Stuart Kaminsky - He Done Her Wrong

“Would you like a small glass, Mrs. Plaut?” I asked gallantly.

“No,” she said, “but I’ll have a small glass of wine.”

Gunther climbed off the chair, found a reasonably clean glass, and poured. Mrs. Plaut downed it.

“Your comments and suggestions will as always be greatly appreciated,” she said and left.

A few minutes later Gunther said goodnight. I did the dishes, finished the wine, raced Mr. Hill the accountant for the bathroom, lost, and went back to my room to read about Cousin Dora:

Oh, said Cousin Dora or something like that I don’t know for sure, the Indians are coming. And they were, a ragmuffin band of six or so from near Yuma. They came every Saturday like railroad men to trade pelts and empty bottles to Uncle Tucker for whatever he would give, which was not always much but neither were the pelts. Uncle Tucker was known to opine that some of the pelts belonged not to fox but to animals of a lesser ilk. In fact he said some of the pelts might be those of cows reported missing from the farm of the Grangers who lived the other side of the ridges.

Cows are strange creatures. Just recently a cow in Minnesota was given a special supply of sugar by President Roosevelt to cure its insanity.

When the Indians came through the door they were feeling mean because they had no bottles and only a few pelts.

Uncle Tucker said he would trade them a pig but not the pig named Homer, which Cousin Dora talked to, but one of the other pigs that had no name and if traded would not be likely to get one.

The Indians hemmed and hawed as Indians used to do before they made the trade and left but not before one of them either did or did not make a lewd suggestion to Cousin Dora who was particularly attractive to Indians because she was fat and some Indians like women who are fat but not sassy. Cousin Dora was sassy. The Indian was just paying a stupid compliment I would think but Cousin Dora did not so think. She entreated him to remain for supper and so he did because he didn’t want to miss a free meal though he might have thought different had he tasted Aunt Jessica’s cooking which was reputed not the best in the family though probably within bounds in Arizona. The other Indians went and after dinner this one wanted to leave too but he was considerable smaller than Cousin Dora and Uncle did not have a mind to quarrel with her.

I don’t quarrel with God or Cousin Dora he said often sometimes when it made little or no sense but this time it did. The Indian tried to get away but it weren’t any use. Dora sat him down and told him the run of things and he understood mostly. Here the story diverges. Uncle Tucker, whose mind went to putty in 1916, remembered that the Indian wanted to go most strongly. Aunt Jessica remembered only his weeping and talking strange. Cousin Dora simply confessed when asked that she kidnapped the Indian who she said was named Ira Glick. I do not think that was really his name though it may have sounded something like it in Indian.

Next day when the other Indians came back and requested the return of Ira Glick Uncle Tucker was in a mood to argue since it was only God and Cousin Dora he didn’t quarrel with. He didn’t mind quarreling with Indians, peddlers and Aunt Jessica. He was even heard to quarrel with the mule though he denied in later years that he did anything but scold the animal in detail.

The Indians said they would not leave without Ira Glick but Cousin Dora said no no you must leave without Ira Glick. He is staying. They got mad and talked Indian according to all accounts and said they would be back with something that would change the mind even of Cousin Dora. They reckoned without Cousin’s stubborn nature inherited by her through her father’s side of the family and not through the Plauts.

Dora fled with Ira and was not heard of again for seven years when she returned and demonstrated three offspring which to hear tell displayed the worst of both the savage and the cousin. All three were fat and red of face and lolled around till even Uncle Tucker said enough since Aunt Jessica refused to speak to Dora and threw them out.

The last we in the family heard of Dora Glick she was reported to have been sheep ranching near the Pecos and that Ira Glick had run away but had not joined his tribe. Some, not Uncle Tucker and that is for sure, say Ira Glick went into the political business and became governor of Arizona just before it achieved statehood. I do not think Indians can be governor but they may have thought him to be Jewish with such a name.

When I woke up the next morning, the sun was shining, the pages were scattered all around the floor. Since they weren’t numbered, I didn’t worry about the order. I picked them up, tapped them straight, and placed them on the sofa.

I brushed my teeth and tongue, shaved, breakfasted on Shreddies mixed with Wheaties, dressed, and told myself that I had a killer to find and maybe a murder to prevent. But first I had a car to buy.

I took a Monday morning bus with the people going to work late and got to Arnie’s by ten. He was in his oil-smelling office screwing something into a glob of metal.

“How much for the ’38 Ford without a trade? My Buick died in the desert.”

A customer pulled in with a big black car and honked his horn. It was loud. Arnie lifted his eyes to the customer, waved, and kept on fiddling.

“Two twenty,” he said. “That’s a favor, since you’ve got no trade-in.”

“I’ve got eighty, a fee coming in from a client back East, and a job I’m working on,” I said.

Arnie put down his screwdriver, rubbed a little more grease on his nose, and looked indecisive.

“I can sell that baby just like that,” he said. “She’s no carroodi.”

The customer, a well-dressed guy with a briefcase, looked at his watch and did his best to spread exasperation through the neighborhood.

“Arnie, have we got a deal or not?”

Arnie gave a massive groan that I took as a false sign of defeat. He was, out of the goodness of his stone heart, going to sell me sight unseen the ’38 Ford. He held out his hand. I fished out my wallet, handed him the eighty, and hoped that the twenty-five I had left would last till more came in.

“She’s in back, next to the busted pump,” he said, counting the money. “I’ll make a receipt and stuff when I finish with flash pants over there.”

The car was where he said it would be, and it didn’t look too bad. The rear bumper sagged and one of the headlights looked bloodshot. In addition it was a small two-seater coupe, which Arnie had neglected to mention. There wasn’t much room for baggage or passengers. The keys were under the sunshade, where mechanics always hide them. It took a little to start the Ford, but start it did and the engine sounded reasonable. The gas gauge read empty.

I pulled out slowly and drove to the front pump. Arnie was talking to Mr. Flash Pants.

“Needs gas,” I yelled through the open window.

“Nah,” said Arnie adjusting his baseball cap. “Gauge is broken. I filled her up.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Just fill it every few days,” he said. “Cost you a bundle to fix it.”

At least the radio worked. I turned it on and discovered that the Japanese had shelled Corregidor for five hours, but General Wainright was holding on. I also learned that the Nazis had executed seventy-two Dutchmen for aiding the Allies and that if you want steady nerves to fly Uncle Sam’s bombers across the ocean, you should smoke Camels.

By eleven I was parked in the driveway outside the home of Richard Talbott, Academy Award winner, shoo-in nominee for another in 1942 and, from what I had heard, a man who could hold his booze, but not very well.

The chimes echoed deeply inside of Talbott’s house. I looked around the grounds, which were on a slight rolling hill on Alpine just off Santa Monica Boulevard in Beverly Hills. The grass was well trimmed, the bushes neatly clipped, and the birds chirping happily in front of the big white house that dated back to the bad old days and had probably belonged to some silent film star who passed this way but once. I hit the chimes again and listened to them carom their three notes beyond the door. Then it opened.