Stuart Kaminsky - Now You See It

“Tuxedo,” I said.

“Whatever,” she said with a dismissive wave of her heavily ringed and scarlet-nailed hand. “He’s here. Darkness. Light. He’s there. Darkness. Light. He’s back over here again. You’ll see. You’ll be there. Lots of penguins. You’re a penguin, too.”

“Very helpful.”

“My pleasure,” she said. “No, my duty. Got no choice in the matter. I was heading to Manny’s for a taco. I’ll buy you one.”

“Just ate a couple, thanks,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” said Juanita. “Just watch out for that dead penguin.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Juanita took a few steps toward Manny’s and then turned around suddenly.

“Don’t wait for the pain,” she said earnestly.

“What pain?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But you’ll have warnings. You won’t listen to them, but you’ll have warnings.”

“If I won’t listen to them,” I said, “why tell me not to wait for the pain?”

“You think I know?” she said with a shrug and a shake of her head. “I see it. I tell you. It happens. I’m a seer, not a magician.”

“I know a magician,” I said. “Maybe he can help me.”

“You’re kiddin’ me Toby,” she said, “but, kiddin’ aside, your magician’s got his own worries, let me tell you. I’m hungry like an ox.”

This time she did move toward Manny’s. I considered calling after her to be careful of pebbles in her taco, but decided she might think I was making fun of her.

I headed for the car and was at County Hospital about twelve minutes later.

Blackstone was standing next to Gwen’s bed when I went through the door of her room. He was wearing a blue suit with a red bow tie. She was laughing. He was smiling. He held a rabbit in his hand. He handed it to her and she looked up at me.

“Look,” she said, cuddling the white ball of nose-twitching fluff. “He’s mine. He pulled him right out from under my pillow.”

“We haven’t given him a name yet,” said Blackstone.

“I’ll call him Tyrone,” Gwen said. “After Tyrone Power.”

She was sitting up, a little pale, but not the least like someone who had been shot the night before. She stroked the animal and rubbed her nose against his.

“We’ve been talking about what happened last night,” Black-stone said. “Very curious.”

“Very curious,” I agreed.

The magician pursed his lips and looked at his hands before he said,

“The killer of Mr. Cunningham used a 9mm weapon, correct?”

“Correct,” I said.

“But Gwen was shot at close range with a pellet gun,” he went on. “As were you.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Which suggests that the killer switched guns and chose one unlikely to kill Gwen,” he said.

“Or,” I said, “there were two shooters.”

“Working together?” he asked.

“Could be. Another thought,” I threw in. “Our shooter only wanted to make it look like he was trying to kill the witness. He shot Gwen because it made sense to go for the one person who could identify him.”

“But he didn’t want to kill her,” said Blackstone. “Suggesting that he wanted her alive to identify him. But why would he want to be …”

“You got it?”

“Got what?” Gwen asked looking up from the rabbit.

“Describe the man who shot you again,” I said. “Was it the same man you saw shoot Cunningham in the dressing room?”

“Yes,” she said. “Well, I think so. Tux, beard, turban.”

“That’s what you told the police?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And you saw him shoot Cunningham?” I asked. “You’re sure.”

“No,” said Gwen. “I was on the landing. I heard a shot. I saw him come out of the dressing room.”

“With a gun in his hand?”

“Yes, no. I think so,” she said. “I turned and ran.”

“Calvin Ott?” said Blackstone.

“But Ott couldn’t have been the one who shot Gwen. He was at the Pantages talking to the police when Gwen was shot,” I said.

“True. He made a scene,” Blackstone said. “There was something definitely theatrical about it, but then again Ott is always theatrical.”

“He wanted to establish an alibi while someone else was shooting Gwen,” I said.

“But he still could have been the one who shot Cunningham in the dressing room,” Blackstone said.

“Okay,” I tried. “He shoots Cunningham. There’s Gwen. He’s out in the open now. Gwen runs. He follows. She runs out of the theater. He sends someone after her and goes into the theater to set up an alibi for when she gets shot by someone wearing the beard and turban.”

“Assuming the police would decide that the person who shot Cunningham would also be the person who shot Gwen,” said Blackstone.

“That’s about it,” I said. “That’s why the pellet gun. Whoever shot Gwen wasn’t trying to kill her. He was helping Ott set up an alibi.”

“Maybe,” said Blackstone.

“Maybe,” I repeated.

“That’s all very comforting,” said Gwen, petting the rabbit and blowing gently on his ear. The ear twitched. So did the rabbit’s pink nose.

“It’s possible,” said Blackstone. “But there’s still something missing.”

“There always is,” I said. “I’d like to talk to your crew before tonight.”

“We’re going over the act this afternoon, around two,” he said.

“I’ll be there.”

It was lunch time at Max’s Drug Store on Melrose, but there was only one red-leather swivel stool open in the middle of the lunch counter. The others were occupied by women shoppers drinking coffee and yakking, salesmen on their lunch hour wolfing down egg salad sandwiches, and a sailor reading the newspaper.

Anita Maloney was alone behind the counter keeping up with orders, serving, preparing, brushing away dangling hairs with the back of her hand. She was a one-woman show: with one hand juggling orders, keeping coffee mugs full, slinging burgers, popping toast and scooping quarter tips into the front pocket of her peach-colored uniform while she piled the dirty cups and plates with the other.

Anita was the reason I was here. We had been seeing each other for about four months. It had started when I stopped in at Max’s for a coffee and recognized the woman behind the counter was the girl I had taken to the senior prom at Glendale High more than thirty years before.

We had lost touch with each other. I had gone through a marriage and lost my wife Ann who wanted a husband and not a battered kid in his forties. Anita had also been through a divorce, one she didn’t want to talk about it. Anita had a daughter, grown, living on her own in L.A. I had a cat named Dash living on his own in Hollywood backyards.

Anita saw me, gave me a small smile. Good teeth. White. Even. Anita was lean, energetic, and a little washed out when she was behind the counter, definitely pretty when she cleaned up after work. She wasn’t a beauty like Ann, but we were more than just comfortable with each other.

She didn’t ask me for my order, simply bringing me a Pepsi on ice and a slice of apple pie.