Stuart Kaminsky - He Done Her Wrong

The rest of the drive was slow, well within the speed limit, since I didn’t have a license and Rosie’s ten-spot couldn’t cover a speed-trap charge for driving too fast without a license.

The radio didn’t help. I gave up trying to listen to a hillbilly wailing on the only station I could pick up through the static. He was singing something about losing his dream in Call-i-for-ni-yuh and wishing he was back in Mizzuruh. Hell, I still felt good. My teeth were clean, I had a new bandage, and somewhere behind me or just up ahead was Ressner in the Packard. Sooner or later one of us would catch up with the other one. Meanwhile, I was leading him back to the Winning Institute.

Fresno came and went. I hit 41, took it to 168 and looked for the road Winning had told me to take. I almost missed it and the double billboard on the rock. I slowed down even more than the crawl I was traveling at and found the road with an enamel sign pointing the way to the Winning Institute. The road was paved, flat and narrow, not wide enough for two cars. Trees leaned down from both sides, their branches occasionally touching the top of the car and tapping a few notes.

About a mile and a half down, an arrow indicated a sharp turn. I took it and found myself in front of the metal fence of the Winning Institute. The fence was about twelve feet high, black iron with spear points at the top.

Beyond the fence about two hundred yards back was a four-story building with a two-story junior partner next to it. Both buildings were dark stone. Both had towers in the corner. It looked a little like Xanadu in Citizen Kane . I stayed on the road till I came to the gate, which was closed and guarded by a young blond guy in a white uniform. He was sitting in front of a little gate shack on a wooden chair, on which he leaned back so that the two front feet of it were off the ground. His back was against the fence and his arms behind his head. A newspaper rested on the ground next to him.

I leaned out of the car and said, “Hi, I’m here to see Dr. Winning.”

The young guy looked over at me, shifted the gum in his mouth, and pushed forward so that all four feet of the chair rested in the dirt.

“Your name?” he said.

“Peters,” I said. “Toby Peters.”

“Yes,” he said, getting up from the chair and pushing open the gate. “Dr. Winning said to look out for you. Drive straight on up. Park where it says ‘Visitors.’”

The guy was smiling the kind of false smile you reserve for those who can’t understand you and have to be tolerated. Considering the residents of the Winning Institute, it might be the attitude everybody in the place eventually adopted.

I thanked him and drove in. In the rearview mirror, I could see him push the gate closed. I drove on. The grounds on both sides were nearly flat, and in a far corner I could see someone in white pushing a mower. One man with one mower might make it a lifetime job to keep the grass of this place trim.

It was about three hundred yards to the front of the institute. Up close, I could see that both buildings were dark stone and constructed to look like castles. The porch or veranda of the larger building, where I parked in a spot with a sign marked VISITORS, threw the illusion off. It was broad, white, and wooden and looked as if it had been grafted on from a retirement hotel.

On the porch sat a quartet of men playing cards with a white-clad nurse standing over them. I got out of the car, walked across the gravel parking lot, and went up the four wooden stairs, which creaked loudly. The card players didn’t look up. The nurse, from behind her glasses, gave me the same kind of tolerant smile as the guard at the gate.

“Play it or lose it,” said one of the card players to another and reached over to slap at the hand of the guy across from him. The nurse turned her attention to the slapper, touched his hand, and put it back on his side of the table. I pushed through the wooden door of the building and stepped into a broad fern-filled lobby with dark wooden floors and walls papered with blue flowers and portraits of contented Winnings of the past.

A nurse was standing inside the door and off to the side. She stepped forward as if she had been waiting for me. She was about average height with brown hair and a poor complexion. Behind her stood a Negro about my height in white. He didn’t give me the tolerant look. His upper body was massive, created by a comic book artist or Michelangelo.

“Mr. Peters?” she said. “I’m Nurse Grace. This is M.C. We’ll take you to Dr. Winning.”

I thanked them and followed her to the left. M.C. walked at my side. I wondered why I needed an armed escort. Maybe they had more reason to fear Ressner than I knew about.

We hiked down a corridor and stopped in front of an unmarked door. Nurse Grace opened it and stepped in before me. I followed her with M.C. behind me.

“Should we wash our hands before I see Dr. Winning?” I said.

“That won’t be necessary,” Miss Grace answered seriously.

The office was big and comfortable with a massive mahogany desk and leather desk chair behind it. There was a matching couch of leather against one wall and several not-quite-as-comfortable chairs. Behind the desk was a huge window looking across the flat grounds of the institute. No trees obstructed the view right to the fence.

I sat in one of the chairs and looked back at Nurse Grace and M.C.

“So,” I tried. “Did you have a bet on the Derby?”

M.C. shook his head negatively. Nurse Grace smiled tolerantly. I touched my bandage. I’d left my hat in the car, so I couldn’t play with it. Somewhere not too far away pans were clanking.

I looked at my watch without bothering to see what it said.

“I’ll bet things really start jumping around here when there’s a full moon,” I said, turning my head to M.C, who stood to my right.

This repartee could have gone on indefinitely, but was unfortunately interrupted by a chunky guy around thirty-five, who stepped into the room through the door we had entered. He had brown unruly hair and a bushy matching moustache. His pants were dark, and he was wearing a white shirt and heavy white wool cardigan sweater with buttons.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said pleasantly. “You must be Mr….”

“Peters,” I said, standing and taking his hand.

“Right,” he smiled, leaning back against the desk and folding his arms. “I think we can be alone now and talk a bit.” He nodded at Nurse Grace, who turned and left the room with M.C. following. M.C. closed the door behind him, and I sat down again to look at the guy in the sweater.

“I’m here to see Dr. Winning,” I said.

“Of course,” he nodded. “We know. It’s about Mr. Ressner, right?”

“That’s right,” I said. “You know something about Ressner?”

“Oh, quite a bit,” he said. “Quite a bit. Mind if I smoke?” He pulled a pipe from his jacket and reached over for the humidor on the big desk before I could answer.

“Please, Mr. Peters, don’t take any offense at this, but we have had some security problems, as you know. Could you show me some identification?”

“My wallet was stolen this morning at Rose’s Rodeo Auto Court,” I said. “I think I’ll just wait and discuss all this with Dr. Winning. That is if he’s not dead.”

“Very much alive,” said the guy, lighting his pipe. “Very much alive. You’ve met Dr. Winning?”

“Yeah,” I said. “In L.A. a few days ago.”

“Of course,” he said, leaning back against the desk and looking at me with the tolerant smile. “Would you do me a favor? Security matter?”

“Maybe,” I said, wondering if this was one of the lunatics on the loose.

“Describe Dr. Winning to me.”