Stuart Kaminsky - The Fala Factor

“Make a deal,” Arnie said, putting an arm on my shoulder and breathing a dreaded combination into my face. “You give me the dog. I fix the door for ten bucks.”

“Not my dog,” I said.

Arnie shrugged, touched his nose to make the spot worse, fished in the pocket of his overalls for a used cigar, and said, “That’s a genuine Scottie! Like FDR’s.”

“That a fact?” I said, leading the dog to the door.

“A fact,” said Arnie, following my progress by turning his entire body.

The dog’s legs moved double-time to keep up with me. In spite of the tightness in my chest, I had things to wrap up. My stomach rumbled when I hit Ninth and I considered stopping in one of the restaurants for a quick bite, but I didn’t think any of them would welcome the dog, any except one and that one was Manny’s Tacos.

Since it was before eleven, there weren’t many people in Manny’s. I got up on one of the red leather swivel stools at the counter and helped the dog up onto the one next to me. A man made out of old leather a few stools down took the cigarette out of his mouth and turned to look at us, but we weren’t all that interesting to him.

“What’ll it be, the usual?” asked Manny. Manny was Emanuel Perez, dark, tired, thirty, and hard-working.

“The usual,” I said. “Same for the dog. Bring a bowl for the dog.”

Manny didn’t blink an eye, just nodded and said, “Check,” and went off to bring us each a taco and a Pepsi.

“Chili be better for a dog,” said the leather man at the end of the counter in a raspy voice.

“If he survives the taco,” I said amiably, “he can order the chili.”

“I know dogs,” the leather man said with a shrug.

The dog liked the tacos though I can’t say he was the neatest eater I had dined with, but then again I had been told that my own eating habits left a little to be desired. After he noisily lapped the Pepsi up, I refilled his bowl. He still looked hungry but not chili hungry.

“Manny,” I said, “you got some crackers I can give him?”

“Check,” called Manny and brought some little oyster crackers which I added to the bowl of Pepsi.

“Crackers is for pollies, not dogs,” said the leather man.

“He likes them,” I countered.

“He ain’t no gor-met,” said the leather man, wisely returning to his own bowl of Carumba super hot chili.

Fed and fat, I led the dog to the Farraday and made my way slowly up the stairs to Jeremy’s office. Jeremy was sitting opposite Bass and reading a book. Bass gave me and the dog, in that order, dirty looks, but there wasn’t much he could do beyond that. He was firmly tied where he sat.

“Toby,” said Jeremy, rising from his chair, inserting a blue felt bookmark in his book of Frost poems and putting it neatly on the small table nearby. “I have been endeavoring to convince our guest that he should tell us the location of Miss Poslik and the identity of his accomplice or accomplices, but he remains mute. His arm seems, at this point, to be uninfected, but his soul, his very essence, is so corrupted that I doubt if much can be done.”

Bass looked up at Jeremy with a hatred that outdid the blast he had fired at me and the dog.

“When I get out,” Bass said, “I’ll do you.”

“Bass, you are not getting out,” I explained while the dog sniffed at his right foot and just managed to escape the kick Bass threw. “You killed Mrs. Olson, kidnapped the dog and Jane Poslik, and, in general I’m sure, have been less than charming. You are going to trial and jail, maybe to the chair. Can you follow all that?”

Bass shook his head and looked bored. “He won’t let that happen,” he said. “He’s got connections, big connections. When things change in this country, I’m gonna be running the jails.”

“That’s a comforting vision of the future,” I said. “I’ll pass it on to my friends. Should give them added reason for surviving the war.”

“You can laugh,” Bass said. “People laugh at me sometimes when I can’t touch them, but they can’t stay away forever.”

“I can’t laugh,” I said. “You bruised a few of my ribs, but we’ll let bygones be bygones. Maybe I’ll even vote Whig in the next election in Oz if you-”

“No,” Bass said.

I looked at Jeremy, who closed his eyes and opened them slowly to show that communication with Bass was hopeless.

“I got loyalty,” Bass said, his fingers turning white as he gripped the wooden arms of the chair to which he was strapped. “I know I’ve got loyalty. Even when I was wrestling and all those people were out there eating those hot dogs and booing me. I knew people who were my friends could count on me. My word means something.”

He was sounding too much like me, and I didn’t like that at all, so I told Jeremy to keep him tied till tonight. Jeremy followed me to the door and I whispered the plan to him while Bass pretended to be looking at a row of books but strained without success to hear.

“Toby,” Jeremy said alter I had explained things to him, “please do not be offended by this, but your plans in such situations tend to be precarious and fraught with danger for you.”

“I’ve noticed that,” I agreed.

“ Ulysses ,” said Jeremy

“ I cannot rest from travel; I will drink

Life to the lees all times I have enjoyed

Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those

That loved ‘me, and alone, on shores, and when

Through scudding drifts the rainy Haydes

Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and know .”

“If you say so, Jeremy,” I whispered, touched his solid arm, and went into the hall with the dog waddling behind me.

The late-morning sounds of the Farraday accompanied me back to and up the stairs. Arguments coming through closed office doors, a machine whirring, a shout of laughter, some male voice echoing from below, “Then you just come back tomorrow at the same time, and we’ll see what can be done about it.”

I had some time to kill, and possibly to be killed, and some phone calls to make. The game was set for eight that night. It had to be to get it all wrapped up so Eleanor Roosevelt could head back to Washington with her mystery solved and, hopefully, a bill for services, and I could pick Carmen up and get to the Armstrong fight.

My wardrobe was down to rock-bottom pitiful. The windbreaker I was wearing didn’t even have a zipper. Fortune may have been laughing at me but I had a joke or two ready myself.

As it turned out, my phone calls were delayed. When I opened the door of the outer office of Minck and Peters, specialists in finding lost grandfathers and filling teeth, I heard voices-three voices, one female, two male-in Shelly’s office. I considered turning around and heading the dog back to the street. We could find a park and take in the threatening rainstorm.

Instead I made the move, opened the inner door, and stepped into Shelly’s office.

The scene: Shelly’s spick and span, squeaky clean, falsely antiseptic office. In it, behind the dental chair that occupies the position of power in the room-the electric chair, the throne-stands Shelly in a clean white dental smock buttoned at the collar, cigar nowhere in evidence. Next to Shelly, flanking him, are a man and a woman. The woman, about sixty, is dressed in a dark blue dress with big white flowers on it. She looks like Marjorie Main wrapped in wallpaper designed for the women’s room of a Dolly Dainty restaurant. The man is small, mustached, with a determined little chin, and losing his hair. He is like Porter Hall, the actor who snivels and makes a living by betraying Gary Cooper.