Stuart Kaminsky - High Midnight

“What have you got on Gelhorn or whoever is backing Gelhorn?” I said.

“That’ll just about do it,” he said, working his way to a standing position. “You got ten seconds to get out of here and stay out.”

I had expected something more colorful from an old Western villain, something like, this closet isn’t big enough for both of us. There was no way Fargo could have thrown me out of the room, but I had no reason to humiliate him. My goal had been to provoke him a little and get a feeling about him. I had provoked him, but I wasn’t sure of the feeling.

“I’m going, partner,” I said, taking a quick step to the door so he wouldn’t have to be forced to try to throw me out. “Just think about what I said. I’ll be back.”

My next stop was Max Gelhorn’s office. It was getting a little late in the day, but I didn’t want another shot fired at me if I could head it off.

The chunky girl with the running nose and box of Kleenex looked up at me suspiciously when I went through the door of Max Gelhorn Productions.

“You are not Mr. Fligdish of the Fourth Commercial Bank,” she said accusingly.

“I am not,” I confessed. “I’m a pederast.”

She looked at me, puzzled, with bulbous cheeks that seemed to be concealing apples.

Gelhorn was watching the exchange from inside his office. He stood up behind his desk and shouted, “What the hell do you want? Didn’t you do enough yesterday?”

“Hey,” I said in as friendly a manner as I could, “remember I’m the one who works for Gary Cooper and you’re the one who wants him.”

“There are limits,” shouted Gelhorn, rubbing his cheek.

“Are there?”

“Come in,” Gelhorn grumbled, sitting again. I went around the secretary’s desk. She tried to muster a sneeze to aim in my direction but it didn’t come. I squeezed into Gelhorn’s office, past piles of scripts and stacks of trade papers. His desk was cluttered with photographs, more scripts and assorted props.

“Have a seat,” he said. He bobbed nervously behind his desk, touched a script, straightened it out and looked at me. I sat.

“Well?” he said.

“Not very,” said I.

“Hey, I can do without this dialogue. It’s bad enough I have to direct it. I don’t have to listen to this crap in my own office. Just talk straight and back to business.”

I took my time and admired a poster on the wall of an old Western that Gelhorn had produced and directed. The star was Kermit Maynard, and Tall Mickey Fargo was about the fifth name down the cast list. Kermit was pointing a gun out of the poster in my general direction. Kermit’s face was a silly pink.

“Where in your wildest dreams did you get the idea that Gary Cooper would agree to make High Midnight with you?” I said.

Gelhorn rose and pointed the closest thing he could find at me. It was a reel of film. The tail of the film unraveled and dribbled onto the floor.

“Look, you,” said Gelhorn, High Midnight is a good script and …”

“… and the only way you stood a rat’s chance of getting Cooper was if you scared or blackmailed him into it,” I finished.

“No,” he said, trying to gain his composure and rewind the film, which was unraveling at a wild pace. He dropped the whole mess on the floor. “I had Lola Farmer’s assurance that she could talk Cooper into it, that they were old friends. I had a good script. I had good money behind it, enough to make Cooper a good offer. He won’t be sorry if he makes this picture.”

“Max,” I sighed, “you know this business well enough to know that Cooper is under contract to Goldwyn.”

“He can get out for a picture if he wants to,” Gelhorn said, sitting and starting to sulk. “He’s gotten his way before, getting conveniently sick to raise his salary or get out of a picture he didn’t like.”

“But he doesn’t want to do High Midnight ,” I repeated slowly, as if I were talking to an idiot.

Gelhorn didn’t hear or didn’t want to hear. A plea entered his voice. “Some people behind this aren’t happy with Cooper.”

“So they tried to kill me and maybe got rid of someone who was protecting me or looked as if he was. All a little warning to Cooper to give in.”

“For Christ’s sake,” laughed Gelhorn in hysteria. “Killing people to make a movie? Are you out of your mind?”

“It’s been done,” I said, looking at Kermit Maynard for support.

“I didn’t kill anyone or have anyone killed or order anyone to kill or …”

“You know a squat guy with a high voice?” I said.

“Lots of them. Casting books full of them,” he said. “You making a movie?”

“No, looking for a killer.” I got up. “How’s the horse?”

“He’ll recover, thank God. I think our interview is over,” said Gelhorn. “Miss Lloyd, please show Mr. Peters the way out.”

“If I take a step backward, I’ll be out,” I said.

“Then,” said Gelhorn, “take a step backward by all means.”

Miss Lloyd lumbered behind me, spreading germs. I eased past her, got a last look at Gelhom’s glaring eyes and left the premises of Max Gelhorn Productions. Things were making a little sense. I needed the squat man to put it together. Sooner or later he’d find me.

I made a few stops. First I went to Levy’s to have a sandwich and a cup of coffee and tell Carmen the cashier sweet things. She was a buxom widow who made a pastime of frustrating me. She never quite said no, but something always managed to keep us from getting together.

“You’re really working for Gary Cooper?” she said while ringing up the bill on an early diner. The diner tried not to show that he was listening to our conversation. He was a thin guy with no chin.

“Cross my navel,” I said. “He’s been fooling around with a wrestler named Crusher Morgan. They want to get married, but Crusher’s wife won’t let him go. I’m trying to talk Crusher’s wife into letting the mug go so he and Cooper can go away together.”

The diner wanted to stay to hear more, but he had no excuse. He had to depart to retell the tale or maybe savor the secret knowledge for the rest of his days.

“Why do you do things like that?” said Carmen, lifting the corner of her mouth.

“I don’t know,” I said seriously. “It just comes out. We still on for the fights tomorrow night?”

“We’re on,” she smiled. I reached over and touched her hand. It was dark and a little rough.

“The manager’s giving me a sour look,” she said, glancing over my shoulder.

I took the hint and departed, stopping only at the A amp; P, unable to resist the sign in the window that said Ann Page Spaghetti was on sale, two 1-pound cans for 13 cents. When I got back to my rooming house, A amp; P treasure in hand, I was musing over ways to lure the squat man out for another try at me so I could trap him. Everything I could think of was dangerous.

Mrs. Plaut was nowhere in sight. Gunther’s room was silent. I guessed that it was around six. The day was dark, but the sun was still there.

My first reaction when I entered my room was that the cops had finished with Costello’s body and had returned it to me, but it wasn’t Santucci lying over my table. Even from a bad angle, I had a good idea of who it was. I closed the door behind me, went to the table, put down the package and tried to convince myself that this hadn’t happened before. I could see now that it was the squat man, his high voice stilled for good. A knife was in his back, a little higher than the one that had been in Costello, but just as deadly. It was also my knife. I was now out of sharp knives.

I did the only sane thing I could do. I put a chair in front of my door to keep out sudden visitors and sat down to a bowl of Post Toasties with milk and sugar. I kept looking at the body, hoping it would tell me something. I didn’t taste the cereal. Only then did I go through his pockets and find nothing. Someone had taken his wallet. I had the feeling the police would not accept this as a routine robbery.