Stuart Kaminsky - The Howard Hughes Affair

“Right,” I said, walking toward the hallway. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Like why I make you so nervous you have to concoct a little show of ‘I-saw-nothing’ for my benefit. You’re hiding something, Gurstwald, I can smell it with this bashed nose-the bashing taught it how. I don’t like secrets, and I’m going to find yours if it has anything to do with Howard Hughes.” I turned to watch the effect of my speech on the Gurstwalds. She had almost lost her tan. He was flushing through pink, red and white and he reminded me of the Albanian flag. Or was it Luxembourg? Gurstwald nodded to Adonis, who moved forward quickly to take my arm. I let him. Mrs. Gurstwald hurried out of the room, and Gurstwald slowly regained his normal pinkish color.

“You have insulted my hospitality, Mr. Peters.”

“You going to slap me with a white glove and tell me to meet you at the Hollywood Bowl with my seconds?” I said.

“You are not to bother me or my wife again,” he said, quivering. “You are to stay away from us and not meddle in our affairs. We will have our privacy at any cost.”

Adonis’ grip tightened.

“May I take that as a threat?” I asked politely.

Adonis pushed me toward the door. He was young, strong, and confident and he expected no trouble from me. He was wrong. I turned toward Gurstwald as if to speak and unloaded a left to Adonis’ midsection. The air poofed out of him, and he collapsed, grasping his stomach and trying for air.

Gurstwald looked angry, then scared.

“I’ll be seeing you again Anton.”

I hurried into the hall and out the door. In a fair fight, I might not be a match for Adonis. I didn’t want to stick around for a fair fight with a 25-year-old refugee from a Wagnerian fantasy.

I slammed the door and started down the path, but a loud whisper stopped me. I debated a run for the car, but curiousity turned me. I didn’t become a pillar of salt. The whisper was Trudi Gurstwald at the corner of the house.

“Mr. Peters,” she said. “I have something I must tell you. Where can I reach you?”

“My office is in Los Angeles. The number’s in the phone book under private investigators. I’ll be there tonight.”

She disappeared and with her my hope of getting Carmen excited at the wrestling matches that night. If Trudi Gurstwald had something to say, it might be worth the loss. I felt pretty good as I jogged the twenty yards or so to my car.

I caught a few minutes of some soap opera advertising Hormel Chili, which reminded me that I was hungry. I tried to forget it as I continued down the road in the general direction of the Hughes house, according to the directions from the kid in Mirador. It was no more than a mile from the Gurstwald place, which seemed a hell of a coincidence. Hughes’ place was smaller than Gurstwald’s, with a nice lawn and a great view of the Ocean. It was a big red brick lump of a house trying to look like something English. I drove up to the door, got out and rang. It took about thirty seconds for the door to open. The opener was Japanese, in his late twenties and wearing a white jacket.

“Yes?” he said. I caught no accent in the answer.

“Name is Peters, I’m working, like you, for Mr. Hughes and I’ve got some questions.”

“Right,” he said, stepping back so I could enter. “My name’s Toshiro. Mr. Dean called and said we might be hearing from you. Mind if we talk in the kitchen? I was making myself some lunch.”

I said sure and followed him into the house, down the hall and into the kitchen. He had some onions and tomatoes on a wooden counter and a large can of tuna, half open.

“Like a sandwich?” he said.

“I’d like two,” I said.

He nodded and worked while we talked.

“Work for Hughes long?” I asked, sitting on a stool near the table.

“About three weeks,” he answered, opening the can and forking the white chunks of tuna into a bowl. “You like mayonnaise?”

“Yeah, as much as you can tolerate. You’ve only worked for him three weeks? What about the other servants?”

“Same,” he said. “Hughes just rented this place to set up a dinner for a guy down the road named Gurstwald who has even less love of company than Hughes. Normally, I’m a grad student at Cal Tech, but I take off every once in a while to make a few dollars. This seemed like a good deal.”

He held up a bottle of Rainier Beer from the refrigerator, and I nodded yes. So he pulled out one for himself too.

“Where are the others, the cook and the butler?”

“Schell, the butler, is out,” said Toshiro, opening the Rainier. “Nuss, the cook, is in, but he got bored and drank himself to sleep. We’re all waiting to be canned and meanwhile collecting our pay for sitting around.”

I picked wheat bread and Toshiro joined me. We ate quietly for a few minutes and sipped our ice cold beer.

“I think Hughes really lives in the Beverly Hills Hotel,” he said, emptying his beer bottle. “I get a lot of reading done here.”

“What about the night of the dinner party?”

Toshiro got us both seconds on the beer.

“Hughes stayed the day before. Brought a guy named Noah and a couple of well-dressed bruisers. Stayed in his room going over stuff he brought in an old briefcase. Nuss made him an avocado and bacon sandwich for dinner and Schell brought him some crackers and milk around three in the morning.”

I gurgled some more beer and leaned forward to put some salt on half a tomato I was nibbling.

“Night of the big blast,” Toshiro continued, “Everything went as scheduled. We actually had a typed schedule right down to when we circulated with drinks.”

“What’d you make of the guests?” I said. Toshiro shrugged.

“Money,” he said. “They’ve all got it except maybe that major. He’s got a problem in a bottle. Which reminds me, another beer?”

I said yes and we downed a third.

“Well,” he resumed, leaning against the sink, “everything was routine till Hughes went up to his room about an hour after dinner to get something. When he came back, he called the servants into the kitchen, changed the schedule and shuffled the guests out as fast as he could.”

“How’d they take it?” I burped. “Sorry.”

“Fine, except the Gurstwalds, but they seemed kind of odd the whole night anyway. Something was eating them. You know. They were just irritable.”

“They say they had a great time,” I said.

Toshiro shrugged.

“Well maybe, I’ve never seen them having a bad time.”

“You going back to Cal Tech when this job ends?”

Toshiro raised his eyebrows and carted dishes over to the sink.

“A guy named Toshiro might have a rough time around the states for a while if Japan gets a war going. I might just be better off getting a job around here and riding it out. Maybe I’ll even join the army. But that would be tough on my parents. We’ve got lots of relatives in Japan.”

“Where are your parents?” I said.

“You grilling?”

“Yeah, I can’t help it.”

“Parents live in San Diego.”

I got up and let Toshiro show me Nuss the cook sleeping in his room. His clothes were on and he smelled of wine. He also hadn’t shaved in a few days. Toshiro closed the door behind us as we left.

“Seems like a decent guy,” Toshiro said leading me to the front of the house. “The butler, however, is not one of my favorite people.”

“What’s his problem?”

“Don’t know,” said Toshiro, opening the front door for me. “Strong silent type. Looks at everyone like they were ants and he was a big shoe. Not the kind of guy I’d want for a butler, but no one asked me.”

“Thanks for the lunch and beer,” I said, stepping out into the humidity.