deeper into delusion. The situation was complicated by the fact that Mrs. Plaut was, with great and typical determination, writing the definitive history of her family. She had completed over fifteen hundred pages, neatly printed. It was my task to edit and comment on the chapters as she finished them.

Why didn’t I move? Answer: The rent was low. My best friend, Gunther Wherthman, a Swiss midget who made a living as a translator, was a tenant at Mrs. Plaut’s, and, with the war, housing had almost disappeared in Los Angeles. Rents were flying as high as Doolittle, a sign of the times that, fortunately, had not entered Mrs. Plaut’s interest or awareness.

She appeared through the door below me, wiping her bony hands on her apron, which was muslin and carried a stenciled message in black: PROPERTY OF THE U.S. ARMY AIR FORCE. She adjusted her glasses with a clean finger.

“I’m very tired, Mrs. Plaut,” I said wearily.

“You look very tired,” Mrs. Plaut said, looking me over, her head cocked to one side critically.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Plaut?” I said with a smile.

“I have a list of items to relate,” she said, fishing into a pocket in her apron and pulling out a small notebook, which she opened. “First, have you finished reading my chapter about Aunt Gumm and Mexico?”

She looked up at me patiently, waiting for an answer.

“I have finished,” I said, speaking slowly, clearly, and loud enough to awaken whoever might still be sleeping in the boarding house. They would be sloshing down soon for Mrs. Plaut’s breakfast, those who were willing to pay the price in conversation. “But I don’t understand why your Aunt Gumm thought she owned Guadalajara You never make it clear why-”

“You know Aunt Gumm owned Guadalajara,” she beamed, interrupting me.

“I’d heard something about it,” I said, leaning on the wall.

The chapter, which lay on my table upstairs, was even less coherent than most of the previous ones Mrs. Plaut had been giving me. I really didn’t mind reading the manuscript. I just couldn’t take discussing it with Mrs. Plaut.

“How did your Aunt Gumm meet the bandit,” I tried.

“You are in need of a shave,” she said critically. “Though your new suit is an improvement over what you have worn previously.”

“I got it from a dead man,” I said, grinning evilly.

“I see,” she answered with a grin. “That is no concern of mine. I am quite aware of your line of business, as you know. Let us return to Aunt Gumm.”

“Let us,” I said, and then desperately, “Your buns are burning.”

Mrs. Plaut gave me a tolerant look and clasped her hands together.

“Buns,” I repeated.

“Uncle Parsner was the one for puns and such like,” she said gently. “Aunt Gumm was devoid of a sense of humor. You must keep my relations in order if you are to help, Mr. Peelers.”

“I’ll try,” I said in weary surrender. “Aunt Gumm is wonderful, a critical member of the family. The chapter should be longer, more about the bandit.”

“The bandit,” she said, glancing at the open door from which the smell of buns came, “was a distant friend of Joaquin Murietta, who kept his toenails in a jar. Aunt Gumm’s bandit did no such of a silly thing though he was, I am told, given to telling dialect jokes, mostly at the expense of those less fortunate than himself, though who that might be remains a mystery not only to me but to Uncle Jerry and other branches of the family. My buns are done.”

“Good,” I said, turning to go up stairs. I had made it up four steps when she stopped me.

“There are other items to relate,” she said. I turned and watched her tiny figure as she glanced at her notebook. “Calls galore. The policeman brother of yours called.”

“He found me,” I said.

“And,” she concluded with a flourish by slamming closed the notebook, “you are now involved in the politics.”

“I am?”

“One of the many Roosevelts who run this country called you,” she said with disapproval. “I do not recall if it was Anna. I rather hope it was since I voted for her father. Teddy Roosevelt was the last good president we had. Before him all was abyss except for Jackson and Polk”

“Did you vote for them?” I said softly, my eyes closing as I rubbed the stubble on my chin.

“Rude disrespect will not get you into heaven,” she said, pointing a flour-covered finger at me. I wasn’t sure if she had miraculously heard what I had said or had come up with an even more unpleasant invention.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Plaut. I really am. I’m tired and-”

“She should not have married him,” she went on.

“Who?” I tried, feeling the tears of sleep.

“Franklin and Eleanor are cousins,” she explained patiently as if I were a backward second-grader. “That is incest.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said. “If I don’t get upstairs and into bed, I’m going to tumble down these stairs and make it difficult for Mr. Hill and the others to climb over my body.”