Stuart Kaminsky - Never Cross A Vampire

The Farraday Building had an elevator, and Jeremy Butler saw to it that the elevator went up and down, but there was nothing he could do to make it go up and down at a rate that most mortals found reasonable. I ran down the stairs, putting on my coat as I went and listening to the echo of my footsteps around me. On the floor below ours, the bookie was fumbling at the lock on his door. The phone was ringing on the other side and he was trying to get in before he missed a bet, but his eyes were bleary and the harder he tried, the more the lock resisted. I didn’t bother to greet him.

Butler was still going at the wall with his second can of Old Dutch.

“Perhaps I should just paint the whole wall?” he asked.

“I think it looks fine,” I said. Interior decoration wasn’t my line, but the irregular patch of white he had worn into the gray wall made the lobby look like the set for a German horror movie.

A neighborhood derelict was pressing his nose to the window of my car when I hurried into the alley. He pulled his gray-stubble face away when he heard me and plunged his hands deep into his pockets, pretending to admire the scenery of the alley, the piles of garbage, the empty cartons. He tried to look as if he were waiting for a streetcar and succeeded in looking as if he had been caught with his claw in the bird cage.

I handed the guy a quarter, told him it was a nice day, and pulled out, heading the car up Hoover and across on Wilshire. Leib’s office was in Westwood, even closer to the station than mine. There was a chance the advance would beat me to the door. In my greed, I had neglected to find out who Faulkner had murdered and why.

As I passed the shivering palms and the occasional people who had come to Los Angeles looking for what they couldn’t find further east and finding what they hadn’t looked for, I thought of the two times I had seen Faulkner. He had been laboring away at some project at Warners a few years earlier when I spotted him through the office window of a producer I was on a job for. Faulkner had looked sad and serious. His typewriter was giving him no fun. He was probably having even less fun today.

I found a space a few blocks from the station and jogged over. A young balding uniformed cop I knew named Rashkow almost knocked me back down the stone stairs.

“Hello,” he said seriously.

“Hi, my brother in today?”

“He’s in,” Rashkow said, pulling his coat closed. “Just saw him. This is my last day.”

“Vacation?” I asked.

“Army,” he said. “I joined a week ago. The papers say things are going good, but I don’t know.” “I don’t know either,” I said. “Good luck. Win the war fast.”

“I’ll try,” said Rashkow, adjusting his blue cap as he lumbered down the stairs.

The damned war kept intruding on my life and profession. It was hard to concentrate on your career when all about you were losing their heads and blaming it on others.

The desk sergeant, an old timer named Coronet, motioned me over and handed me an envelope.

“Just came for you,” he said, without taking his eyes off two silent Japanese kids about twenty who were handcuffed together on the bench in a corner.

“What’d they do?” I asked Coronet, whose hostility to the two took the form of a jutting lower lip and clenched fists.

“Woman sitting behind them at the Loew’s heard them applauding Pearl Harbor during the newsreel and hissing Roosevelt,” Coronet explained.

The two young men, both skinny and not sure whether to be scared or defiant, looked at Coronet and then at me.

“That’s a crime?” I said.

“Sure it’s a crime,” Coronet said without taking his accusing eyes from the pair. “We’re at war.”

That didn’t answer my question, but I knew I would get nothing more sensible from Coronet, and I had my envelope of money from Leib, so I went up the twenty creaking brown stairs and through the often-kicked wooden door at the top and into the squad room. The room smelled, as it always did, as all squad rooms always do, of food-old food, new food, hot food, cold food. The smell of food even overpowered the smell of humanity and stale smoke.

It was a slow day, but detectives were seated at some of the desks. A few were on telephones. One fat detective named Veldu was sitting on the corner of the desk of a new guy I didn’t recognize. Veldu had a sandwich in one hand, coffee in the other, and a mouthful of philosophy for the new guy, whose hair was black and plastered down and parted in the middle as if he were about to try out for a barbershop quartet.

“So they rank Lem Franklin number two,” Veldu was saying. “Number two. Can you imagine that? Buddy Baer, that schlob could crack him in a minute. There’s maybe six guys who could take Franklin on a bad day.” He chomped on his sandwich and put down his coffee so he could raise his fingers to indicate the six guys. “Bob Pastor, Melio Bettina, Abe Simon, Lou Nova, Roscoe Toles, even Tamy Mauriello. In fact, Pastor should be number one and Conn should be down at the bottom. He’s got no punch. Louis hasn’t got feelings. He’s got to be clubbed to death.” With this, Veldu demonstrated with his fist against the desk how one would have to club Joe Louis. The desk shook and the coffee spilled.

“Shit,” bellowed Veldu around a bite of sandwich. “I’ll have to get another coffee.” He lumbered away, leaving the mess for the new guy, who reached into a drawer for some Kleenex and tried to keep the stain from joining all the other stains. The new guy spotted me.

“What can I do for you?” he said impatiently, which was a bad sign in a new detective, at least bad for me and any potential criminals he might meet.

“My name’s Peters,” I said, reaching out a hand. “I’m a private investigator doing some legwork for a lawyer named Leib on a client you have locked up here, Faulkner. I’d like to see our client.”

The new guy looked at my hand and went on cleaning his desk. I put my hand back at my side. The new guy didn’t say anything. He just kept scrubbing. I looked over at a woman two desks away talking to another detective. She was well groomed, wearing a little hat with a tall feather and a two-piece suit with the skirt to the knees. Her shoulders were slightly padded, and she looked as if she had just been outfitted at I. Magnin.

“… my ears,” I heard her say and tried to listen to more, but the new guy was looking up at me with less than friendship and a pile of soggy Kleenex he didn’t know what to do with.

“I’ll see,” he said, walking toward the office cubbyhole of Lieutenant Philip Pevsner in the corner. He dropped the Kleenex in a wastebasket, and a black kid about fifteen who was waiting to be interrogated inched away from him.

I tried to pick up more of the well-groomed woman’s conversation. I thought I caught her saying “Sally Rand” to the cop, who listened patiently, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have time to hear more. The new cop motioned to me from Pevsner’s doorway, and I moved through the random array of desks and bodies, stepping over feet and past secrets.

The new guy stood back with a sour look, and I went into the office giving him a raw “Thanks” over my shoulder.

“Friendly guy,” I told Pevsner as the door closed.

“His name’s Cawelti,” Pevsner said without looking up from the file on the desk. “He did five years uniformed in Venice. He had troubles but he did the job. I like people who get the job done.” Then he looked up at me. I knew the look of mild contempt I would get, but it was mixed with a recent touch of tolerance that was at best a sign of temporary peace. Phil was a little taller than me, a little broader, a few years older, and a lot heavier. His close-cut steely hair was a magnet for his thick, strong fingers. He scratched constantly, whether from dandruff, habit, or perplexity I was never sure, and I had seen him doing this for more than thirty years. He was my brother.