Stuart Kaminsky: Tomorrow Is Another day

"I don't get it," I said.

"I was hoping you did," Gable answered.

Frank's voice rose at the next table. As the applause and AJan Ramone's bow ended, he finished his joke: "Who said kike? I said Spike."

One of the women and the other man at the table laughed. The remaining woman giggled and said, "Oh, Frank," to show how naughty he was being.

"How about shutting up?" the young sailor at the next table said.

Gable shook his head and unfolded his hands.

"Yeah," said Frank, looking up at Alan Ramone with more than a touch of eighty proof in his voice. "You should shut up. You're singin' so loud my friends can't hear each other.'?

Fresh whoops of laughter.

Alan Ramone did his best to ignore the show below him and nodded at the piano player, who gave him an intro to "Tea for Two."

"I used to think jokes like that were funny," Gable said.

Frank was glancing around to see if anyone besides his pals appreciated his humor.

"What do you make of this?" I said, tapping the clipping and the poem.

"I don't know," said Gable, reaching for his nearly finished drink. "I told you. I was hoping you did. I do know that poor excuse for a baritone we're trying not to listen to may be in danger."

"Why?" I asked.

Gable shook his head as Ramone belted,"… to see us or hear us."

"I haven't the slightest idea," said Gable.

"We will raise a family," Ramone rasped.

Gable turned to listen.

"A boy for you. A girl for me."

Gable's eyes were moist.

"Can't you see how happy we will be," Ramone concluded.

I'd done my homework on Gable before this meeting. Yes, I'd met him once before. But that was a different Clark Gable, a smiling, handsome Gable in a bathing suit, with a look of amusement on his face. The Clark Gable across from me-a year after the death of his wife, his mother-in-law, and his best friend in a plane crash in Nevada-was about twenty years older and not amused. Gable and Carole Lombard had been married for a little over two years when she was killed coming back from a trip to the east to sell war bonds. Word had it that Gable had pushed Lombard to go on the war-bond tours, that Lombard was afraid of flying. Word had it that Gable felt more than a little responsible for his wife's death, which maybe explained why Gable had joined the army air corps as a private and had moved up quickly to captain, flying combat missions as a machine gunner and trying to get himself killed. All this was according to a publicity gal named Mame Stoltz, who had been with Selznick and was now at M-G-M.

"Put a candle in your butt and blow it out," Frank shouted drunkenly, failing to come up to his established high level of humor. Nevertheless, his party laughed politely.

The young sailor stood up. His two friends stood up. The old sailor had a wild look in his eye and a smile on his face. Frank and his friend stood up. They were both big.

"You're a detective?"

"Right."

"I've got a job for you. Keep Ramone alive and find out what the hell is going on," Gable said, apparently ignoring the coming Battle of Mozambique. "I don't want to be responsible for any more innocent people dying. You can bill me for your time. This should hold you for a few days."

He slid a white envelope toward me. His name with no address was printed in the upper-left-hand corner. The envelope wasn't sealed. I opened it and found four new fifties. I pushed them back into the envelope and shoved it in my pocket. I would probably have taken the case for nothing but curiosity and to please the sad king across from me. Why was my name on the back of the poem? And what kind of nut sends poems to movie stars he plans to murder?

"I'll take a little break now," Al Ramone said, though he had sung only three songs. "And I'll be back with a medley of your favorite show tunes."

Al was dripping with sweat and fear as he and the piano player retreated stage left.

"Hold it there," called Lester from behind the bar.

Nobody held anything. The sailors took a step toward Frank and his partner. The ladies remained seated and tried not to giggle.

"Why not go to the cops?" I asked Gable.

"If you have to," he said. "If you have to. But only if you have to. It's taken me a year to get lost. A year. I don't want reporters hounding me. I… if you have to."

Gable's fingers were playing with what looked like a locket dangling from a chain on his neck. A chair slid backward behind me and I had one of those flashes of having been here before.

"All right. No trouble. There's a cop in here," called Lester, pointing at me.

"I'm a cop too," said Frank, glaring at me. "Who are you?"

"An ex. I'm civilian," I said, holding my hands up.

"Who's your sister?" the other guy with Frank said.

Gable sighed, shook his head, and dug something out of his pocket as he stood up.

"My home phone," he said, handing me a card. "I'll be there."

The sailors had stopped when they heard the word cop, and the air-corps kid at the bar had disappeared with Lester's child.

"Son of a bitch," said Frank, looking at Gable as he stepped out of the shadow of the booth. "It's Robert Taylor."

"No," said one of the women. "He's Clark Gable's grandpa."

The other woman laughed.

Gable was almost as big as the two cops and in better shape.

"Call me," said Gable evenly.

"I'll call," I said, pocketing poem, clip, and envelope as Gable turned to the sailors and said, "Gentlemen, I suggest we retire for the evening."

"Gentlemen, I suggest we retire for the evening," Frank mocked drunkenly, stepping in front of Gable, who tried to move past him toward the door.

"That does it," Lester shouted. "That does it. I'm calling the police."

"Wow," screeched Sidney.

Gable and Frank, who was a half-head taller, were face to face.

"Got something else cute to say?" Frank said, winking at the ladies.

"You," said Gable, "are a foul-mouthed sack of horse shit. Now, if you'll step out of my way, I'll leave the trough to you and your friends."

I was halfway across the room now, heading toward the dark hole to the left of the stage where Al Ramone and the piano player had disappeared. I stopped when I heard Gable and turned to see him rub his nose with his right hand, take a deep breath, and throw a solid right to Frank's stomach, followed by a left to his kidney as the big man spun to his side. One woman gasped. The other screamed. Frank's partner went for Gable but the old sailor was on his back.

I went through the heavy curtain as everyone in the bar-Lester, sailors, women, and cops-screamed and started breaking furniture and each other.

There wasn't much light backstage at the Mozambique, but there wasn't much to see either. A dirty wooden floor. A door with an exit sign over it. Three other unmarked wooden doors and a sputtering light bulb to guide the way.

I went for the first door, opened it, and found myself in a closet set up like a dressing room. Just enough space for a small table and chair and a peeling mirror. Table, chair, and mirror frame had all been painted a sick, thick, and uneven green. The room was empty except for the furniture and a photo tucked into the corner of the mirror. I took a look at the scratched photo. A group of guys in Confederate uniforms were lying on the ground and holding up their hands to Vivien Leigh, begging. One of the guys was circled in ink, He was lying in the dirt, his hands crossed in death. He was skinny and bearded, but Al Ramone's fake teeth gave him away. I looked at the photograph for another few seconds and had the feeling that I had seen this lost patrol before.

A motorcycle cranked up outside. I moved to the open window and pushed the dirty curtain aside in time to see Clark Gable roar into the Glendale night. Behind him and me the battle raged on.