Stuart Kaminsky: Poor Butterfly

“Shel, I know you’ve got money, remember.”

“Twenty,” he said, thinking about it “In return for which you promise to give up all claim on my dog breath idea.”

“You got it,” I said.

He reached into his back pocket under his smock and came up with a wallet. He turned his back so I couldn’t see, fished out a twenty, returned the wallet to his pocket, and turned to hold out a crumpled bill.

“Just a loan,” he said.

“A loan,” I agreed, taking the bill and putting it in my pocket. Shelly turned to his cabinet and opened it.

“I’ll call,” I said, moving to the door.

Shelly grunted.

Before I left the Farraday Building, I went to the office of Jeremy Butler, poet and former pro wrestler, who had for years fought the blight of bums and dirt that threatened to return the Farraday to the jungle.

Jeremy still put in his hours, but since his marriage to Alice Pallas, who almost matched him in size and strength, the Farraday had ceased to be his child. Alice was, in fact, pregnant, a phenomenon of some discussion in the Farraday since Jeremy was sixty-one years old and Alice, though she would not reveal her age, was certainly well over forty-five. I had attempted during one recent phone call to inspire Anne with Alice’s example. Anne had hung up on me. Neither Alice nor Jeremy were in their office-apartment. It was still raining, but not hard, when I stepped out on Hoover and headed for No-Neck Arnie’s garage on Ninth, where I parked my Crosley.

I made a deal with Arnie for a tankful and a ten-gallon can of gas for the trunk. It was black market, but this was an emergency. The gas would get me to San Francisco and back. Arnie opened the hood and gave the Crosley the okay for the trip. I gave him ten bucks. That left me twenty-four bucks.

The rain had stopped but the sky was still gray and grumbling when I left Dash in the car while I bought a wool sports jacket with zipper pockets at Hy’s for Him, the Beverly Boulevard branch, for $4.99 plus tax. I picked up a pair of hot dogs from a stand shaped like a hot dog, ate one-dripping a minimum of mustard on the seat-and gave the other to Oash, who tore into it.

Ten minutes later I was parked in front of Mrs. Plaut’s boarding house on Heliotrope. I went up the steps to greet my diminutive ancient landlady, who sat on a wicker chair, pencil in hand, writing on a lined pad. I had no doubt that the tome on which she labored was the massive history of the Plaut clan. It had become my responsibility to read and critique the manuscript; Mrs. Plaut was under the impression that I was alternately an exterminator and an editor. It was easier to live with Mrs. Plaut’s delusions than to try to alter them. Mrs. Plaut had decided long before I met her not to accommodate herself to reality. All in all, she probably had the right idea. She looked up at me, down at Dash, and into the sky.

“Mr. Peelers,” she said. “Rain and cats.”

“Rain and cats,” I agreed, taking a few steps across the porch. My goal was simple. Get to my room. Pack my few belongings, say good-bye to Gunther Wherthman if he was home-or leave him a note-and then head for San Francisco with Dash.

“Inspiring,” she said with a deep sigh, tucking her pencil behind her ear, placing her pad of paper on the porch swing, and folding her hands on her flower-print dress. “I do not want your cat to eat my bird.”

“He won’t,” I said.

“If your cat eats my bird, or attempts an assault upon my bird, I shall be forced to take the Mister’s gun and demise him.” She looked down at Dash with a smile.

“We understand,” I said.

“No, Mr. Peelers,” she corrected. “ You understand and it is your responsibility. The cat understands very little. The cat is only a bit less dim than the bird.”

“I’m going to San Francisco on business,” I said. “I’ll be gone for a while.”

She tilted her head toward me and adjusted her hearing aid.

“To San Francisco,” she repeated. “I was in San Francisco during the great earthquake. Mr. Spencer Tracy and Miss Jeanette MacDonald did not have the facts straight in their film. It was not Mrs. O’Leary’s cow that started the earthquake. Mrs. O’Leary’s cow started the fire in Chicago at an earlier time. But that is neither here nor there. Your Number Nine sugar stamp is good for three pounds till Tuesday. I assume you will have no use for it”

“I’ll give it to you,” I said, opening the door.

“I’ll take it,” she said. “And I will make Empire cookies or one of the cakes from Miss Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’ new Cross Creek Cookery book, which Mr. Hill gave me for my birthday. Some people remember birthdays.”

“Mrs. Plaut” I said, letting Dash move in ahead of me. “Mister Wherthman and I gave you a new Aivin radio with headphones for your birthday.” Mrs. Plaut’s date of birth varied with her moods and memory. She had at least two birthdays each year, one in the spring and one at random times in the fall or winter. Her most recent birthday had been November 14, which, coincidentally, is my birthday.

“Be that as it may be. You will please take my recently finished chapter and place it in my hands upon your return with beneficial comments and criticism,” she said. “That will be your part of the bargain.”

I wasn’t sure what her part of the bargain was, but I nodded in agreement. I hurried up the stairs and moved past the room of Mr. Hill the postman, past my own room, to the room of Gunther Wherthman.

Gunther is a little person, three feet of Swiss dignity. He is my best friend. I knocked. No answer. Gunther usually worked in his room, translating a variety of languages into English. Dash and I went into my room. It wasn’t much but I liked it. I had a hot plate in the corner, a sink, a small refrigerator, some dishes, a table and three chairs, a rug, a bed with a purple blanket made by Mrs. Plaut that said GOD BLESS US EVERY ONE in pink stitching, and a sofa with little doilies on the arms that I was afraid to touch. On my wall was a Beech-Nut Gum wall clock that was never more than five minutes off.

I wrote a note to Gunther telling him I was going and asking him to take care of Dash and wind the clock. I knew Gunther wouldn’t mind. Dash reminded him of a cat he’d had as a kid in Bern.

I packed what I had clean, which wasn’t much. My one suit was slightly crumpled and not too dirty. I had a white shirt I’d only worn twice since the last washing, and three ties, all dark, one with a scorch mark on it that might be taken for a Scottish crest by a drunk.

I gave Dash some water. Gunther had told me not to give Dash milk. Milk, he said, was bad for cats. Gunther was usually right. I supposed it was some truth known only to Swiss midgets. I don’t know what milk does to people, but I had enough left in the refrigerator for a bowl of cereal. I pulled out what was left of my Kellogg’s Variety Package. It was a toss-up between Pep and Krumbles. I took the Krumbles.

I considered getting the mattress off the floor and back on the bed. I can’t sleep in a real bed. Too soft. Bad back. I asked Dash’s advice. He had none. I pulled the mattress up on the bed and checked the clock on the wall. It was getting late.

On my way out, I gave Mrs. Plaut my sugar stamps and she gave me her manuscript chapter, reminding me to guard it with my life.

“The chapter deals with my Cousin Pyle and his ilk,” she said. “Therefore, it is especially precious.”

She also warned me about loose women, cold weather, and something that sounded like “Crolly Beans.”

The sun came through the clouds low on the horizon as I hit Sunset and headed for the highway and San Francisco.