Stuart Kaminsky - He Done Her Wrong

“I’m trying to think.” And she was. She pressed her hand to her forehead to urge the memory out. “Resnick, I think.”

“How about Ressner,” I cued her, taking her arms.

She nodded weakly.

“That’s my man,” I said.

“It’s going to happen again,” she whispered and sank against me. She felt soft and good and smelled great, but I put her down gently and fast. “Where does Talbott like to hold his meetings? Brenda, where?”

“I’m trying,” she said. And she was. I backed away to give her some space. “Let’s see. He’s taken me to Buddy’s on Gower, the Manhattan off Fairfax, Trinity’s American on Hollywood Boulevard, the-”

“I’ll start with those,” I said, “and call you if I strike out. If he checks in, tell him that Ressner is a dangerous nut and to get away from him fast, find the nearest cop, and duck. You got that?”

She nodded.

“Toby, I’m sorry I shot you.”

“Apology accepted.” I went out of the room and just barely danced past Carlotta, who had been eavesdropping and didn’t have time to get away.

“Try the Manhattan first,” she whispered.

“Gracias,” I whispered back and ran out the front door and toward my new Ford.

The sky was closing in again as I pulled onto Santa Monica and tried to keep from going over the speed limit. I pushed the outer edges, flipped on the radio, which sputtered and gave me nothing, turned it off, and reached over to the glove compartment for my.38, which, of course, wasn’t there but back in my room in the white box.

Traffic started to back up on me, and I didn’t know how long I was taking. My watch didn’t help, the radio didn’t work, and my inner clock was foul. A Yellow cab with a sign on top saying GROUP RIDING IS PATRIOTIC GO YELLOW stopped abruptly in front of me and I almost plowed into him. Something did hit me from behind and the sound of metal hitting asphalt tinkled in my ear. I leaped out just as the guy who had plowed into me sped past with his head hunched down. My rear bumper lay in the street. I picked it up and shoved it into the narrow backseat through the front window. The car was too small to take the whole thing into the rear, so some of it had to stick out the passenger window.

“There are days, God,” I said to myself, “when even I don’t appreciate your sense of humor.”

There was no parking space open on Fairfax. I hadn’t expected one. I pulled in next to a fireplug, got out, and ran for the Manhattan. Outside, I pulled myself together, tried to stop panting, and stepped into the near-total darkness.

There were eight or nine people in the place. Three at the bar, the rest in booths. Even this early a guy was playing the piano and singing “It Ain’t Necessarily So.” I looked around for Talbott but didn’t spot him. I still didn’t know what Ressner looked like.

The bartender was a young guy in a red vest, white shirt, and red tie. I hurried to the bar.

“What will you have?” he said.

“Richard Talbott,” I answered. “I’m from Paramount. He has an urgent message. Has he been in here today?”

The bartender looked me over, wondering about the mugs studios hired to deliver messages.

“He was here with another guy,” he said.

“The other guy. What did he look like?”

The barkeep shrugged. “Dunno, kind of tall, dark glasses.”

“When did they leave? Where did they go?” I pushed.

“They didn’t leave,” he said. “They’re in the back.”

The back was apparently behind some heavy velvet red drapes. I pushed away from the bar and headed for them. Behind me I heard someone at the bar calling for drinks.

Beyond the drapes was a small alcove and a narrow corridor. Just inside the corridor was a men’s room and a ladies’ room. Beyond that were two doors. I pushed open the first door, which led to a medium-size private room with a few tables, a bar in the corner, and chairs. The room was empty, but an amber light was on in the ceiling and a Dewar’s Black Label sign glowed over the bar. I moved to the bar where two glasses stood and touched a small red liquid pool near one glass. It looked thick and brown in the light. It felt sticky and familiar.

Drops of the liquid spotted the tile floor and left a trail to the corner of the room where an emergency exit door stood. It was slightly open. I pushed it and started to step out. The sky was going black again. I had time to notice that and some vague shapes in front of me when something caught me in the stomach. Some agonized animal bellowed “Arggghh,” and I had the feeling that I was being turned upside down and thrown on my back by a giant baby. Then there was nothing.

Koko the clown came and perched on my nose. Behind him someone spoke. I thought the voice said, “Too late again,” but I wasn’t sure. Koko grinned down at me and wanted to play.

I didn’t want to play. This was it. I wasn’t so far from fifty, with no money in the sock, a body that threatened to leave me, an ex-wife…. The hell with that. I’d gone over it before. Get up and keep going, I told myself. Koko could skate around and play tricks on Uncle Max. The Nazis and the Japs could throw what they had at us. My job was an easy one. Just get up and go back to work, but I couldn’t do it. My eyes just wouldn’t open. I suggested a game to Koko, sly fox that I was. If he’d open my eyes, I’d play with him. I chuckled, knowing that if he helped me open my eyes I’d be awake and I wouldn’t have to play with him. I’d have a more dangerous game to play. Koko, the sucker, agreed, and my eyes opened to a bright light. I closed them again.

“This one ain’t dead,” an incredulous voice said.

“He’s bloodier than the other one,” came another voice. “You hear me fella?”

“I hear you,” I said.

“What he say?” came the first voice again.

“I think he said ‘I dare you,’” said the second voice. I opened my eyes again and turned from the flashlight to look into the open eyes of Richard Talbott. They were big and brown and dead, and rain was pelting his famous cheeks. So much for Brenda Stallings’s luck and mine.

I tried to sit up, but hands held me back.

“You better just lie there till an ambulance comes,” came the first voice, which, in the cloud-covered darkness, I could see belonged to a cop in a raincoat, a young cop.

“I’ll get pneumonia lying here,” I told him. “And I’ve got a bad back.”

The second cop was not much older than the first.

“I think you better not move,” he commanded.

I sat up and looked over at Talbott. There was a knife sticking out of his chest, just about where the other one had been posted in Grayson.

“You think I did this?” I said, wiping rain and blood from my face.

“I don’t think anything,” said the second cop. “But you’re not going anywhere.”

“Hell, Sol, let’s get him inside,” said the younger cop. “There’s no point in our standing out here in the rain. If he wants to move, it’s his worry.”

Sol grunted and looked at me.

“O.K. You try anything and you get this flashlight across your face,” Sol warned.

“Just what I need,” I groaned and let them drag me through the exit door and back into the private room in the Manhattan.

They sat me on a chair and found some towels to sop up the blood in my hair. I could feel the cut but not how deep it was.

“You want to tell us what happened?” tried Sol’s partner, the kid.

“No,” I said. “I’ll just have to tell it again. Call Lieutenant Pevsner or Sergeant Seidman at the Wilshire station. They’re Homicide. Tell them what you found and that I’m Toby Peters.”

“You a cop?” said Sol.

“No,” I said. “A victim.”