Stuart Kaminsky - Bullet for a Star

I pulled myself into a small bathroom and got to my feet as soon as I could. No one came rushing into the room, and I could see beyond the open door that the lights were out.

Beaumont might be waiting for me. I looked for a weapon and settled on a jar of Molle shaving cream. The apartment was empty. Beaumont wasn’t under the bed or in a closet. I had either missed him in the hall or he had grabbed something and ran down the fire escape.

It was a nice apartment, three rooms with maid service. It didn’t even look lived in. I turned the lights on and searched. It was an easy place to search, but it took time. I was checking everything. Beaumont may have made it down the fire escape with my gun, Adelman’s money and the negative, but he might have left one or all of them here. On the other hand, he might never have had any of them.

Fifteen minutes later I had found nothing. I was looking under the rolled up carpet when I heard footsteps in the hall. I started to get up when the door opened and a gun came through.

I was on my knees. It seemed a bad way to go, and Beaumont had every legal right to put a few bullets in my face. I was breaking and entering. There was nothing within reach to throw.

The gun that came through the door was attached to an arm which was attached to a familiar body and face.

Three men walked in.

“You gonna sing Mammy?” asked the man with the gun.

I got off my knees. The man with the gun was my brother. Seidman was behind him followed by the clerk from downstairs.

“That’s him,” said the clerk with a pleased grin. He looked as if he wanted to jump up and down with excitement. “Said he was a homicide detective and showed me that fake badge.” He sneered at me with his pimpled face. “Didn’t fool me for a second. I called Mr. Simmons right away and warned him. Probably saved his life.”

“You did a fine job, Mr. Plautt,” said Seidman. “Now don’t you think you should get back to your desk?”

“He tried to talk to me about Baby Snooks,…” Plautt continued, but Phil interrupted him through his teeth.

“Go downstairs, Mr. Plautt.”

Plautt gave me another look and went down the hall. We could hear him pause and shout back:

“If there’s a reward, I get it.”

Phil slammed the door.

“You couldn’t even fool that half wit,” my brother said, flopping into a chair. Seidman leaned against the wall and folded his hands.

“Get off your knees, you asshole,” shouted Phil.

I got up putting my tale together.

“Listen, Phil, I …”

“No story, Toby, none, just answers. This guy Simmons has you on breaking and entering as soon as we find him. I’ve got you on impersonating a policeman.”

“I didn’t impersonate a policeman,” I said. “I simply told the guy two words: ‘homicide’ and ‘Pevsner.’ I am investigating a homicide and my name is Pevsner. I showed him a private investigator’s badge.”

Phil rubbed a big hand over his tired face and put his gun away.

“That is the dumbest defense I’ve ever heard.”

“You gave the impression that you were a police officer,” said Seidman. “That’s the same thing as identifying yourself as one.”

“Who’s Simmons?” asked Phil softly, his head coming up from his hand. Phil was most dangerous when he talked softly.

“He may be the guy who killed Cunningham,” I said. “I got a tip and followed him here.”

“Why didn’t you call us?” said Phil.

I walked over to where he was sitting and kept talking.

“No time. I don’t think Simmons is his real name, and I don’t think he’ll be back here. When that jerk desk clerk called him, I think Simmons took off with the gun he used to kill Cunningham.” I left out the possibility of the negative and the $5,000. I wasn’t too sure about the gun either.

My eyes were fixed on Phil’s to see how much of this he was taking in, and how much he believed. He tooked tired and let out a massive sigh before the back of his hand came up and caught me on the side of the head. I was moving away from it when it hit me. I had been half expecting it. I staggered a few feet, bounced off a wall and tasted blood. Seidman looked on emotionlessly.

“Let’s go,” said Phil, pulling himself up from the chair. I followed him out the door, and Seidman went behind me. There was no blood on my new suit. Phil handed me a handkerchief over his shoulder, and I put it against my mouth.

“You mind if we just leave my car in the lot around the corner,” I said. “I’ve already picked up two tickets in front of police headquarters.”

As we went through the lobby, Plautt, the desk clerk, grinned happily.

“So you see, Sergeant,” I said back to Seidman, loud enough for the clerk to hear, “I couldn’t reveal myself as an F.B.I, agent, not where Nazi spies were involved.”

I thought I caught a slight smile on Seidman’s face. Plautt’s jaw dropped.

Seidman drove through neon streets, and I sat in back of the unmarked car with Phil. Phil said only one thing and then looked out the window.

“We picked up one of the guys who broke into your place, Fagin. We want you to make a positive identification and file charges.”

“Then you’re not arresting me for breaking into Simmons’ place and impersonating an officer?”

“Drop it, Peters,” Seidman said, from the front seat.

I shut up. It was nice to be driven somewhere for a change.

The man who looked like a mailbox was sitting in Phil’s office, guarded by a uniformed cop. Fagin and the cop were in a hot discussion about whether L.A. could support a pro football team. Fagin said yes, the cop, no.

“Is that the man who broke into your apartment last night and tried to kill you?” said Phil, pointing at the mailbox.

Fagin, his bald head gleaming and his neck invisible, tried to look innocent, but the blank look only made him appear more stupid. Without much work, he could find a good defense in mental incompetence.

“I think so,” I said.

Both Seidman and Phil looked at me.

“Could I talk to him alone?” I said.

“Hello no,” shouted Phil. “What the hell do you want to talk to him alone about?”

“In that case,” I said, “I’d have to say that’s not one of the men.”

Fagin was confused and looking more stupid by the second. He knew he was the man, and so did everyone else in the room with the possible exception of the uniformed cop.

“O.K., Toby,” said Phil, “you have five minutes.” He jerked his head toward the door. Seidman and the uniformed cop followed him out of the door and closed it.

I looked at Fagin.

“I’m not the guy you’re looking for, buddy,” he said. “I was home sleeping when those guys took you. Honest.”

I sat on the edge of my brother’s desk and grinned down at Fagin.

“It was you, and I’m going to see that you get nailed for it,” I said, sounding tough and cynical.

Fagin’s attempt at honesty turned quickly to animal attack.

“I’ve got two terms against me in Folsom,” said Fagin; “if I go up to Quentin or the Rock for this, I’ll see to it that someone makes you sorry you were born.”

He may have meant it, and he may have been bluffing. The odds were even that if I sent him up, I’d get a knife or bullet in the back some night. I was willing to risk it, but I had some other ideas.

“I’ve been threatened by bigger tuna than you, sport,” I said, “but we might be able to work something out.”

He sat forward in his chair eagerly, a solid Humpty Dumpty.

“Who hired you to get me and why?”

“Delamater hired me,” he said. “That’s all I know. I don’t even know what he wanted from you. I was just hired muscle. It sounded like an easy job. He didn’t think we’d have to kill you. I didn’t want to kill you.”