Stuart Kaminsky - Murder on a Yellow Brick Road

I went back to the restaurant where I’d watched him eat. The frizzy waitress was there, and her face was blank. She probably hypnotized herself into not thinking or feeling till the work day was over. The trouble with that was eventually the hypnotism doesn’t wear off at quitting time, and you’re like that all the time. It happens to waitresses, senators, movie stars, and cops.

I ordered a coffee from her while I sat at the counter and remembered too late that the coffee there was awful. It was late in the afternoon so I added a tuna sandwich and a grilled cheese on white. Nothing much was going on in the restaurant. It was well past lunch and too early for dinner. An old guy with thick glasses and a cigarette stuck to his lower lip sat at a back booth reading the newspaper and nursing a coffee and roll. He was the only customer. The frizzy waitress had her elbows on the counter next to the cash register. She looked at the window, but I didn’t think she saw anything.

“I was in here the other day with Barney Grundy,” I reminded her.

She got off her elbows and looked at me, trying to place me. I’ve got an easy face to remember, but she couldn’t place it. All she had seen was Grundy, but he wasn’t here now.

“You a friend of his?” Her head tilted to the side like a curious bird. A touch of rouge that hadn’t been absorbed stood out on her cheek. She looked like an unfinished clown, and I felt sorry for her.

“We’ve been spending a lot of time together,” I said, finishing the grilled cheese first because it was hot. “He’s really something.”

“He sure is,” she said, a smile touching her face.

“Come in here a lot?”

“Just about every day,” she said.

“I was just over at his place. He wasn’t there.” I started on my tuna sandwich. It had too much mayonaise, which is just how I like it.

“He’s working out down at Santa Monica,” she said. “This is the time every day. I thought you were his friend. You’re a friend, and you don’t know that?”

“I’m a business friend,” I said. “I work for M.G. M and I’ve got to reach him about a film he has. If I can find him fast, it could mean a big difference in his life. You know the name of the place in Santa Monica where he works out?”

She looked at me suspiciously, and I went on drinking my coffee without looking at her. I looked at my watch.

“I’ve got to be back at the studio with an answer tonight,” I sighed. “I’d sure like Barney to get this chance.”

“Cimaglia’s,” she said. “Cimaglia’s Gym on Main.”

I said thanks, forced myself to finish my coffee slowly, overtipped, and went out onto La Brea. There was a drug store on the corner. I went in and headed for the phone booth.

The first call was to Andy Markopulis at M.G.M. I described Grundy and told him Grundy was probably our man. He said he’d get the word to Woodman and Fearaven, who were still keeping an eye on Judy Garland.

Then I called my brother.

“Toby,” he said too calmly, “I’ve been looking for you. I’d like you to come over to my office for a little talk.”

“I’ll be over as soon as I make a stop,” I said just as calmly. “I know who killed Cash. He also killed another midget named Peese about an hour ago.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Toby,” Phil’s voice said slowly. “We’ve got a desk clerk who gave us a pretty good description of you. Seems you were in Peese’s room when he took the fall. A cop saw you, too. Now I remember you saying you were looking for a midget. I’d like to have the officer take a look at you. You mind coming down here?”

“I wasn’t in the room when he was tossed out,” I said. “I was on the sidewalk watching a woman spill her Chinese dinner. I’ve got a witness.”

“Fine,” said Phil, the familiar edge coming back. “You just come in here, and we’ll talk it over.”

“The killer is Grundy. Barney Grundy. Your witness who saw Wherthman talking to Cash on Friday. Grundy, Cash, and Peese were in something together, something to do with movies.”

“This town is running out of midgets,” said Phil. “It’ll be a lot safer for little people if you come in here. Now I’m getting tired of asking you.”

His voice was up to its familiar level of rage, and I was glad he didn’t know where I was.

“I’ll be right there,” I said.

“You’ve got thirty minutes,” he said, and hung up.

I looked up an address in the phone book, found my Buick, pulled into traffic, almost hitting a new Chrysler, and headed in the opposite direction of my brother’s office. Santa Monica wasn’t far, and I wanted to talk to Barney Grundy.

Cimaglia’s was a one-story white brick building a block or so from the beach on Main. This Main Street was not related to the Main Street where Peese had flopped until his sudden wealth. Los Angeles is a jigsaw puzzle of over 140 towns jammed next to each other. There are over 800 duplications of street names. After forty-four years I still got lost once in a while. Cimaglia’s didn’t look like a gym from the outside, but inside it looked like a training center on Krypton. Behind the small counter stood a guy about five-six. He was about fifty and built like a smaller version of Grundy. He wore a blue tee shirt over his muscles, and his black hair was cut short like a field of grass. He had a towel over his shoulder and identified himself as Cimaglia. Beyond Cimaglia was a big open room with about ten guys built like Grundy. Some were pumping chucks of iron on pulleys; others were lifting weights. There wasn’t much sound other than some panting and the clank of metal. Whatever they were doing, they were serious about it.

“What can I do for you?” said Cimaglia. I didn’t see Grundy among the grunters in the room.

“I’m looking for Barney Grundy,” I said. “I’m a friend of his, and he has something for me.”

“Left about five minutes ago,” said Cimaglia. “Didn’t stay long. Just did the weights.”

“Did he say where he was going?” I asked.

Cimaglia said no.

“Did he have anything with him?” I tried.

“Just his bag,” said Cimaglia, who saw something in the room beyond that he didn’t like, so he shouted, “Slower Rocco, slower! A lot slower.”

Cimaglia watched Rocco for about a minute, and when he was satisfied he turned to me.

“Wait,” he said. “Barney had something else with him. A big round tin box.”

“He brought it in here?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I think he left it in his locker.”

The locker room door was behind Cimaglia, and my mind moved fast. I had figured Grundy for a cool killer who had calmly thrown a man out of a window and then went to his favorite gym for a workout. It didn’t fit with the nervous killer who kept botching attempts on my life. Grundy had come to Cimaglia’s to hide the film he had taken. For some reason, possibly the fear that the cops or I might search the place, he hadn’t taken it back to his studio home. He probably didn’t trust anyone to hold it for him. A locker at Cimaglia’s would be a perfect place to put it.

The problem was getting into that locker.

“Thanks,” I said, turning for the door.

“Want to leave a message in case Barney comes back?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Tell him Peese is looking for him.”

“Will do,” he said, turning to watch Rocco.

There was a window in the outer door of Cimaglia’s, and from the street I could see the counter and Cimaglia looking back into the gym. I hung around for ten minutes, keeping an eye on Cimaglia and trying not to look too suspicious to the guy in the gas station who stared from across the street.

One of the muscle builders came out, and I said hello to him. He said hello back and headed down the street. I looked back through the window, and I could see Cimaglia moving into the gym. I went back in, holding the door so it wouldn’t make noise, and watched Cimaglia move to a far corner to show a sweating Hercules how to curl a bar of steel.