Stuart Kaminsky - The Howard Hughes Affair

“I think so,” I said, looking at Phil, who waited patiently. “But I can’t talk now. A man named Frye came looking for me with a gun and got himself killed. The police are here now, and they’d like some information about what I’m working on.”

The pause on the other end of the line made me think I had lost him, but his voice came back steadily.

“I do not want to be involved in any publicity,” he said. “My name is not to be mentioned. If you mention me, I’ll have to deny it. If you keep me out of it, you get a bonus.”

“How much would that be?” I said, looking at Phil.

“Two thousand and fifty,” he said.

“Dollars?” I said.

“I don’t deal in any other currency.”

“I’ll do what you want, but no dollars. I’d do it for any client.”

“I prefer to pay,” he said.

“There are one or two things you can’t pay for,” I said, looking at Phil, who was starting to show signs of impatience such as adjusting his tie constantly.

“I’d like a report tonight at midnight sharp,” Hughes said, and then he gave me an address. I said right. Then I hung up and looked at Phil.

“The client?” Phil said evenly.

“Right.”

“And he doesn’t want to cooperate with us.”

“Right again,” I said, shaking my head sadly.

“I see,” said Phil.

Seidman knocked at the door and walked in without waiting to be welcomed.

“Lieutenant,” he said. “It’s a weird one. The guy out there is covered with blood, but it’s not his. Doc says there’s not a wound on his body, not a cut. He was strangled. And it looks like he wrote something in blood on the table next to him before he went.”

“Unkind,” I said.

“Something like that,” Seidman agreed.

“Terrific,” Phil sighed, looking at me. “And you can’t explain any of it?”

“No,” I said sadly.

Seidman tilted his hat back to reveal more pale dome and added, “Guy’s gun’s been fired four times.”

“Must have hit whoever strangled him,” I said.

“Brilliant,” Phil nodded.

As Seidman made a discreet exit, Shelly burst in, his face red and his mouth open.

“How was the show?” I said.

“Show?” he answered, pushing his glasses back in confusion.

“ VooDooed ,” I reminded him.

“Fine,” he said. “What happened out there, Toby?”

“Cleaning lady came early,” I said.

“Cops, blood, a dead guy in the chair, the doors are broken again. I’ve got patients coming in half an hour. How’s it going to look with a dead guy in the chair?”

“Terrible,” I said. “The police will clean him out as soon as they can.”

Shelly was not appeased and he mumbled, “I’ve got a pregnant woman coming in at nine-thirty. How’s this going to look? Who’s going to pay?”

I pulled out my wallet, counted fifty from the money Hughes’ man had given me, and handed it to Shelly. He took it and walked out, still mumbling.

“Maybe this’ll do some good after all,” I said to Phil. “We might get the place cleaned up.”

Phil was looking sad. He got up, walked to the photograph of the family, touched my framed license and turned to me.

“I don’t like mysteries, Toby,” he said. “Why do you call me every time you kick up a corpse? The city is full of cops.”

“You’re my brother. I like to give you the business.”

For a man who spent most his time behind a desk, Phil could move pretty fast. He proved it by crossing the small room in two steps, lifting me from behind the desk with his right hand and punching me firmly in the stomach with his left in less time than it takes to cross your eyes.

“I’ve had it, goddamit,” he shouted, standing over me, “I’ve goddam had it with you.”

I liked him better this way, but I had the feeling I had turned on something I couldn’t stop. Seduced, shot at, clubbed, corpsed and beaten by one’s brother in a few hours was enough for any man. So I just stood there against the wall, waiting for his next move.

“It’s simple,” he said, breathing hard. “You tell me about your client and everything else you know, or I stamp on you. You know I mean it.” His finger was inches from my face, and I knew he meant it.

Seidman came in, saw me on the floor and spoke softly to Phil, who kept his eyes on me.

“Problem, Lieutenant?”

“No, Sam Spade here is going to cooperate, aren’t you Sam?”

“No client’s name,” I said, covering my head with my hands and expecting a kick. When Phil lost control, he lost control; a kick was as good as a punch. I wondered how his kids and wife survived, though Ruth had once assured me my brother was a model father and husband and never hit his kids. Maybe he saved it all for the job.

“Lieutenant,” Seidman said.

“All right. All right.” Phil stood up and turned his back to me. “Book him. Suspicion of murder.”

I pulled myself straight and wondered how long my body could take all this attention.

“Phil,” I said with exaggerated calm. “You know I didn’t strangle that guy. He shot whoever strangled him and I’m in one piece, it’s a battered piece, but it isn’t bleeding. And how can strangling be murder when the victim has a gun in his hand?”

“Sergeant,” said Phil, “get him out of my sight and put him in the lockup for a few hours.”

Seidman motioned for me to come, and I considered prodding Phil a little more. I had him back in form and I didn’t want to lose him now, but something in Seidman’s look changed my mind and I followed him.

In the outer office, a police photographer was snapping pictures of broken glass on the floor. The body had been removed, and Shelly was trying to put his tools together.

“That corpse had good teeth,” Shelly said. “Real gold fillings. You don’t see many of them in this neighborhood.”

“I’ve just been arrested,” I said. “For murder.”

“You killed that guy?” asked Shelly, without looking up from his search for something on the floor.

“No, I didn’t. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

“Right,” said Shelly, holding his glasses on with the finger of his right hand. Seidman led me out of the office.

“What do you get out of driving him up the wall?” Seidman asked as we walked down the stairs, absorbing Lysol and the looks of a few curious tenants and bums.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just used to him that way. What does he get out of putting lumps on me?”

“Forget I asked,” said Seidman, leading me out of the Farraday Building to a parked black and white police car. “I’ll lock you up for a few hours. Then do us all a big favor and try to stay out of his way.”

“I’ll try,” I said, “but he’s irresistible.”

They threw me in a cell with another dangerous criminal, a little guy in his sixties who was stewed silly at ten in the morning. I sat on the almost clean bunk, holding my head and counting backwards from 100 to keep from noticing the pain in my head.

“You can call me Calvin,” the drunk said, sitting next to me. “Calvin means ‘the bald’ in some language. I looked it up when I was a kid, but I fooled them. I’ve got more hair than my father ever had. Take a look.”

He shook me and I opened my eyes. I had been at 85. Calvin was smiling and tugging at his ample white hair to prove he had it.

“That’s great, Calvin,” I said, “but I’ve got one hell of a headache and …”

“They picked me up on Wilshire this morning,” Calvin continued, ignoring me. “You know why I was drunk?”

“You consumed too much alcohol,” I tried.

“I mean the deeper cause,” he said. “It’s the news. I got up to go to work and turned on the radio and this guy started telling me about someone trying to kill Mussolini, and about Roosevelt asking Japan to explain why they were concentrating troops in Indochina. And Roosevelt says peace depends on an answer. And more kids were being drafted into the army.”