“How you doing, Ruth?” I asked cheerfully.
“Fine, Toby,” she said.
“Happy New Year,” I said.
“You know, don’t you, Toby.”
“Know? Know what?”
“You’re brothers,” she said lightly. “I could tell the way you said ‘Happy New Year.’ He told you? You saw him?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I know people always say this but if there’s anything I can do …”
“You can do a lot, Toby,” she said. “You can come over here tomorrow for dinner. You can take the kids out to the park so I can spend some time with Phil. He’s taking it hard.”
“I know,” I said. “Are you?”
“Taking it harder.”
“It’ll be all right,” I assured her. “I told Phil I know surgeon who’ll know the right guy.”
“Thanks, Toby,” she said.
“They can take care of those things now,” I said. “Army’s developed all kinds of … hell, I don’t know what I’m talking about, Ruth.”
“Odds I’ve heard are about three-to-one in my favor,” she said. “Before the war they were three-to-one against. I guess war is good for something. Gives doctors a lot of practice and a chance to experiment on dying men.”
“Ruth-”
“I’ve been lucky, Toby. My husband was too old to be drafted and my sons are too young.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow at noon,” I said. “That okay?”
“Fine,” she said. “Toby, do you realize this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had?”
“Yeah, we finally had something to talk about.”
She laughed on the other end and said, “Lucy wants to talk to you.”
Lucy was Phil and Ruth’s youngest, somewhere between two and three. When she was one she used to clobber me with her favorite toy, a Yale padlock.
“Uncle Toby?” came a small voice.
“Yes,” I said.
“Moon is ca-ca,” she said seriously.
“Sometimes I think you’re right, kid,” I said, and either Lucy or Ruth hung up.
Next call was to Doc Hodgdon, who was retired but still saw a few patients in his home. He wanted to know when we could get together for handball. I told him it would have to wait till I finished the case I was on. I told him about Ruth and he said he knew a few people. I gave him Phil and Ruth’s number and promised to call him next week.
Then I made the call I dreaded. Barry T. Zeman answered the phone.
“It’s me, Toby Peters,” I said.
“Did you find them?” he said.
“I found one of the paintings and one of the clocks. Is Dali there?”
“They never leave the house,” he said. “He doesn’t like the outdoors. She goes running out when he needs something or she asks me to send my driver, J.T. The houseboy quit the second day they were here. The cook asked for a week off. Actually, he said he would be gone until the Dalis left. The housekeeper, who has worked for my family for thirty-eight years, has suddenly discovered an ailing relative in Lac Le Biche in Alberta, Canada.”
“Life is hard,” I admitted. “Can I talk to Dali? He’s the client. He can fill you in.”
He put the phone down and I waited. Gala came on.
“Yes?” she said eagerly.
“The Place in the note was a man named Adam Place. He’s dead, murdered. The police have one of the paintings and one of the clocks. The killer, or maybe Place, ruined the painting and left a message.”
I told her about Thirteenth Street and Dali came on the phone.
“Which painting?” he asked.
I described the painting.
“You must find the other ones.”
I told him about Thirteenth Street.
“Ah,” he said. “A mystical number. I once had a dream of a crystal with exactly thirteen sides floating in a hole in the head of a giant beast who sat on an enormous egg. I painted that image in a fit of rage in a single day and had to rest for a week.”
“That’s very helpful,” I said.
“It is,” he said with great seriousness, “alchemical. Find the other paintings. Find Gala’s clocks. Find them. My dreams are filled with fathers and the naked breasts of faceless women.”
It could be worse, I thought, but I said, “A man’s been murdered. Shot between the eyes. It might be a good idea to let the police know what’s going on.”
“No,” said Dali.
That’s not really accurate. He didn’t say “no,” he screamed. A nearly hysterical “nooooooooooooooo.”
“I’ll get back to you as soon as I have anything,” I said when the wail had played itself out.
“I am plagued,” he wailed anew. “Who is this Wollowa Beckstine on the radio who they keep telling the time?”
“What?”
“It’s five o’clock Wollowa Beckstine,” he said solemnly.
“Bulova Watch Time,” I explained.
“Bulova Watch Time,” Dali repeated. And then, “Dali can’t work.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Dali’s work is an obligation, a burden.” It was almost a sob. “Do you know how difficult it is to shock the world every twenty-four hours?”
“It’s the curse of painters and politicians,” I said.
“You are making a joke? You are joking at Dali?”
Gala took over the phone, her voice shaking. “Dali does not like to be the ass of jokes.”
“The butt of jokes,” I corrected.
“No, he says ‘ass’ of jokes. In the world of Salvador Dali, all jokes are made by Salvador Dali.”
She hung up.
There is nothing like an appreciative client.
I went in search of Jeremy Butler. He’d solved the riddle of the first message for me. Maybe he could solve the second one in time for me to save a painting and maybe a life. Besides, I needed to hear a reasonably sane voice.
5
Most women would have been wary about answering a door to an apartment in a nearly empty downtown L.A. office building, but Alice Pallis did not hesitate. Alice feared neither man nor beast … nor robot Alice was a formidable creature of no mean proportions who, less than a year ago, when she was still in the porno business, had hoisted a two-hundred-pound printing press and carried it four flights down the fire escape when the cops came calling.
When I stepped in, Natasha was lying on a blanket on the floor of the huge open room, which only a few months earlier had been brown, leather, musty, and filled with books. Since Alice and Jeremy had married, the room had brightened considerably. Alice had replaced all of the furniture with flowered sofas and a huge pink and purple rug covered the floor.
Natasha lay gurgling and playing with the pages of a thick blue-covered book.
“How’s she doing?” I asked.
Alice smiled beautifully at her infant daughter. Natasha nibbled gently at the corner of the book.
“She absorbs,” said Alice.
“What’s she reading?” I asked.
“Fairy tales. Andersen. Jeremy believes that she should be surrounded by the proper books; that the words, the stories, come alive in the hands of one who is prepared to learn.”
“You believe that?” I asked.
“I’m learning,” she said.
“I need Jeremy.”
“It’s his meditation time,” said Alice. “He’s at Pershing Square. When he comes back he’s going to read a fairy tale to Natasha.”
Natasha stopped gnawing and looked up at me. She smiled. I left feeling a little better than when I had walked in.
Finding Jeremy was no great problem. I walked over to Pershing Square, which wasn’t quite deserted, but it wasn’t as crowded as it usually was, possibly because it looked like rain. A little guy who was shivering in spite of the eighty-degree temperature was standing on a box, a Chiquita Banana box, pounding his left fist into his right palm and shouting.
Jeremy and about five other men stood listening. Jeremy towered over the others and seemed to pay the most attention to the little guy. I started to say something to Jeremy; he put a finger to his lips to quiet me. I noticed a magazine under his arm. We turned to listen to the little man who was saying: