Stuart Kaminsky - The Fala Factor

Ruth and Phil took the tickets I gave them and went off to Volez and Yolanda after dinner. As soon as they were gone, Nate said, “Okay Uncle Toby, tell us about someone you beat up or shot this week or something.”

With Lucy on my lap, I made up a tale of scarred Nazi villains and assorted gore, none of it mine. By the time I was finished Lucy was alseep in my lap sucking her thumb.

“Is that a true story?” Dave asked when I was finished.

“Would I lie to you guys?” I said.

By ten the boys were asleep and Lucy was up crying for Ruth. I played with her, let her pull my hair, gave her rides on my back, and blessed the moment Ruth and Phil came through the door to take over.

“Thanks, Toby,” Ruth said, giving me a kiss on the cheek at the door after she took Lucy.

“My pleasure,” I said.

Phil’s hands were plunged deeply in his pockets. He bit his lower lip, ran his right hand across his bristly hair, and put out his hand. I took it.

“Business as usual tomorrow,” he said, pointing a thick finger in my face.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said, meaning it, and went out into the night.

When I was a kid back in Glendale, Sunday nights were for reading, talking, and playing board games. Sometimes we would go to a movie. My father liked comedies. Harold Lloyd was his favorite. I liked anything just so it moved. A late movie would have been nice, but I couldn’t leave Jeremy on that dark street all night.

I pulled up behind him and walked to the car. His eyes were closed and he was snoring gently. I hadn’t thought about it before, but now it hit me that Jeremy Butler was not a young man in his prime. He was at least five years older than I was. Even a bull deserves some time in the pasture.

“Jeremy,” I said softly through the open window.

His eyes came open instantly and he looked at me.

“Relief is here,” I went on. “I can’t sleep and it’s too late to do anything else. Go on home. You can take over tomorrow. If I don’t turn anything up by afternoon, we’ll talk to Miss Poslik about moving.”

“I was asleep,” Jeremy said softly.

“It was a reasonable thing to do,” I said. “It’s almost midnight and you’ve been sitting here all day and night.”

“I had a responsibility,” he said. “The meaning of one’s life is measured by the responsibilities he accepts and lives up to.”

“We agree pretty much on that, but you haven’t let me down.”

“We must check on Miss Poslik,” he grunted, getting out of the car and motioning me aside. He closed the door and moved down the street, a huge dark cutout moving lightly. I caught up with him.

“I don’t think the sight of you at her door at midnight would reassure her,” I said. “I’ll check. She knows me.”

That seemed reasonable to Jeremy, who zipped up his windbreaker and went with me to the apartment. There were no lights on as I started up the steps, but my footsteps must have sent a shock inside. The living room lights came on as I reached the top and brought my hand back to knock.

“Who’s out there?” Jane Poslik’s voice came through the door.

“Me, Peters,” I said. “I’ve got to tell you something.”

The door came open and she stood there wearing a man’s blue bathrobe with white dragons clutched over her chest. She kept the screen door locked.

“I think it best that you not come in,” she said.

“Good idea. I don’t want to frighten you, but I think Bass might pay you a visit.”

She shuddered and clutched the dragon robe around her neck.

“Why?”

“Because I came here yesterday or because that Martin guy you heard Doc Olson talking to found out that you have been talking about Fala,” I said. “He was parked outside your apartment when I was here. I think you should move out of here for a day or two. It shouldn’t take more than that to clear all this up.”

She stood thinking about it for a while, undecided, and I tipped the scale by repeating “Bass.” It was enough. It was either scaring her or being responsible for another possible corpse.

“I haven’t got anyplace to go,” she said.

“I’ll find some place; just throw some things together. I’ll wait out here. Take your time.”

She unlocked the door and told me to come in and wait. I looked at Lucille Ball dressed as Madame Du Barry for about five minutes while Jane packed. She came in wearing a brown cloth coat and carrying a brown, very worn leather suitcase.

“Ready,” she said, and I led her out.

At the top of the stairs I told her that a rather large, very gentle friend was on the street waiting for us and assured her that he was more than a match for Bass, something that I was beginning to doubt but didn’t want to share with anyone, not even me.

We closed the scene with Jeremy saying that he was sure she could stay with Alice Palice for a day or two. That sounded like a good idea to me since Alice was nearly as formidable as Jeremy himself. I wished them a good night and waited in the street to be sure no car was hidden in a driveway ready to follow. Satisfied, I got back into my Ford and drove home.

I made it to my room in the darkened boarding house without waking anyone, and removed my clothes. My original plan was to change my underwear, but I altered my plan. Never let the enemy anticipate what you might do. In this case the enemy was my own desire to keep reasonably respectable.

In my Sunday night dreams, Johnny Pesky threw me out in a close play at second, Lucy chased me through Pershing Square with a giant lock, and Koko the Clown kept saying “Monks, monks, monks.” And then it all came together. Lucy threw her lock to Pesky who heaved it at Koko, taking off his clown’s hat.

I woke up thinking it had been one hell of a throw and was disappointed to find that it had all been a dream.

“Are you stirring?” came Gunther’s voice through the door just as I was sitting up.

“I’m astir,” I said, and he came in.

He was wearing a lighter suit today, but it was still three pieces, including tie. My wall clock said it was almost eight. Gunther held a stack of cards in his hand and a very tiny satisfied smile on his lips.

“I have information,” he announced, tapping the cards with his finger. “I could not work last evening so I made a sojourn to Broadway. It being Sunday there were not many people traversing the streets, but there were restaurants. And,” he said triumphantly, “it was in one of these establishments that I encountered success.”

“You found Martin?” I asked, sitting up further.

Gunther had not only found Martin Lyle, but had tapped some resources, mostly writers he knew, who gave him a profile of the man and his business. Lyle’s office was in the 900s on Broadway right near Little Joe’s Italian Restaurant. Lyle ran an office, the New Whigs, a political group of reactionary Republicans who had left the party deciding that even the most conservative branches were too soft. The New Whigs were, according to Gunther, believed to have plenty of money and no more than a few dozen members, six of whom lived in or around Los Angeles and the rest in Washington, D.C.

“And this I discovered this morning,” Gunther concluded. “I made a most early call to an acquaintance who has actually written a piece on the group for the New Politics Review . He is, like me, a Swiss. He told me that a principal aim of the group is to discredit President Roosevelt and the Republicans so they can propose their own presidential candidate. Apparently, they have been in touch with both Generals Patton and MacArthur about running as New Whig candidates. My friend does not know how either of these army officers may have answered. And, finally …”