“Dr. Minck changed that,” she said. “He says he pays the phone bill and you should. .”
“Put him on,” I said.
“He’s with a patient.”
“Let the patient bleed to death,” I said pleasantly. “It’ll be more humane than what Shelly must be putting him through.”
“I’ll tell him,” she said, and the phone clicked against the top of her little table.
I imagined her drawing up tight and wedging through the thin space between the desk and wall. Voices and then, “I’ve got a patient, Toby,” he said. “A new thing I’m trying. Killing the nerves. I’ve got to get back to him.”
Beyond and behind Shelly came the moan of the Lusitania as it finally sank into the Atlantic.
“Minck and Peters,” I said.
“It’s not good for business.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Mine,” he said. “You should have your own line.”
“Hard to get with a war on.”
“Then you pay half the phone bill,” he said, obviously playing to the alert Violet Gonsenelli.
“It’s built into my rent.”
“Built into. . who said that? When? How? Why? You make things up. I’m a victim here.”
More moans from the patient beneath the sea.
“One dollar a month more,” I said.
“One dollar? You must be. .”
“. . making my final offer,” I said.
“One dollar,” Shelly agreed.
“Don’t hang up. I may need your help, Shel.”
“Help?”
“I may need some people to protect a client.”
“Astaire?”
“Yes.”
“Fred Astaire? You want me to become a private investigator for a while and protect Fred Astaire?”
“Did Violet catch all of that? Is she impressed?”
“I think so,” said Shelly as his patient let out an “agggggghhhhhhh.” “I don’t care if it’s dangerous. When do you need me?”
“Nine tomorrow morning,” I said. “Ballroom of the Monticello Hotel on Sunset.”
“I’ll cancel my morning patients. Should I bring my gun?”
“You don’t have a gun, Shel.”
“I understand,” Sheldon said seriously. “I’ll be there. Violet wants to talk to you.”
He handed her the phone and walked away, calling to the moaning patient, “Jesus Christ, can’t you take a little pain without acting like a baby?”
“Mr. Peters?”
“Yes, Violet.”
“Jimmy Bivins is five-to-six to beat Tami Mauriello Friday. I’ll take Bivins and give you four-to-six on six dollars with an extra two dollars that say the fight goes the distance.”
“Our Ortiz-Salica bet still on?”
“I’ve got Ortiz, two dollars.”
“You’re on on the Bivins fight,” I said and hung up.
I lined up Pook Hurawitz and Jerry Rogasinian, both bit actors and part-time stunt men who could be counted on for a good show if you paid them. They both looked like what they frequently played, gangsters who helped fill out the gang and never uttered a word. I was type-casting them.
Pook asked who we were working for. He upped his price to twenty bucks a day from the fifteen I offered him. I could have gotten Rogasinian for fifteen but I was sure they’d talk about what I was paying them so I just offered the twenty. Jerry was grateful.
“Jerry, you ever work on a film with Preston Stewart?” I asked after we had agreed to terms.
“Twice,” he said. “On Hell in Himalaya I was one of the Sherpa carriers. And on Night of Destiny I played a cab driver. Had one word. Preston comes to me on the curb and says, ‘You free?’ and I answered, ‘Sure.’ ”
“What’s Preston Stewart like?”
“Good guy,” Jerry said. “No star crap. Drank coffee with the rest of us. Joked around. Polite to the women. Good guy. Why?”
“I think he’s going to marry my ex-wife.”
“I take it back,” Jerry said. “Stewart was an asshole.”
“Too late, Jerry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hung up the phone and went back to the counter to eat my sandwich and drink a Pepsi.
“Toast is cold,” the waitress said, hands on hips, challenging me to blame her or deny it. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“Cold toast is fine,” I said. “Can’t sit. I was spanked by a giant from India.”
“Want me to do it again?”
“Nope. I’m in enough pain already.”
“No,” she said. “I meant, do you want me to give you fresh toast?”
“I’m all right. I could use a little ketchup.”
She nodded. “You’re Tobias Pevsner, aren’t you?” she said, handing me the bottle of Heinz.
“Right,” I said, pouring ketchup and looking a little more closely at her.
A distant aunt? A former client? She sagged under an oversized white starched uniform; tight curls of white hair crept out from under her Nurse Duncan cap. Her skin was pale and her lips colorless.
“Anita Maloney,” she said.
“Anita?”
“Tobias,” she said. “You took me to the senior prom. You tried to get under my pink crinoline dress and into my cotton panties.”
There was one other customer at the counter, a round man wearing a delivery cap. He had three folds of skin on the back of his neck. He ate slowly, mechanically, from a bowl that looked as if it contained the same swill that the Count of Monte Christo was forced to gulp down in the Chateau Des Ifs. He tried not to look at me and Anita. I forced myself to look at Anita. She was a year, maybe two years younger than me and she looked like someone’s angry grandmother.
“Anita,” I said, putting down my sandwich. “How the heck have you been? You look terrific.”
“You look pretty much the same,” she said, eyeing me. “A few more kicks in the face. A few more pounds. Eat your food before it gets too cold.”
I ate and shook my head in an isn’t-it-a-small-world shake.
“So. .” I said with a mouthful of tuna, “how the heck have you been?”
“Life story fast?” she asked, leaning forward.
“Sure,” I said.
“Married Ozzie Shaw. Remember him?”
“Football team, straight A’s?”
“That’s him,” she said with a grin.
“How is he?”
“Dead,” she said. “That’s why I’m grinning and happy to be on my feet behind a counter hauling grease.”
“I gather it was a less than happy union.”
“Liar, womanizer, hitter, shiftless. And those were his good points.”
I smiled, keeping my mouth shut as I chewed, and looked over at the man with the extra-thick neck. He was still shoveling.
“We had one kid, Lonny,” she said. “Here.”
She reached under her apron and came up with a pocket-sized cardboard folder. She took out a photograph and slid it forward next to the plate.
There was the Anita Maloney I knew. I didn’t recognize Ozzie, who had his arm around her shoulder. The kid standing between them was maybe five or six.
“Cute,” I said, sliding the photograph back. “Ozzie changed.”
“That’s not Ozzie,” she said, putting the photograph back. “That’s Charlie, Lonny’s husband. He’s in the army. Prisoner of war. Japs. The boy is my grandson, Mal.”
“Great-looking kid,” I said.
“That’s not the end of my story,” she said with a smile that suggested much more. “But we’ll save that. What’s your short-and-sweet tale? I heard you married Anne Mitzenmacher. How’s your brother?”
“Anne and I were married and divorced, no kids,” I said, dipping fries in ketchup and wondering how I’d escape. “And Phil’s a captain with the L.A.P.D. Three kids.”
“You still a cop? I heard you were a cop.”
“Not for a long time,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.”
“Like Mike Shayne?”
“A little,” I said, looking at my wristwatch.
“You got a card? I’ve got something you might help with.”
I found a withered edged card in my wallet and handed it to Anita. She looked at it and put it into the pocket of her white uniform. There was no check and I didn’t want to wait for one. I pulled out two bucks, plenty for the drink, sandwich, and salve, and the most generous tip Anita Maloney was likely to get in her entire career, at least from a sober customer.