Stuart Kaminsky - Melting Clock

No one knows for sure how the western coast of North America picked up the name. It might have come with Spanish explorers in the sixteenth century. I like to think it came with Hernando Cortez, who conquered Mexico and spent some time slaughtering Aztecs in the Baja. It might have come with Juan Cabrillo, who in 1542 landed near what became San Diego.

It wasn’t till more than two hundred years later, in August 1769, that some Spanish missionaries and soldiers made an expedition north and found a valley. They made camp by a river. Friendly Gabrielino Indians brought them gifts of shell beads and the next day the Spaniards moved on. They were the first non-Indians to spend a night in what is now downtown Los Angeles.

I stopped following the path of the missionaries into Los Angeles and headed for my brother’s house in North Hollywood. Nothing was open but I stopped at a park I knew and picked some flowers.

When I got to the house, I knocked and Ruth answered.

“It’s still Sunday,” I said.

She smiled and I handed her the flowers.

“Thanks, Toby,” she said, kissing my cheek as we stepped in.

The radio was on. A voice I recognized said something about U.S. bombers battering the Japanese on Wake Island.

Ruth was wearing a short-sleeved white-and-purple dress with fluffy shoulders. Her yellow hair was pulled back and tied with a purple ribbon. Strands were creeping out all over the place. She didn’t look sick, but it wasn’t easy to tell with Ruth, who was swizzle-stick thin and pale at the best of times.

“Kids up?”

“I told them this morning you’d be coming,” she said, leading me through the small living room. An ancient photograph of my mother and father sat on top of the radio, which was now telling us to smoke Old Gold because it was lowest in irritating tars and resins and lowest in nicotine.

“From coast to coast,” the voice said happily, “the swing’s to new Old Gold.”

We moved into the small kitchen, where Phil was sitting at the table over a bowl of cereal. A box of Wheaties sat next to his bowl. Cereal was the one passion we shared. Phil was still wearing his rumpled suit. His tie was loosened. He didn’t say anything.

“Look what Toby brought me.” Ruth said.

Phil paused in his crunching, looked at the flowers, and said, “Pretty.”

“You’d better see the kids before they’re asleep,” Ruth said. “Phil will get you a bowl.”

As we left the kitchen, Phil made a grunting noise and pushed his chair back. We went to Lucy’s room first. Lucy was somewhere between waking and sleep. She blinked at me and clutched her stuffed rabbit. We moved to the boys’ room. Both Nat and Dave were in bed but awake.

“Uncle Toby,” said Dave, sitting up. “You were supposed to be here to take us to see Abbott and Costello.”

“Couldn’t help it,” I said with shrug. “I was in jail.”

“He’s kidding,” said Nat.

“No,” I said. “I found a dead guy and the sheriff arrested me. Then a state trooper named Rangley hit me in the back of the head. Here, have a look.”

Nat looked. Dave reached over to touch my lump.

“I wish I could have seen,” Dave said. “Uncle Toby, all the good stuff happens to you.”

“I’ve got to go talk to your dad,” I said. “Let’s shoot for Abbott and Costello next Saturday.”

“If you’re not in jail,” Nat said cynically.

“Or dead,” added Dave cheerfully.

“Good-night, men.” I followed Ruth back into the hall and she closed their door.

“Phil just got home,” Ruth said. “Can you keep it friendly tonight, for me?”

“Friendly,” I said. “For you.”

“Go sit down. I’ll get something for your head.”

Phil was probably on his fourth or fifth bowl of Wheaties when I joined him. He was looking down at the L.A. Times. He had prepared a bowl for me. I poured milk and took a spoonful.

“A guy got killed in Mirador,” I said, looking at Phil.

He didn’t look up, but said, “Claude Street, antique dealer. Another painting. Odd bullet like the one in Adam Place. State troopers want us to keep an eye on you. They don’t think it’s a coincidence that you found two bodies in two days under very similar circumstances.”

Ruth came back in with a washcloth. She looked at both of us to be sure that the only violence in the room was being done to flakes of wheat.

I kept eating while Ruth worked on my head. Around a mouthful of cereal I said, “Killer may be a guy named Gregory Novak.”

Phil pushed his bowl away, put down his paper, shook his head and looked at me.

“You got that from some poor half-wit named Sawyer. There isn’t any Gregory Novak in Mirador. Seidman checked phone books for most of California. We’ve even checked the Armed Forces lists. We found two Gregory Novaks. One is blind, eighty-two, and crazy. But he has one arrest. A year ago for smoking cow shit.”

“That’s stupid, but is it a crime?” I asked.

Phil didn’t bother to answer.

“He lives in Bakersfield. The other one is a petty officer on a destroyer somewhere in the Pacific.”

“How’s that feel?” Ruth queried.

My head felt wet and the bowl of water was pale red from my dried blood. It was my turn to push a bowl away. I got up and gave Ruth a quick kiss on the cheek.

“When-?” I began.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “The next day. As soon as they can get me in. I’ll let you know. I’ll be all right.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here. Hey, how about I pick up the kids, all three of them, after school on Wednesday?”

“You’re not taking Lucy anywhere,” Phil growled.

“I’ll watch her.”

My eyes met Phil’s and I could see the accusation. He sat there, creeping fast toward sixty, with three kids, a sick wife, and a mortgage. He looked at me with a history of half a century of my screwing up.

“Trust me,” I said.

“I do,” said Ruth, touching my arm. “You come and get them after school Wednesday.”

Phil opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind. I finished my Wheaties and got up.

“I’ll let myself out,” I said. “Thanks.”

Ruth sat where I had been. I touched her shoulder and headed for the living room. Two actors on the radio were talking tough about a woman named Hershvogel. Since the actors were whispering and my brother wasn’t, I heard Phil, in the kitchen, say, “… because he’s about as responsible as a brain-damaged oyster.”

I looked at my parents’ photograph on the radio. I had the feeling they agreed with Phil.

The price of gas, tire rationing, and the black-out kept the streets reasonably clear at night, but it still took me almost an hour to get to Beverly Hills and Barry Zeman’s house on Lomitas. It was almost ten and I needed a shave and some clean underwear. I tidied my wind-breaker, jauntily zipped it half way up and rang the bell.

The double Amazon woman I’d seen the last time I’d been there answered the door. She was about forty, a six-foot-tall left tackle with short yellow-white hair and very serious brown eyes. She wore a white uniform and a little white hat.

“Someone sick?” I asked.

“I’m not a nurse,” she answered. “You have business here?”

“I’d like to see Dali or his wife,” I said, knowing that I had no chance of bulling past her.

“They are not available,” she said, her arms folded over her more than ample breasts.

“Tell them Toby Peters is here with another murder to report,” I said with as pleasant a smile as I could put on my grizzly face.

“I don’t care if you’re President Franklin D. Gimp,” she said. “The Dalis are not available.”

“How about Zeman?”

“Not home, leave.”