Stuart Kaminsky - Murder on a Yellow Brick Road

Cash’s little woman was a very little woman. I leaned over to shake her hand. She was kind of chunky with a pleasant face and dark hair, probably in her thirties. She led me into a living room with normal size furniture and went out to get me a cup of coffee and a piece of banana cake.

“How can I help you?” she said.

“I’m working for M.G.M.,” I explained. “We want to find out just what happened to Mr. Cash.”

“I told the police everything I knew,” she said, “but it didn’t seem to help.”

“Everything?” I said. The cup shook slightly in her little hand. There was no toughness in her, and I wanted to go easy.

“You want to tell me about the movies he was working on?” I said softly.

She started to cry, and I let her. The banana cake was good. I had a second piece and indicated that I would appreciate another cup of coffee. She was happy to get it for me. When she came back, she sat on a chair in front of me. I could see from the brand that she wore children’s shoes.

“James didn’t know I knew about what he was doing,” she said, “but I knew. I think he was trying to get out of it, and whoever did it didn’t want him to.”

“You think he was going to the police?” I said.

“He didn’t exactly say so, but Thursday night he said we could move back East soon.” The tears were coming back. “James had a difficult life. We were only married a few months ago. We wanted children, but all we could afford was this. He was ashamed of what he was doing, Mr. Peters.”

If he was ashamed of it, he was damned good at hiding it if the porno pictures I saw were any evidence, but the lady deserved her grief.

“I’m sure he was, Mrs. Cash,” I said, patting her shoulder. “And you didn’t tell the police any of this?”

“No, I didn’t think it would do James’ memory any good.”

“You did the right thing,” I said. “Did the police look through your husband’s things?”

She said they had, but she had held out one thing from them, an address book he kept hidden.

“I knew those addresses were of the people he was working with.”

“One of them might have murdered him,” I said.

“They probably did,” she said, “but finding the killer won’t bring James back, and letting everyone know what he was involved in might get back East.”

“And you’re going back East?”

“Yes,” she said. “My parents live in Missouri. They’re not little people. They’re getting old, and they want me back. I haven’t got anything but this house, and it’s not paid for. If James was getting a lot of money for what he was doing, he had it put somewhere I don’t know about.”

She got me the notebook and asked me to promise not to tell anyone where I got it. In return for the book I promised to try to keep Cash’s name away from any pornography publicity.

She shook my hand, and I went outside. The sky was dark in the North. Maybe a twister would come and lift Cash’s house out of the mud and carry it over the rainbow. Maybe elephants would shit diamonds.

Glendale was a few minutes away so I drove to my ancestral homeland and went into The Elite Diner, a block away from the police station where I had once worked. The counter man knew me, and we said hello. He had once been a cop, too. He showed me a stomach scar he had picked up since I last saw him, and I showed him my head. He said I was the winner and brought me some coffee; I didn’t want anything with it. Most of the names in Cash’s little green notebook didn’t show anything I didn’t already know. Grundy’s name was in it. So was Peese’s. There were others I didn’t recognize, probably old friends. Maybe people in the business with him. There were a couple of numbers after initials. One of them struck me as familiar. I looked at it for a while until it blurred and came back into focus.

Night was coming over the mountains. I thanked the ex-cop and drove slowly toward the setting sun. Everything fit now. It didn’t make sense, but it fit. All the tinkertoy facts built into a tower of truth, an ugly tower built by a sick child, but it was hard to turn away from.

The drive back took about an hour. I should have been in a hurry, but I wasn’t. No matter how the day ended the next one would look dirty. Maybe Raymond Chandler had been right about the shoddy merchandise and shoddy people. Maybe old Toby Peters and his optimism were finally dead. Maybe Toby Peters would stop laughing at the crap he lived in. Maybe.

I must have caught the election day shift at Metro. I didn’t recognize either of the guys at the gate. I asked if Warren Hoff was still there and told them to give him a call. Hoff told them to let me in, and I headed for his office. More and more of my time was being spent at M.G.M. at night. Pretty soon I’d be able to find my way by feel.

Hoff’s secretary was gone for the day, but Warren was well-trimmed and seated in his desk chair.

“Well?” he said.

“Not very,” I answered. I sat in the chair across from him and put my hat on his desk.

“I heard about what happened last night,” he said. “We’re going to have a hell of a time keeping two murders quiet. Mr. Mayer will just have to understand.”

“Keeping the murders quiet is the easy part, Warren my friend,” I said. “The hard part is catching the murderer.”

“The police think you did it,” Hoff said. He got up and poured himself a drink. This time he offered me one, but I said no.

“No, they don’t, Warren. They just find me handy to have around for unsolved crimes and a place for their bloodhounds to piss if the hydrants aren’t available. They don’t think I did it.”

“Who do they think did it?” His voice was calm.

I don’t know,” I said. “They’re running out of suspects. Every time a good one crops up he gets himself killed. But I think we can end all that.”

I threw the green notebook to him.

“What’s this?”

“A new list of starlets from central casting. Check the number on page fifteen, near the bottom.”

He flipped through the book and found the page. He recognized the initials and the number. The notebook came flying back to me, and I speared it before it went for a hit into center field.

“Whose book is that?” he demanded.

“James Cash.”

“The dead midget?”

I told him he was right, and he said he didn’t believe it, that there had to be some explanation. There was one, and he and I knew it.

“You want to help me find a roll of film?” I said, heaving myself out of the chair. He didn’t, but I knew he’d come along. I led the way, but we both knew where we were going.

We turned on the light when we got there and began to search. He wasn’t trying too hard, but I was enjoying the mess I was making. There was a shelf of old books, a low shelf I hadn’t seen before. One of the books, a huge, oversized one, looked funny. It was old-new with a brown, wood-like color and yellowing crisp pages. The book must have been two lifetimes old or more, but some of the first pages hadn’t been cut. The centers of the middle pages were cut out, and a roll of film nested neatly inside. The film was no longer in a can or on a reel. It was on a core to keep the weight down. I closed the book and handed it to Hoff.

“Well?” I said.

“Not very,” he answered.

My opinion of Hoff had changed four or five times in the few days I had known him. I thought he was taking it all pretty well now, all things considered.

We walked outside. The night air felt colder than it had when we went in. Hoff held the book against his chest to prove it was there and for warmth.

“You want to tell me about it?” I said.

“No,” said Hoff, “but I will. I just can’t believe what this implies.”