Stuart Kaminsky - High Midnight

When Marco prodded me with his gun, and said, “Have a seat and …” I turned around with my elbow out to hit his gun hand. This time it didn’t work. He backed up a step and drove his gun into my back. I staggered and Lola whimpered. I went into the wall, trying to make it look as if the blow had taken everything out of me and the crack of the wall had reduced me to bubble gum. I suppose if I had had time to think about it, I would have realized that the charade wasn’t far from the actual feeling, but I told myself otherwise. Marco strode toward me, in command, hand cocked, ready to smash any disobedience that might be left in me. I kept my head down, watching with my eyes rolled up toward him. His blow wasn’t as cautious as it should have been. I stepped inside it and the gun and threw a left into his stomach. The gun dropped to the floor, and Marco fell back on his behind. I wasn’t sure how to attack a gorilla of a man who was sitting down on the floor. I couldn’t jump on him or sit next to him. I could punch him while he sat, which would have worked out just fine, but some stupid nagging morality from old Gary Cooper movies stopped me.

My hesitation gave Marco a chance to recover. He went to his knees and dived at my legs. I started to back away, but he caught my left leg and I went over the sofa, landing at Lola’s feet.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got him now,” I told her and got to my feet to beat Marco to the gun. It turned out to be a tie. In the next fifteen or twenty seconds we managed to prove once and for all that furniture in furnished apartments is not as durable as it should be. We went at it with more enthusiasm than the Underwriter’s Laboratory could ever hope to get from a mere paid employee. I discovered that the leg of a walnut end table will not stop a charging thug. Marco, in turn, learned that a sofa pillow will not always hold up under the pressure needed to smother a detective. I was sure, as we thudded into the bookcase, that we would rate all the furniture very low for combat use.

We might still have been at the battle if Marco hadn’t found himself at Lola’s feet, following one of my better efforts at using my head as a battering ram.

“Don’t be apprehensive,” he told her and pushed his great body from the floor for another bruised charge at me.

“Hold it,” I shouted, trying to catch my breath. I held out both hands to hold him. He hesitated. “Why did you tell her not to worry?”

“I’m protecting her,” he said.

“From who?” said I.

“You,” he said.

The fear in Lola’s eyes was clear now. She was afraid of me, not Marco. I think I laughed. I know I groped my way to what was left of a chair. Marco picked up his gun and stood over me.

“What the hell made you think I wanted to hurt Lola?” I said.

“Mr. Lombardi said you maybe killed Larry and another guy and maybe you was planning to eradicate everyone in the Cooper movie, get them off Cooper’s back.”

“You thought I’d kill six or seven people just so Gary Cooper wouldn’t have to make a movie?” I laughed. “Who would kill for anything as-”

“Lots of guys,” said Marco, trying to button his shirt but unable to find the button I had chewed off. “I know guys have iced four, five other guys for less than five bills.”

“Right,” I said, thinking that Marco might be just such an icer. “But I told you I didn’t kill your brother-in-law, Larry? I didn’t even know his name and I don’t kill people.”

“I didn’t like Larry much,” Marco said, “but he was family and-”

“I know,” I stopped him. “What’s your wife going to say?”

“So?” he said.

“So Lombardi sent you to protect Lola from me?”

“You got it,” he said, finally finding a button and a buttonhole, though they didn’t quite match.

“Lola, you really thought …?” I smiled sadly, but it was clear that Lola really did think it was possible.

“You ever stop to think that maybe Mr. Lombardi had another reason for sending you to guard Lola with this bull-fiddle story about me? Maybe he just wanted to keep you busy, take your mind off finding out who stitched Larry?”

“Mr. Lombardi wasn’t culpable for Larry’s getting his,” Marco said, trying now to straighten his few strands of hair. We had broken the only mirror in the room, so he had to do it by feel. He managed to get two tufts up on the sides so that he looked like Porky the Devil. Then he pushed it back, but a crop of hair popped up in back, making him look like Tony Galento doing an imitation of Dagwood Bumstead. He was not a visually impressive mug, but he could throw a kidney punch with the best of them.

“Think about it,” I said.

Marco’s mind was not adapted to extended thought about much of anything. The idea of “thinking about it” seemed to cause him pain. He squinted to force the thought into action and gave it up.

“You’re pulling a fast one,” he said warningly.

“Suit yourself,” I said. “Lola, you have broken my heart. I thought we were music together.”

“Off-key,” she said protectively. I couldn’t tell if she was knocked-out drunk or shaky sober.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’m not after you.”

“Out,” Marco ordered.

“No,” Lola said hesitating. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

“You don’t initiate no orders,” Marco said in confusion. “I take my orders from Mr. Lombardi.”

“This is my apartment,” Lola rallied. “At least what’s left of it after you two played cowboys and Indians. You want to protect me, do it in the hall or downstairs.”

Marco was clearly confused. He couldn’t shoot the person he was supposed to protect. He could shoot me, but even he saw that it would get him nowhere. I wondered if he was still afraid of Los Angeles.

“You still in love with California?” I asked.

He snarled, plunked his gun in his holster and looked at Lola. “You’re making a singular mistake,” he said, pointing a hot dog finger at her.

“That’s my song,” she sighed, finally letting her feet touch the floor. She looked tired. “Go tell Mr. Lombardi I appreciate his consideration. It’s a real change from the memorable nights he tried to take me apart.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Marco repeated, looking at me suspiciously.

“Hey,” she said, standing on uncertain feet, “you’ve been a good fella. Don’t make me call the cops.”

Marco shrugged and went for the door. He stopped to think of another argument, but none came so he went out and slammed the door behind him.

“Well,” I said to Lola.

She said, looking around the room, “Christ, this place is a mess.”

“Sorry,” I said, rising and moving around to see if any Toby parts were broken or severely cut. My body told me that I had escaped with less than I would have falling down a high staircase.

“I suppose I should pack up and move out before the landlord sees what happened and tries to make me pay.” She picked up a lamp. It was a ceramic thing with a base shaped like a dragon. The dragon was now in two pieces. Lola held the two pieces, tried to fit them together, her mind on another planet.

I stepped forward and took the dragon halves from her, putting them down on the sofa. “Did you get any sleep?” I said, putting my arm around her.

“No,” she answered quietly, chewing her upper lip. Her eyelids sagged, and her voice was even more raspy than it had been before. She still held the smell of scented alcohol, and her hair filled my senses as she leaned into me. I wanted to cradle her, to look at her and try to sort out what I felt, what I wanted to protect. She was too wise and too innocent at the same time.

“I’ll put you to bed and sit out here while you get some rest,” I said, leading her to the only door in the room besides the one to the hall.