Stuart Kaminsky: Bullet for a Star

“Don’t move mister,” said a young voice.

“I can’t move,” I tried to say, but it must have come out sounding like a ten-month old eating cereal.

Another beam of light searched the room, and I tilted my light up. There were two young Los Angeles cops with flashlights and guns. Their dark ties were neat, and their shields gleamed over their left pockets.

“I think this one’s dead,” said the young-voiced cop.

“And I think this one’s drunk,” said the other one helping me up. He was big and had no trouble lifting me with one arm. “He’s hurt too.”

His hand touched my holster. He reached under my jacket to check.

“You’ve got troubles mister,” he whispered almost sympathetically.

You don’t know half of it, I thought.

One hour later, after a quick trip to Los Angeles County General Hospital where a nervous medical student sewed up my head, I was feeling again. Not really better, but feeling and starting to think. I was sitting with the big cop in a police station, a wide, dirty room. The smell of stale tobacco and human sweat hung over the few desks. An ancient NRA eagle poster peeled off of one dirty wall. The cop looked at me with curiosity and took off his hat to rub his head. For a young man, he had very little hair.

I said I was sorry for getting blood on his uniform, and he said it was all right.

A coffee cup was hot in my hand. I sipped, but each sip hurt. Everything hurt.

“The sergeant says you can make one call before he talks to you, but we’ve got to listen to what you say.”

“Shouldn’t you be out in your car or on your beat?” I asked.

“We’re short-handed, vacations. You kill that guy?”

“No. You believe me?”

He shrugged.

Adelman was waiting for my call and a negative, but I had promised to cover for him, the studio and Flynn. I’d screwed everything else up. At least I could do that.

“No call,” I said. “Just get in touch with Lieutenant Pevsner in Homicide. Tell him I’m here and what happened.”

“You want Pevsner?” said the young man, unable to believe the request.

“Yes, please.”

“Your funeral,” he shrugged again, “but I’m not calling him. The sergeant will have to do it.”

A few minutes after four I was feeling almost alive again. The big cop had moved with me to Pevsner’s small office. There was barely enough room for the battered desk, a steel file cabinet, two chairs, him and me.

Pevsner came in, looked at me and then at the big cop, who put his hat back on and started to turn on his friendly smile but thought better of it and left. He did the right thing. Pevsner slammed the door and moved behind the desk glaring at me, a manila folder in his hand.

He was a little taller than me, a little broader, a little older and developing a slight cop’s gut He had close-cut steely hair and the look of a lunatic who required superhuman effort to hold in his rage. The last time I had seen that look was when I went with him to the Louis-Roper fight in Wrigley Field a year earlier. Joe Louis had kayoed Jack Roper in the first. Phil Pevsner had felt cheated and angry. His tie was dangling loosely around his neck.

“You look like a pile of crap,” Pevsner said.

“How are Ruth and the kids?”

“You have a phone in that tin office of yours,” he said. “You know my number. This is no goddamn time to ask me about my family. Did you shoot that guy?”

“No.”

“Where’s your gun?”

“I don’t know.”

“What were you doing in that house, and how did you get your head bashed?” He looked up from the report in front of him.

“I got a call early in the evening,” I said trying to sound sincere. “Some guy said he had a job for me, guard for some truckers’ union official who was getting threats. The guy said the union man was hiding at the house, and I should come there at two in the morning.”

“Why two in the morning?”

“I don’t know,” I said wearily. “Maybe someone was following him.”

“So?”

“So, I went to the house at two. Someone opened the door and used my head for batting practice.”

“You see anyone?”

“Too dark.”

“You know the guy who was killed?”

“No.”

“Toby,” Pevsner sighed and pursed his lips, “You are one shitty liar. Who are you covering for?”

“Errol Flynn,” I said.

Pevsner stood up in a rage, his hands going red and then white as they clasped the edge of the desk.

“Cut that wise-ass crap, Toby, or you’re going to catch a phone book in the face.”

I put my two hands up, palms toward him. I knew from experience that he meant it.

“Phil, I’ve had enough for one night. I know you can give me more. I didn’t kill that guy.”

“Shit,” Pevsner answered, throwing the folder on the desk.

“Did you find my gun?”

No answer.

“Come on, Phil. What did I do, shoot that guy, bury my gun, beat myself over the back of the head and sit around waiting for the cops?”

“Toby, I know when you’re lying. Your story is full of holes, and the holes are plugged with horse shit.”

“Are you going to book me, Phil?”

“Not yet. Get the hell out of here. When I find out who that dead man is, we’re going to have another talk.”

I left him sitting behind the desk with his back to me. The big cop who had brought me in was waiting in the hallway. I winked at him and made it down the steps and into the night air.

Phil Pevsner didn’t always like me, and he wasn’t always honest; but he believed me when I said I hadn’t killed Cunningham. Pevsner was a good, tough cop, and I didn’t think it would take him too long to find out the dead man was a Warner Brothers employee named Cunningham.

The big cop had driven me here in my own car which was parked in front of the station. There was a parking ticket on the windshield, but I still felt lucky. I’d probably have been locked up listening to drunks if my brother Phil weren’t a homicide cop.

By the time I had showered, changed into my last suit, had a bitter cup of coffee and finished a bowl of Shredded Wheat with sugar and milk, I was ready for Sid Adelman.

“Peters, you know what time it is?” his voice cracked.

I looked at my watch, tucked the phone under my chin and poured myself another cup of Chase and Sanborn.

“It’s a quarter to five. Do you want to hear what I have to say or do you want me to listen to you complain?”

“Talk,” hissed Adelman.

“I’ve been in the hospital and a police station.” Adelman groaned, and I continued. “Don’t worry. I kept you, Flynn and the studio out of it. The blackmailer’s dead.”

“You killed him?”

“I didn’t kill anybody. Somebody killed him, cracked me in the head and took the cash, the negative and the picture. But I don’t think you’ll hear anything more about the photographs or blackmail. There’s a murder rap tied to the pictures now. He’ll probably burn them faster than you would.”

It sounded reasonable, and I hoped Sid would buy it.

“This is …” Sid began, but I heard a scrambling and someone took the phone from him. Then I heard Flynn’s voice.

“Toby, are you all right?”

“A few stitches, a bloody shirt, but I’m all right.”

“Good man. I should have come with you.”

“Just for the record, Errol,” I said, sounding as buddy-buddy as I could, “were you and Sid together at two?”

“Why yes, did you suspect us of something?” He sounded delighted with the idea.

“Not really, I just wanted to be sure. Do you know Cunningham?”

“Cunningham?” Flynn repeated.

“What about Cunningham?” Sid’s voice came in. He had obviously picked up the phone in his outer office.