Stuart Kaminsky - He Done Her Wrong

“Hell ….” Mrs. Plaut started, but someone was wrestling her for the phone.

“Mr. Gunther,” I heard her squeal.

Then Gunther came on. “Yes?”

“It’s me, Toby,” I said.

“I hoped it would be.”

Behind him I heard Mrs. Plaut cry, “One more such incident, Mr. Gunther, and you shall have to pack up all your neat little clothes and get your rump out of here.”

I explained my predicament to Gunther, who had been worrying about me, and he told me that he had already had my milk-stained suit cleaned and pressed and the button sewed back on. It would take him no more than fifteen minutes or so to get to the hospital.

While I waited in the room wondering what I would do next, a pair of nurses stuck their heads in. The younger of the two said, “That’s him.” The older one looked at me in awe and held up an X ray, which I assumed was my skull. I considered slinging something at them the way the chimps did in the zoo, but decided to preserve whatever dignity I might have left, which amounted to less than that of Huntz Hall’s character in the Bowery Boys movies.

Gunther made it in sixteen minutes according to the wall clock and four minutes according to my old man’s watch. I was dressed a few seconds later and signing my release papers seconds after that, with Dr. Melanks hovering over me with a cup of coffee.

“I was only half joking about having you sign your body over to me,” he said. “I’d like to watch a good pathologist going at your skull.”

“Bye doc,” I grinned, fitting on the hat that Gunther had brought so that it rested just above the bandage at the back of my head. “Watch your blood pressure.”

Gunther drove me to Fairfax, suggesting that I come home and get a good night’s rest before I retrieved my car. I told him that it probably wouldn’t be there if I waited till morning. The cops would have towed it away. He shrugged, stepped on his elongated gas pedal, and hurried into the night with his radio tuned to Gene Autry.

The Ford was still in front of the fireplug when we got there. It was decorated by four parking tickets. I shoved them into the glove compartment, started the engine, wondered how much gas I had used, and followed Gunther back to Hollywood. The bumper next to me bobbed up and down, scratching at the upholstery. I parked in front of Mrs. Plaut’s and hauled the bumper up to my room. I couldn’t sleep on my back because of the stitches. Sleeping on my stomach meant a sure headache in the morning. I propped myself on my side with pillows as a compromise and considered retirement and a new career.

Maybe Arnie could teach me the car business, or Shelly could give me a two-week course in dentistry, or Jeremy could make me the Farraday janitor, or Gunther could teach me how to speak Norwegian so I could translate the classics. Maybe. I slept surprisingly well.

Mrs. Plaut stood over me when I opened my eyes. The Beech-Nut gum clock on the wall told me it was nine in the morning. Her teacher-folded hands and the no-nonsense tight lips above her lacy collar told me she had a problem.

“I am vexed,” she said.

I tried to roll back to get a good look at her vexation, but my head touched the pillow and reminded me of my stitches. I rolled gently to a sitting position, yawned, and fixed my bleary eyes on her.

“You are vexed,” I encouraged.

“First Mr. Gunther behaves with improper respect,” she said, wringing her hands. “Next you confound the pages of my chapter on Cousin Dora. Did you read the chapter?”

“Cousin Dora attacked the Indians,” I yawned. “The Indians fled and preserved their virtue.”

“But still I am vexed,” she went on. I wasn’t sure if she had heard my summary. “The newspaper informs me that you are involved again in bodies. A news reporter even called this morning to speak to you. I told him that I had seen Mr. Richard Talbott in Destiny’s Darling four or five times. That was when Mr. Richard Talbott was a young man and the movies, thank Jesus, didn’t talk. He had fine hair like my brother Bernard.”

“You are vexed,” I reminded her loudly, pushing up from the mattress on the floor.

“Please put something on,” she said. I looked down at my underwear, nodded, and reached for my pants. “I think it improper that you should have killed Mr. Talbott. That’s what I have to say.”

“I didn’t kill him,” I said, trying to force my belt one notch over.

“Good,” she said, still grinding her knuckles. “The newspaper said you had been questioned concerning the crime, but it didn’t say you had killed him.”

“What else did the paper say?” I yelled. I pulled a nearly empty bottle of milk from the refrigerator, started the coffee, and rummaged through my cereals, finally settling on All Bran. It might be one of those days. I knew I had some brown sugar someplace but was having trouble tracking it down.

“The paper also said that,” she went on obligingly, “the Japanese have stormed Corregidor, Laval has rejected President Roosevelt’s warning, Great Britain in fighting the Vichy French on Madagascar, and Joe DiMaggio’s triple in the tenth inning beat the Chicago White Sox.”

It wasn’t the subject I had in mind, but I appreciated the summary and looked out of the window. The damn sky was clear. Lord God, hallelujah.

I held up the box of All Bran for Mrs. Plaut to look at and offered to share it with her. She shook her head no.

“So, Mr. Peters, what are we going to do?”

About the Japanese, fight and pray. About DiMaggio, nothing. I wasn’t a Sox fan.

“I will be much more circumspect in the future,” I yelled.

This seemed to placate her. Outside I could hear footsteps.

“I am well into my chapter on the Beemer side of the family and their encounters in science,” she said. “Then we should be ready to seek a publisher.”

We? I nodded dumbly and poured my cereal just as the knock came at my door.

“Come in,” I shouted and Gunther came in, all suited in gray.

Mrs. Plaut failed to hear him enter and continued to glare at me while I sat and ate. Gunther moved past her and caught the corner of her eye.

“Mr. Gunther,” she said as he moved to the table. “You have, until yesterday, always been a perfect little gentleman. I do not know what possessed you.”

“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Plaut,” Gunther said with a continental bow of his head.

“When you want to apologize,” she went on, “I’ll be downstairs. And Mr. Peelers, will you please remove that thing.” She pointed to the bumper. With that and the Dora chapter she raced from the room.

“How might your head be this morning, Toby?” Gunther said as he poured the coffee.

“Feels like someone removed a few inches of scalp and sewed the whole thing back on too tight. Not bad though.” The All Bran was just what I needed.

“You seem surprisingly good spirited,” he observed, pouring himself some coffee after he recleaned the cup he had selected.

“Can’t explain it,” I said, pouring some more All Bran into the remaining milk in my bowl and spooning out some brown sugar, which I had found in the refrigerator. I had to dig the spoon in like a shovel to get it out. “Lost Anne. Beaten. Suspect in two murders. Broke. Income tax people are after me. War going on. But”-I held up a finger-“I am on the job.”

“Toby, I am having a slight idiomatic problem again in a translation I am engaged in for radio.” Gunther was serious about his translations. “In this tale, a man says ‘That’s the way the ball bounces.’ My research indicates that this expression derives from the irregular trajectory of an American football when it strikes the ground. This is a result of the peculiar shape of the ball. Most balls bounce quite true and predictably. An English rugby ball is somewhat similar, but this translation is into French, and I am at a loss.”