Stuart Kaminsky - Murder on a Yellow Brick Road

I got up a little shaky, but I knew I could walk and feel something besides pain.

“Shot’s working,” explained Shelly, pointing his cigar at me with professional pride. “Take those pills and you’ll be fine for a day or so.”

Butler said nothing. He just looked tolerantly at Shelly with tiny blue eyes.

“Thanks,” I said to both of them, and hobbled into my office. There was almost no pain when I got to my desk and picked up the phone. I could hear the door open and Butler leave. Shelly began to hum “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” off-key, and I asked the operator for M.G.M. Hoff wasn’t there. I called his home number. He answered.

“Hoff, did Cassie tell you about the other midget, the one Wherthman says was chummy with Cash?”

“It’s Sunday,” he said in apology. “I can’t reach anyone, but I’m sure I’ll know by tomorrow.”

“Today would be nice,” I said. “Work on it. Who’s Wherthman’s lawyer?”

“A guy named Leib, Marty Leib. His office is on…”

“I need his home number,” I said. “I may not have until tomorrow. Is he listed?”

Hoff didn’t know, but he had the home number written down. He was a good leg man.

“One last thing, Hoff. Where were you late last night?”

“Why?” he asked.

“Someone about your size took a shot at me in a motor court up the coast.”

“Why the hell would I want to kill you?” he shouted. The anger sounded real, but I’d seen him change personalities almost in mid-sentence.

“Where were you?” I demanded.

“Here. Right here all night.”

“You’ve got a witness?” I pushed.

“My wife,” he said pulling himself together. I could see his hand touching his hair into place. I wondered if he was wearing a purple velvet robe and slippers and holding a copy of the New Yorker in his hand.

“Wives have lied for husbands,” I said.

He didn’t answer.

“You there, Warren?”

“I’m here. You need anything else?”

“You owe me another day’s pay and expenses. I’ll send you the bill,” I said, and waited for him to hang up. We played “you first” for about twenty seconds and I hung up.

I called lawyer Leib, whose bass voice almost knocked me off the chair.

“Ah, Mr. Peters!” he boomed. “I wanted to get in touch with you. Our client has a message for you. The name of the other midget, Cash’s friend. It’s John Franklin Peese.”

I asked him to spell it while I fished around for my gnawed pencil and an envelope to write on. I found the envelope addressed to me by Merle Levine, the lady whose cat I never found.

“I’ll work on it,” I said, and I told him about Clark Gable’s confidence that the arguing suspect was shorter than the victim.

Leib said that was great, but he was hoping Peese would lead to something better. He wanted to avoid a trial and publicity. Having Clark Gable as the key witness for the defense in what looked like an open-and-shut case wouldn’t do anyone any good. Leib said I should call him at any time, and we hung up good pals.

The next trick was to find John Franklin Peese, but first I called Andy Markopulis. He told me Woodman and Fearaven were at Judy Garland’s house and nothing had happened. Records of present and former employees were at the studio, and Peese would surely be listed. Andy said he could meet me at the studio if I wished. I said I’d think about it and call him back.

While I was thinking about it, Cassie James called. She said she wanted to know how the talk with Gable had gone and how I was. I told her about it and the attempt on my life. I had liked the way she moved toward me the last time I was almost done in. Her voice did it over the phone. Then she told me she knew the name of the midget Gunther Wherthman was trying to think of. She gave me Peese’s name, and said she could get into the personnel records and get an address. That sounded like more fun than meeting Andy Markopulis and I asked where she’d be. She said at home, and invited me over for dinner. I accepted, and she gave me a Santa Monica address and a couple of hours to get to it.

The pain in my back was almost gone. I decided to take a chance on going home for a shave and bath. An hour later I was shaved and clean, and my teeth weren’t furry anymore. I gulped one of Shelly’s pain pills just in case and went out the door into the evening sun looking for an unfriendly face attached to a big body. None appeared.

The drive was uneventful. No one tried to kill me, and it was a dead Sunday. Paper blew in the streets. Mexicans with nothing to do sat on the curbs arguing. Anglos with lawns cut the grass.

KMPC radio said they’d broadcast a “Hollywood on Parade” for Willkie the next day with Conrad Nagel, Edward Arnold, Porter Hall and Arthur Lake. Roosevelt had the clear edge in star power. I turned off the radio and headed for Cassie James.

Her house was on the beach in Santa Monica. It wasn’t a big money place, but it wasn’t welfare living, either. I didn’t know exactly what her job at M.G.M. was or how much she was paid. My estimate jumped when I got out of the car. She had some money.

The surf rolled in and grumbled, and the sun was cut off halfway on the horizon. She answered the door with a small smile, and I figured out her color code. Today she was wearing a yellow blouse and skirt. She was a woman of solid colors. No stripes, designs or little flowers. It made her seem solid. The house matched. None of the furniture in the living room had a stripe or flower. Even the paintings on the white walls weren’t flowery. She caught me looking at the room instead of at her.

“What do you think?”

“It’s restful,” I said, putting my hat on a table near the door and dropping into a sofa to rest. There was plenty of room on the sofa for company. She sat next to me and handed me a card. Neatly written on it in green ink was the name of James Franklin Peese and an address on Main Street. I tucked it in my pocket, and Cassie James moved closer to me.

“Hungry?” she said.

“Always,” I answered, which was nearly the truth.

I could feel her breath on me and looked into her eyes.

“Let’s skip the game,” she said softly. “I’ve played it a few times. It’s embarrasing, awkward, and it makes me feel foolish.”

She got up and led me into a bedroom. The room was painted yellow. The bed and furniture were black.

“We’ll eat later,” she said. “It’ll be easier for both of us.”

She held out her hand for my coat, and I gave it to her. Then she turned her hand down, palm up, toward my pants and left the room turning down the lights. I took my clothes off, put them on a chair, and got into the bed. I worked over a couple of wise cracks in my head in case she came back in an apron with a tray of chicken. She came back without chicken, and I made no cracks. She was dark and beautiful, and came to me softly smelling of mountains. I dropped back with her on top of me. We didn’t talk and moved slowly. It was better than I had imagined, and the sound of the sea outside helped.

I almost fell asleep, but not quite, and she kissed me awake.

“Hungry?”

I said yes, and she got up, slowly throwing her hair back, and went toward the living room. I closed my eyes for a few minutes or half an hour.

She came back dressed in a black knit sweater and skirt.

“You’ve got five minutes,” she whispered.

I grunted and got up when she left. In a few minutes I was dressed. Before I went into the living room, I took another one of Shelly’s just-in-case pain pills and gulped it down with tap water in Cassie’s pink bathroom. There was better behavior for a bad back than what I was doing.

We had dinner in a corner of the living room next to a window where we could see the moon and the coast. We ate steak and corn on the cob, and there was plenty of it. We both had a beer and talked about nothing.