Stuart Kaminsky: High Midnight

“I’m not wearing a scarf,” I said. “I was shot in the neck Saturday night.”

Without taking his eyes from the page, Shelly went on. “Take my advice and stay home on Saturday nights. Wild people, wild crowds out there. War scare. It’s hurting business, too. People don’t want to take care of their teeth if they think they won’t have their heads in a few months. At least some people. On the other hand, some people want to look their best if they know they’re going. However, the ones who don’t care …”

“Forget it, Shel,” I said.

He shrugged and turned the last page of the script.

“Well?” I asked, going for the coffee. “How do you like it?”

“Ah,” he said, tapping the script with his hand and sitting up in the chair. “Not bad, but it could be better. Some good ideas.”

He accepted a cup of black liquid, touched his stubbly chin, shifted his cigar and said, “First of all, it should be a lot simpler. The way I see it, the old sheriff isn’t a killer. He’s tired, and he’s all set to retire, leave town with his pal the dentist.”

“Dentist?” I said, trying to drink the coffee.

“Doc Holliday was a dentist,” said Shelly with pride. “Sheriff and the dentist are going to leave town, retire together. Town gives them a big sendoff. Then they find that a gang of guys the sheriff put in jail are free and coming to shoot it out that very day. Sheriff tries to gather the townspeople to help him. They all give excuses, except the dentist. Together the sheriff and the dentist face the gang, and in the last scene they leave town, and the sheriff, who’s been wounded in the neck, throws down his badge. Huh, how about that for a story?”

“No good,” I said. “Americans don’t want to see stories during the war about people not wanting to help each other to fight off the bad guys.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Shelly. “Maybe I’m a man ahead of his time.”

“You are indeed a man of many parts, Shel,” I agreed, coming down to something solid at the bottom of my cup.

“The title has to go,” said Shelly. “ High Midnight sounds like a Boris Karloff. I think they should call it High- ”

“Forget it, Shel,” I said, looking down into the cup. “What the hell is this?”

“Frog,” said Sheldon Minck, leaning back to dream about his script. “Porcelain. Used to do that back in the colonial days. You know, have frogs, other stuff at the bottom. Dentist wrote an article about making them as novelties when business is slow. Good gag, huh?”

A patient walked in, the reluctant Mr. Stange, who took one step back for every one he took forward.

“Wasn’t going to come back,” he said, “but it hurts like chicken hell.”

“A powerful image,” said Shelly, getting out of the chair and pointing to it to show Mr. Stange the way. “Enter and be sanctified.”

Mr. Stange went to the chair and got in, ready for another fearful trip. I had no intention of watching.

“Any calls?” I said as Shelly began to hum and rub his hands together as he looked for a tool or two in the rubble. He scratched his little finger pensively as he mumbled, “Calls, calls. Yes, you had a call, but it was nothing, just some clown playing a joke. You’ve picked up a lot of cuckoos in your line, let me tell you. Mildred thinks-”

“I know,” I said. “What was the message?”

“On your desk.” With that Shel shrugged and gave up his search for the elusive proper tool. He settled for second or third best, a long thing with a pincer at the end, which he cleaned by blowing on it and rubbing it against his soiled smock.

“When duty calls, a Minck will always respond.”

I left and closed my office door behind me, hoping it would drown out some of the more terrible sounds from Mr. Stange and some of the more gleeful ones of Sheldon P. Minck. It was somewhat effective, but it could have been better.

Among the pile of bills, mailers for a few dozen products to make me a more patriotic citizen and a handbill telling me to save all my chicken fat so it could be turned into explosives by my local butcher, I found the scrawled message Shelly had taken:

Guy called. Sounded funny. Said someone had electrocuted an elephant. I told him someone else had fried an eel. Guy on the phone said, someone had killed the elephant and I think we’re in danger. Guy said his name was Emmett Kelly, and you should come to San Diego right away and meet him with the Ringling Brothers Circus. I told him you’d be there in a few hours riding on your pet lion. Ha. Ha.

I put the note in my coat pocket, shoveled the mail and bills into my bulging top drawers and went into the outer office.

“I may not be back for a few days,” I told Shelly and Mr. Stange. I was feeling pretty good. In fact, I was feeling damned good. It sounded strange, but it didn’t have the ring of a gag. I could smell a gag as far away as I could smell Shelly Minck.

“Where are you going?” asked Shelly, his eyes in Mr. Stange’s gummy mouth.

“San Diego, to see who killed an elephant,” I said with a foolish grin.

“Waste of time,” said Shelly. “I tell you, it’s just some clown.”