Stuart Kaminsky - High Midnight

He turned his chunky bulldog face to me suspiciously. “I don’t have …” he began.

“I work for Mr. Cooper,” I said quickly.

His rheumy eyes opened as wide as his heavy lids would allow, and a grin appeared, revealing remarkably perfect teeth, almost certainly false. “Right,” he said. “Catch me later.”

I was at my car before Gelhorn could reach me, but I didn’t have to hurry. He had zipped past Fargo and his crew and was in a dead run for the fallen horse. He was already calling for a bandage and water colors.

Since I was close, I headed for the Big Bear Bar in Burbank. Maybe I could convince Lola Farmer to change her name to Barbara Banks, then I could say I had seen Barbara Banks at the Big Bear Bar in Burbank. Maybe I could pass the joke on to my nephews. But maybe at twelve and ten, Nate and Dave were already too old for it.

The squat man who was trying to pressure Cooper into making High Midnight was obviously not fooling around. Not even Sergeant York could shoot from that range and purposely miss me by a foot. No, no, my friends, this was a fresh message from Lombardi or a new player that I should keep what remained of my nose outside of the business of Gary Cooper. I should have been scared, and I was, but just a little. Another part of me was happy as a dung beetle with a fresh find. This was it. This was the tingling feeling that made me drunk and powerful. I had to ride it while I felt it or fear would take over, but right now I was immortal.

I had a wife once. It was seeing me in moments like this that sent her looking for saner pastures. There were other reasons, but this was a big one. Toby Peters, king of the hill, was ready.

I stopped at a drive-in on Buena Vista and munched a burger with fries and a Pepsi.

“Peters,” came a voice near my ear.

Costello was leaning into my window on the left. On the right I could see Marco’s belly. His head and shoulders were above the car.

“I thought Mr. Lombardi told you that Cooper is making that movie,” Costello said. “That’s what he told him, isn’t it, Marco?”

“Assuredly,” came Marco’s voice from above.

“Assuredly,” I agreed with a mouthful of hamburger. “I’m just making that clear to the people involved. You want some fries?”

Costello took some fries.

“Marco had a hell of a time keeping up with you,” Costello said, still leaning over.

“I’ll go slower,” I said. “But someone is trying to kill me, and I won’t want to stay anywhere for too long.”

Costello’s eyes narrowed. “You saying we’re trying to knock you off?” He pointed to Marco’s stomach and to his own chest.

“No,” I said, trying not to drip ketchup on my coat. “Some guy who looks like a two-by-four and very much wants Cooper to make that movie.”

“Mr. Lombardi won’t like that,” said Costello, reaching for more of my fries. “He wants you alive to work on Cooper.”

“Help yourself,” I said, holding out the fries.

“You point out this guy and we’ll see to it he stays out of your way. Right, Marco?”

“We’ll absent him from the scene,” Marco said.

“He shouldn’t be too hard to find,” I said, cleaning my hands on a napkin and gurgling down the last of the Pepsi. “He’ll be the guy behind me with the rifle. Hey, you mind throwing this stuff away so I don’t have to get out of the car?”

Costello took the remains of my lunch. I turned on the ignition and backed away, leaving him holding the bag. I decided to drive slowly to the Big Bear Bar so the gentlemen from Chicago could protect my tail. In an odd way it seemed as if we were on the same side. It didn’t reassure me much, but it didn’t cost anything, either.

There weren’t any boys whooping it up at the old Big Bear Saloon when I got there a little after one. I turned off Fourth and parked on Noyes in front of a building that shouldn’t have been there. The street was full of residential, one-story homes with front lawns big enough for one medium-sized human to stretch out for a sunbath. But it was too cold for sunbathing.

The Big Bear had either predated or fought the residential zoning. It was a two-story dark brick building with a drawing of a big bear in gold on the picture window. Venetian blinds, probably permanently closed, kept the passersby from looking inside. There were no beer signs on the outside to give away the identity of the place; nothing but a Ballan-tine Ale thermometer next to the entrance.

I tried the door. It opened, and I was into darkness and the sound of a slightly off piano. I stood for a while listening and waiting for my eyes to adjust. Then the piano was joined by the equally off voice of a woman singing “White Cliffs of Dover.” She sang on with determination, challenging the tune, getting it down for a while and then having it slip from her control. By the time she got to the end, I was ready to call it a victory for her and a loss for the song. By that time, too, I could see something of the room. It was small, with six tables and a bar running the width of the place. At the end of the room was a grand piano which took up space that could have been used for another couple of tables. At the piano was a woman, or the shadow of a woman whose head was thrown back.

“What do you think?” she asked, in a throaty voice that might have been a good imitation of Betty Field or Jean Arthur or a bad one of Tallulah Bankhead.

“I liked it,” I lied, sitting at a red leather stool at the bar.

“Bartender won’t be here for a few hours,” she said. I still couldn’t see her face, but the slowness of her words suggested that she had started her day’s sustenance before the barkeep’s arrival.

“No hurry,” I said, taking off my hat and putting it on the bar.

“You selling something?” she said.

“Nope,” I said. “Just looking.”

“For what?”

“You, if you’re Lola Farmer,” said I.

“I’m Lola Farmer,” she said suspiciously, stepping down the bar with a hand on each stool as she moved. She meant it to look elegant. It looked like someone with a few too many trying to keep from falling over. In ten steps she was close enough to see me and to be seen.

Lola Farmer was a blonde. Cooper had told me that, but Lola Farmer, like Tall Mickey Fargo, had gone through some changes. Lola had weathered them better. At least that was my guess. She was no longer thin, but she wasn’t fat either. Lola was a few thousand calories on the good side of pleasingly plump. Her face was pale and there was darkness beneath her eyes that wouldn’t go away with sunlight, but she was a good-looking woman. She had probably started with a lot, and though she looked like she was working to wear it away, she had too much going for her from nature to make the job easy.

“You look like a mug,” she said.

“I am a mug,” I agreed.

“Did he send you?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, looking into her eyes, which I guessed were blue.

“What does he want now?” she said, sinking onto the bar stool next to me.

“The same as before,” I answered.

“Tell him the answer’s the same,” she said with a great sigh.

“Suit yourself,” I said, playing with my hat.

We sat in silence for a few minutes while I tried to figure out what we had said and what to say next.

“He tell you I sing here?” she said.

“Yeah.”

She got up and moved back to the piano to collect the drink she had left there. “What’s your name?” she asked, after taking a healthy belt.

“Peters,” I said. “Toby Peters.”

My eyes were pretty used to the lack of light now and I could see that the name was familiar. She was also confused. Now some confused people retreat. Others break down. Lola attacked.