Stuart Kaminsky - Poor Butterfly

“Right,” said Shelly excitedly. “It’s like good dental hygiene.”

“It is not like good dental hygiene,” Gunther said precisely.

“Matter of opinion,” Shelly said, beaming at us all.

“Mr. Peters,” Stokowski said, “I assume you have joined us for a purpose. What can we do for you?”

“Short list,” I said. “First, I need some money. The cops took my wallet.”

“I am, unfortunately, carrying no cash,” Stokowski said, turning up the cleanest palms I have ever seen.

Gunther came up with his wallet and handed me a pair of twenties.

“Next,” I said, turning to Shelly, “I need to find a guy named Farkas, Snick Farkas. Skinny, about forty, carrying a blue shoulder bag. He’s got a beard and should be wandering the streets around here. He’s an opera buff. But he doesn’t make much sense. I think he saw the person who killed Lorna Bartholomew.”

“I’ll find him,” Shelly promised, clamping his unlit cigar in his teeth.

“He does not sound like an ideal witness,” said Stokowski, with a sigh.

“Gunther, I’ve got some research for you.”

I handed him the sheet of paper on which I’d written the message Lorna Bartholomew had painted on Miguelito. Gunther looked at it.

“Rance, Johnson, and Minnie,” he read. “Cherokee, Texas. March 15, 1936. Those are characters in …”

“ La Fanciulla del West . I know,” I said. “See if you can find out what it means. Where’s Jeremy?”

“With Miss Tenatti,” replied Gunther.

“Anything else?” asked Stokowski. “I must eat and get back to rehearsal.”

“I’ve got to get back and into the building,” I said.

“You have a plan,” said Stokowski.

“Your chauffeur and I are about the same size,” I said.

“Ah,” said Stokowski. “Charles, do you hear all this?”

“I hear,” said the driver with a definite English accent.

“And …?” Stokowski asked gently.

“There’s an extra uniform in the trunk,” said Charles.

“Good,” I said. “I’ll put it on. Charles, you get out here. I’ll drive back, walk in as if the Maestro forgot something. Shelly, you wait till I’ve been inside for two minutes, and then drive back and pick up Charles. I’ll get the uniform back later.”

Charles nodded.

“Anything else?” Stokowski asked.

“I could use something to eat,” I said.

“Take my lunch,” said Charles, handing me a paper bag. “I’ll pick up a hot dog.”

“Charles, you’ll lunch with Mr. Wherthman, Dr. Minck, and me,” said Stokowski. Sounded like a generous offer, but I had the feeling Gunther would wind up with the check.

“You might get in trouble for this, Maestro,” I said, getting out of the limo.

“Trouble is not unknown to me,” Stokowski said. “There are those who say I have courted controversy and both bedded and wed her.”

“Be cautious, Toby,” Gunther said.

“Am I ever anything but? Let’s meet in Lundeen’s office at seven.” I moved to the rear of the car.

I could hear Shelby’s voice as the trunk popped open.

“See his teeth, Stoki? Nice, huh? My doing? A year of work.”

“That’s admirable,” Stokowski said.

I opened a box in the trunk that looked right. It was. A freshly pressed uniform. I looked around for someplace to change. The street was deserted but the sun was high and bright. Hell. I took off my clothes and started putting on the uniform. I got it on without interruption.

“Good fit,” Charles said.

He was standing next to me, his cap off. He was older than I thought. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. His hair was curly, short, and white. His skin pinkish.

“Thanks,” I said.

“When the war started,” Charles said, “the Maestro moved to Columbia Records. One of the first things he recorded was ‘God Bless America’ and ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ coupled with the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag. I was in the orchestra. Bass viol.”

“What happened?” I asked.

Charles pulled off his right driving glove and revealed a hand with a thumb and two fingers.

“Went back to England,” he said. “London bomb patrol. War turned me into a driver. Got a son in the RAF and another on bomb patrol. Truth is, Stoki’s not that much fond of the British. His mum was Irish, but he made an exception in my case. Got me a job driving here in Frisco. He asks for me whenever he comes to town. The Maestro’s trying his best. I’d hate to see something happen to him.”

“Nothing will happen. I look okay?” I asked.

“Smashing,” he said with a smile, moving to the curb and pulling a newspaper from his pocket.

I got in the driver’s seat, pulled the cap over my eyes, made a U-turn and headed back for the Opera. It took no more than three minutes. The boys and girls of the Church of the Enlightened Patriots were back in business, even the fat lady, though she no longer had her bottle of RC and was sitting on the steps conducting the camp meeting rather than participating.

I pulled up to the curb, got out, winked at Stokowski, who gave me a small salute and said, “For some reason, I am hearing the Brahms First Symphony, which I have always found plaintive.”

“Shelly, find Snick Farkas,” I said. “Gunther, I’m counting on you to find out what happened in Cherokee, Texas.”

“I’m on the job,” said Shelly.

Gunther simply nodded.

I turned and started up the steps, head down. I got through the main doors and out of the corner of my eyes spotted Sunset in a corner, showing a uniformed cop who looked about twelve the proper stance to take against a right-handed pitcher. Sunset glanced over at me as I walked quickly toward the corridor. Then he went back to his batting clinic.

I went through a side entrance to the auditorium. A crew of women was dusting the seats and sweeping the aisles. On stage, about twenty men and women in overalls were putting up a Japanese house set. No Vera. No Lundeen. No Passacaglia. A few musicians were in the orchestra pit adjusting their instruments, playing a few bars.

I moved to the stage, cap still covering my eyes, went up the steps, and moved toward the back of the stage.

“Hold it,” a voice I recognized called from the rear of the auditorium.

I stopped and turned, pretending to shield my eyes from the light to cover my face.

“What the hell you trying to pull?” called Sergeant Preston.

He stepped out of the shadows under the balcony and pointed at me.

It had been a good try but I hadn’t made it. I considered running, but decided I was twenty years too late to make that a reasonable option. I reached up to take off the cap as Preston took another step forward yelling, “You, take that cap off!”

Since I was obviously in the process of doing just that, I paused. It was enough of a pause to realize that he wasn’t pointing at me but past me, at a workman about my size in overalls and a painter’s cap.

“Get out of the way,” Preston said, this time to me.

I stepped out of the way. The workman took his cap off. He was Oriental.

“All right. All right, put it back on,” Preston said. “Jesus, I should have been the second-rate crooner my mother never wanted me to be. And you,” he went on, pointing directly at me. “Stokowski says he wants you to hurry up.”

I nodded, touched the brim of my cap, and hurried into the wings.

Jeremy was standing, arms folded, leaning against the wall next to Vera’s dressing room. He glanced in my direction. His eyes seemed focused on a distant planet, but he took me in.

“Are you all right, Toby?” he asked.

“How’d you know it was me?” I asked, stepping in front of him.

Jeremy shrugged.