Stuart Kaminsky - Murder on a Yellow Brick Road

The knife hit the floor, and Woodman and Fearaven were on Cassie. She turned, suddenly calm as they lifted her. She was a wet, dripping mess. Her beauty was still there, but it was ruined by her makeup, which looked as if it had melted under strong lights.

“I trusted you,” Judy said quietly.

“I hated you,” Cassie said, without looking at the girl.

I called my brother while the two men held Cassie. Then I took Judy out and into my car.

“It’s like a bad dream,” she said.

I agreed. It was like a bad dream for both of us. I wasn’t sure whose loss was greater, but since I’d lived longer I gave her the benefit of the doubt and hoped her life wouldn’t be a series of disappointments from people she put her trust in.

On the way to her house, she told me she was thinking of getting married. She said he was a composer or bandleader named Rose. I’d never heard of him, but I told her I hoped he was a good man. When I drove up in front of her house, she leaned over and kissed me.

“I’m glad I called you, Mr. Peters.” Then she ran out of the car and up the walk.

I wasn’t so sure I was glad she called me. I’d lived a lifetime in three days. At least Cassie’s sister had a year. My pay for the trouble would be some bad memories and about $300 from M.G.M. My body told me to pull over and go to sleep, but my mind reminded me of what happened the last time I’d slept in a car. My brother would find me if I went home, and Shelly was probably at the office wondering what the hell happened to his car. I could go to a few people to be put up, but a better idea came to me.

In fifteen minutes I was back at the hospital. A woman at the front desk tried to stop me. She said visiting hours were over. I told her I wasn’t a visitor; I was an in-patient.

The elevator took me up slowly, and the lampshade nurse met me when the doors opened. Her face was lined with professional anger and a look of betrayal.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“Saving Judy Garland’s life,” I said, and walked into my room. I flopped on the bed in the dark and fell asleep.

There were no dreams of flying monkeys, muscled maniacs, or Koko the clown. There was only darkness, which suited me just fine.

When my eyes opened on Wednesday morning, Franklin Roosevelt was sure of another four years in the White House, but I didn’t know that for a while. What I knew was that someone had taken my clothes off and put a gown on me, that a termite in my head was trying to get out the hard way, and that my brother and Charlie Cimaglia, the little muscle man, were looking down on me.

I moaned pitifully and tried to turn over, but Phil wasn’t about to let me.

“Let’s talk, Toby,” he said.

“Can’t,” I said, letting out a fearful groan.

“I’ll punch you in the back so hard your kidney will turn to mud,” he whispered.

I turned back over and sat up on my elbows.

“Let’s talk,” I said.

“This the man, Mr. Cimaglia?” he said.

The man with all the muscles looked at me without anger and said I was the man.

“What was in the can, Toby?” asked Phil.

“Movies,” I said. “Mostly stuff stolen from Metro. I returned it to them.”

“The charge wasn’t theft,” said Phil. “It’s assault with a deadly weapon. You took a shot at Mr. Cimaglia and threatened his life.”

“I don’t remember threatening his life, and I was five feet from him when I shot. If I wanted to hit him, I would have hit him. Hell, I did him a favor. I got Grundy out of his place. He should be giving me a reward.”

For some reason, this amused Cimaglia, who laughed and said, “You got balls, Mister. You really have.”

“You want to talk to a lawyer, Toby?”

“My lawyer’s name is Leib, Martin Leib…” I began, but I didn’t finish.

“Hold it,” said Cimaglia putting up his hand. “I made a mistake. This isn’t the man.” Cimaglia looked at me with a grin.

Phil turned toward Cimaglia, his hands in tight fists, his belly rumbling. There wasn’t much room in there, but I sat up to watch the battle if it came. I’d say it was even. Cimaglia was much smaller and a little older, but he had muscle. Phil had anger and a lot of experience hitting people. The battle didn’t come. Phil unclenched his fists and told Cimaglia to get out. He did.

“Cassie James confessed to the murders of Cash and Grundy,” Phil said, resting his big rear against the window ledge and folding his arms. “With you, Woodman, Fearaven, and Garland, we didn’t need her confession, but it helps. Now, there’s no trial.”

“And,” I continued, “no need for publicity? No need to mention M.G.M., Gable, Garland?”

“No need,” said Phil. “That woman doesn’t like you, Toby.”

“Yesterday I thought she loved me.”

“Look in a mirror,” he said. “She says you tossed Peese out of the window.”

“You believe her?” I laughed. “Not even you would believe her.”

He pushed away from the window and pointed a finger at me. “Not so chummy, Toby. It doesn’t matter what I believe, does it? We’ve got a case against you. Now, who is this writer who can give you an alibi?”

“Chandler,” I said. “His name is Raymond Chandler, and he lives someplace in Santa Monica. He’s listed.”

“Same Chandler who wrote The Big Sleep?” asked Phil.

“You heard of it?”

“I read it,” he said. “A lot of bullshit. Read it. You’ll love it.”

He stopped talking and circled the room a few times. I watched. There was nothing else to do with the back of my head as sore as it was, unless I turned my back on him, and I wasn’t going to do that with my brother. Something might upset him and give him the idea of a parting chop at my kidneys. He stopped pacing and turned to me.

“Toby, you’re a little old, but I could swing it. I can get you on the L.A. force. Detective, at the bottom.”

It was one of my dreams. I was sure of it, but he didn’t move. I turned my head a little. The pain was still with me. I was awake.

I’d been a cop before, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like worrying about what the guy above me thought about what I was doing. I didn’t like having to be somewhere every day and tell someone where I was all the time. I didn’t like someone else deciding on whose misery I had to live with. The pay was steady. The power felt good, but you had to give up too much. I knew I wouldn’t take it.

“I’ll think about it Phil. Thanks,” I said.

He knew I was saying no, and the hurt showed in his eyes as rage. He didn’t know how to show any other emotion to me, and he didn’t like having opened himself even a little. It must have taken a final push from Ruth, my sister-in-law, to get him to actually come out with it.

“I’ll really think about it, Phil,” I said.

“You’ll wind up a bum, he said. “You’re close to it now. What happens when your legs go and you don’t think so fast anymore?”

“Then I’ll be qualified to become a cop,” I said. I knew I shouldn’t have said it, but I couldn’t resist the opening. Phil came at me around the bed, but he didn’t make it. The door opened as Jeremy Butler and Shelly Minck came in. Even Phil thought twice about assaulting a patient in his bed in front of two witnesses.

Phil turned his back on me and pushed past my two visitors.

“My brother,” I said.

Butler nodded knowingly, and Shelly paid no attention. Under his jacket Shelly wore his once-white smock. His cigar was out, and I asked him to please leave it that way.

“Shelly,” I said, looking as ill as I could, “I’m sorry I didn’t return your car yesterday, but things got out of hand.” I gestured to the room in explanation, but Shelly had seen the room before, and he wasn’t impressed.