Stuart Kaminsky - He Done Her Wrong

The man was gray-haired, around sixty, wearing a heavy blue flannel robe and a long knife in his chest. His arms were spread out and his eyes were wide and surprised. Something creaked from the hall, and I grabbed for a portable radio on the dresser. I swung around, ready to clip Jeffrey Ressner with the white Philco, and stopped just short of clobbering Delores, whose mouth went open in fear.

“Back up,” I said, putting my free hand out and placing the radio back on the dresser.

“Where is …” she began and saw the body on the bed. I put out both hands to catch her if she fell, but kept my eyes on the doorway. Ressner was almost certainly still in the house.

“God,” she whispered.

“That’s Grayson?” I whispered, pushing her gently out of the room.

Her eyes were still fixed on the body, but she nodded her confirmation. When I had her around the corner into the living room, her eyes met mine and her head shook a dumb no no no no of disbelief.

“Get on the phone and call the local police,” I said very quietly. “Can you do that?”

She didn’t answer but kept scanning my face for understanding.

“Can you do that? I’m going to find your father and keep him from any other trouble. Now make that call. O.K.?”

She agreed with her eyes and looked around the familiar room, wondering where the phone was.

“He’s dead?”

“Dead,” I agreed and went for the front door. I was after my.38. Maybe I’d also grab the bronze Alcatraz and my bag of groceries. Ressner was not my run-of-the-dice killer. If he was the same guy I’d tangled with at Mae West’s and it looked as if he were, I wasn’t sure what it would take to stop him.

Before I could get to my car, the sound of an engine firing up came from behind me. The dark Packard parked at the side of the house came to life and kicked dust and sand as it shot in front of me. I didn’t see the driver clearly, but his shape was about what I remembered and expected of Ressner.

I ran around the side of my Buick, climbed in, closed the door, and took off. Ressner took the road I’d come on, the only road, and he really hit the floorboard. He came close to running down an old couple holding floppy hats on with one hand and drinking murky Poodle piss with the other.

At the main road, he turned toward Palmdale on two wheels and took off, wobbling. On the open road, my old Buick couldn’t keep up with the Packard, not even close, but I dogged him. If I could stay within a mile or two, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and if he hit civilization, driving that fast he’d pick up a surly cop or two. By now Delores, if she had found the phone, had called what passed for police in Plaza Del Lago. I had no idea of what they might do, but I didn’t count on their moving quickly. I dogged on, shoving my.38 in my jacket pocket, where it knocked against my hip until I had to take it out and put it on the seat next to me. Ressner was still in sight, going seventy or eighty down the road. My.38 flew up in the air when I hit a rock or a prairie rat and almost took my right eye. I grabbed the gun in midair and put it in my grocery bag.

We were in sight of Dot’s Dixie Gas Station when my Buick died a terrible death. It chugged, gurgled, and belched something that sounded like “The hell with it.” Metal dropped out of the front of the car and skidded with the undercarriage shooting sparks into the dusk. I lost control. The carton of milk flew out of the bag to see what was happening and exploded against the front windshield, spraying me and ending any chance I had of coming to a reasonable halt. The car barreled off the road and hit something solid.

I flew into the backseat and agreed with the car. We had been through a lot together. The hell with it. I shut my eyes and waited for my dream companion, Koko the Clown, to lead me out of nowhere, but he didn’t come.

When my eyes opened, I was looking into the pale face of Dot’s mongrel dog, which was neither stuffed nor dead. He had rotten breath, like all dogs.

The room was small and filled with spare auto parts and small animal cages. The cages contained newts, snakes, and a few field mice. There was a small window in the corner, and beyond it was darkness.

“You ain’t dead,” said Dot, his hands in his pockets looking down at me.

“Thanks,” I answered sitting up.

“Car’s dead though,” he said, handing me a bottle of Pepsi, which was just what I needed. I sat up, sipped it, and wondered what I had broken this time, but nothing hurt very much. In fact, my back felt better than it had before the crash.

I looked at the flannel shirt and torn pants Dot had put on me and said, “Thanks.”

“Trade,” Dot said, filling a pipe that appeared magically from his fist. “Those duds, the Pepsi, a meal, and a phone call for the wreck.”

I gurgled the Pepsi and thought about it.

“You can keep the Wheaties, the gun, and the statue of Alcatraz,” he said.

“A deal,” I agreed, toasting him with the Pepsi.

The deal completed, Dot lit his pipe, patted the mongrel, who panted appreciatively, and went to the hot plate in the corner, where something was cooking. He came over with a bowl of chili and some Wonder Bread. I spooned down the chili, sopped up what was left with the bread, and downed the last of my Pepsi before trying to stand. I did a pretty good job and found that I was thinking again.

“My suit,” I said. “And your phone.”

“Suit’s in a box by the front door with the gun, Alcatraz, and Wheaties. Suit’s not dry. Needs some cleaning, though Thomas licked some of the milk from it when I pulled you out.”

“Thanks,” I said, going for the phone.

He waved his pipe at me and said, “Used to know Sergeant York, Alvin York back in the last war.”

“That a fact?” I said, trying to raise the operator.

“Fact,” he said with satisfaction as he took the empty chili bowl away.

Shelly had left the office. No answer. I could have called him at home, but that would have meant the possibility of talking to his wife, Mildred, who, when we were at our best, refused to speak to or about me. I was definitely a bad influence on Shelly. Jeremy owned no car. I could have called Phil, but that would mean driving all the way back to Hollywood with him. I didn’t think I could take my brother for that long, and I knew from experience that he couldn’t take me.

So I called Mrs. Plaut’s boardinghouse and prayed that Mrs. Plaut would not answer. She did.

“Mrs. Plaut,” I shouted. “This is Toby, Toby Peters. Is Mr. Wherthman there. Gunther Wherthman.”

“Plaut’s Boardinghouse,” she said patiently. It was a subject of intense debate at the boardinghouse. Since Mrs. Plaut could hear practically nothing, we wondered why she insisted on answering the phone and, in fact, fought off anyone who tried to take it from her. We also wondered how she heard it ringing. Perhaps it was the vibrations or a sixth sense given only to the ancient and feisty.

“Gunther Wherthman,” I shouted, loud enough to wake Thomas, who had dozed off on the cot where I had been lying.

“Mr. Wherthman,” she gasped. “Why are you calling? I just saw you into your room.”

“Oh shit,” I sighed softly.

“You needn’t blaspheme,” retorted Mrs. Plaut. “Even in your native tongue.”

Dot looked at me without curiosity, puffed on his pipe, and dreamed of Sergeant York.

“Peters, Peters, Toby PETERS,” I shouted. The veins on my forehead ached.

“Mr. Peelers?” she said after a pause.

“Yes,” I gasped.

“He is not here and the police are looking for him again,” she explained.

“The police …”

“I’ll let you talk to Mr. Wherthman,” she said, and I heard the phone clink against the wall in the hall.