Stuart Kaminsky - Catch a Falling Clown

I turned and stood up. Nelson and Alex were facing me. Nelson had his gun out. Alex didn’t.

“Murder, as you know, is a rare thing in Mirador, Mr. Peters, a rare thing indeed. It is my belief, however, that if it does come, it is good if it is done by an outsider and good if I catch that outsider and even better if it takes place shortly before a major election.”

“Then I’ve done you a favor,” I said.

He nodded with a self-satisfied smile. “You might, indeed, say that,” he said. “Now, if you would be so good as to step a few feet away from the body of that unfortunate woman, Alex will get that weapon, which, I assume, is yours.”

I stepped away slowly. Nelson might take it into his head to simplify matters by gunning down his murderer in a rousing battle. The thought entered his mind as if by telepathy, and he glanced at Alex, who clearly wasn’t having any.

“The conscience and strength of my deputy are an inspiration to us all,” Nelson said sarcastically, as Alex moved forward to get the.38 in the sand. “You need not bother about handling the weapon, Alex. With this drizzle and sand, fingerprints are unlikely and, certainly in this case, unnecessary.”

“Nelson, I didn’t kill this woman.”

“We shall see,” he said, rocking on his heels. “Your gun. We catch you over the body. She, as I recognize, is one of the circus people and, if I am not mistaken, the wife of the young man who met his demise this morning. You and the lady friend have a little falling-out, Peters?”

A sudden blast of wind plastered my wet pants to my leg, pushed Nelson sideways, and made a groan through the ruins.

“Don’t move,” came Nelson, fighting the wind.

“I’m not moving unless the wind moves me,” I said. Alex, I saw, hadn’t been affected by the blast of air. He held the pistol out for Nelson, who examined it with the joy one would expect to see in the eyes of a pearl diver who has just come up with a beauty the size of a marshmallow.

“There are no low-life circus freaks to do battle for you now, Peters,” said Nelson. “So Alex and I will just take you back to our little jail, arrange for this body, and have ourselves a chat, a cup of coffee, and a confession or two.”

“I didn’t kill her,” I repeated.

“Oh, yes, you did,” he said. Then he looked up into the rain and showed his not too straight and not terrible white teeth. “Good day to spend indoors chatting.”

“You …”

“What am I, Peters?” he said, losing his joy-of-life attitude. “How the hell do you know what I am? I do more good in this world in one day than you’ll do in your whole miserable lifetime. Just ask Alex. Ask him about the parties for the Mex kids I give, the handouts.”

“Alex,” I said, feeling my back start to sag in pain. “Is he a saint?”

“Let’s get back,” said Alex, walking past Nelson and heading toward the ridge.

“Tell him, Alex,” Nelson shouted. “Tell him.”

“Sheriff Nelson is a good man,” Alex said, his back still turned. He made it sound like something he was reading on a pack of matches.

“Sheriff,” I said, pushing the wet hair from my face and trying to pull my broken-zippered windbreaker close. “There’s a dead woman over there. You think we might show her a little respect and let her go in peace without all your elephant crap?”

“Someday,” hissed Nelson, “I’m going to be governor of this whole damn state.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” I said, following Alex.

Nelson was as good as his word. He put on some clean, dry socks when we got back to the jail and made himself a cup of coffee. Then we sat, him behind his desk with his feet up and a cup of coffee in his hand, Alex standing behind me, and me dripping in a wooden chair across from Nelson.

“Like some coffee?” Nelson asked with a twinkle.

I didn’t answer, didn’t even let myself sneeze for a second or two, and then let it out.

Nelson scrambled back. “Can’t go spreading those germs all around here,” he said seriously, shaking the spilled coffee from his hands.

“Maybe we should give him a dry shirt,” Alex said behind me.

“All right. All right,” Nelson agreed and went back to his feet-up pose. I could hear Alex move behind me, the wooden floor creaking. Behind Nelson’s head was a series of framed certificates and plaques. One was from the students of Theodore Roosevelt Elementary School at Mirador for giving a safety lecture back in 1938. Another was for completing an extension course from the University of Southern California in basic civics.

I took the shirt handed to me over my shoulder, removed my jacket and shirt, and put on the dry one, which smelled faintly of alcohol.

“Got a complete sheet on you, Peters,” Nelson said, tapping something before him. “Like to know your life story, straight from the Los Angeles PD? I’ve had it here ever since our last little social encounter.”

I said nothing. He sipped and read aloud. “Toby Peters, born Tobias Leo Pevsner. I can see why you might not like the name you were born with, too sort of Jew-sounding. Let’s see, now, born Glendale, California, November 14, 1897. Mother died when you were just a baby. Father owned a grocery store. Older brother is an L.A. police lieutenant. You went about a year and a half to junior college and then joined the Glendale police in 1917. Father died in 1932. Your brother was in the first big war, wounded while you stayed back.”

“You in the war, Nelson?”

“I was unable to serve,” he said. “Let us get back to you. You have been known to consort with known criminals.”

“I try to catch them sometimes. It’s difficult to catch them unless you get near them. You might ask a real cop sometime.”

“Your wife left you,” Nelson went on. “You a violent man with women, Peters?”

“I am a pussycat with everyone,” I said. “I’ve been thinking seriously of joining a seminary, Little Brothers of the Meek. I deplore violence, shudder at the sight of blood, and confess to any and all crimes when tight-assed sheriffs frighten me.”

Nelson’s grimace wouldn’t move into a grin. “We shall just see about what frightens you, Peters.”

“You know, Nelson, you sound like Richard Loo in a cheap war movie. You’ll never get the role. You’re too small, too silly-looking, too smug, too transparent, too …”

“That’s it,” shouted Nelson, slamming his coffee cup on the table. “Alex, I think you should take our Mr. Peters here into the back cell and use your powers of persuasion to convince him to confess. I, meanwhile, will see to the body of his unfortunate victim.”

Alex didn’t reply, so Nelson went on. “You understand, Alex?”

“Sure,” said Alex, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me up.

“We will talk a bit later, Mr. Peters, when you have had a few contemplative hours to consider the cleansing nature of confession.”

I winked at Nelson, whose teeth gritted together loudly enough to hear. Then he stamped out into the rain. Through the storefront window, Alex and I watched him get into the police car.

“In back,” said Alex.

“Hey, it’s Nelson you’re mad at, not me.” I moved ahead of him to the narrow walkway between the two cells. The whole damn jail was no bigger than my Hollywood rented room.

“You’ll do,” Alex said evenly, pushing me into the second cell, the one furthest from where anyone could hear us.

“I didn’t kill that woman, Alex,” I said.

He was rolling his sleeves up slowly, apparently not hearing me.

“I’m not going to confess to anything,” I said.

“My cousin Lope Obregon,” said Alex, facing me. “In the bar.”