“You mean tomorrow, Tuesday.”
“Monday.”
“Today’s Monday. It’s after midnight.”
“Today. I’ll call you at your office. You don’t have the money, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll kill Dali or I’ll call the police, tell them about the whole thing, tell them it was Dali and his crazy wife’s idea and they got Adam and Claude killed. I don’t know what I’ll do.”
He was scared and ranting now.
“I’ll let him know,” I said as calmly as I could.
“The second clock’s not here,” he said. “I looked for it all through the house. Where is it?”
“Police probably took it.”
“Why?” he asked. “Did they give it back to the Spanish loony?”
“They didn’t tell me, Jim.”
“Don’t call me Jim. I’m not your servant.”
“They didn’t tell me, Mr. Taylor.”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
“What do you want me to call you, for Chrissake?” I asked.
The gun went off. Either he was serious about shooting me if I asked a question or the finger-twitching had worn down the trigger spring. The bullet tore past me into the wall and I turned and dived through the window, taking the shade with me. The shade kept me from getting cut by the shattering glass. I did a belly flop on the grass and lost my wind. I tried to get up but didn’t have the air so I rolled to the right, pushing the torn window shade from me and expecting another shot from Taylor. He might not be able to shoot straight, but given enough chances at a close target he was bound to meet with some success eventually.
No shot came as I got to my knees, but I did hear Taylor coming out the window after me. Lights came on in the house on the other side of the fence as I heard Taylor move toward me in the darkness.
“Twenty-five thousand, cash, by noon,” he said. “I’m a desperate man.”
And I’m a weary one, I thought, but said nothing. I couldn’t have said it even if I wanted to. I was still trying to get a near-normal breath. He moved past me, running toward his car across the street, the rifle in his right hand.
I hobbled in the general direction of the Crosley. There was no telling how long it would take the cops to show up; I’d guessed wrong about that the last time I was here. Taylor was down the street and long gone when I made it to my car and got in. There were no more lights on in the houses along the street, but I had the feeling people were watching from dark windows. They couldn’t have missed the shot and the explosion of glass.
No police cars screeched around the corner ahead of me to cut off my escape and I saw none in the rear-view mirror. I should have gone back for my gun after Taylor had left. It was too late now. I headed for Beverly Hills, half shot near sunrise, in need of a shave, and trying to think.
I stopped at the all-night Victory Drugstore on La Cienega and got change from a woman of who-knows-what age behind the counter. She had a round pink face and a smile that said she was either simpleminded or believed fervently that Jesus was coming no later than Wednesday to take her out of this miserable job.
“Got coffee?” I asked her.
“Lunch counter’s closed,” she said. “But I can heat up what was left in the pot, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine,” I said, heading for the phone in the back of the store.
My first call was to Zeman’s. It was answered by Zeman himself.
“Did you call the police?” I asked.
“No,” he said wearily. “The Dalis don’t want the police involved. They think they’ll be arrested. Dali’s afraid of jails. He spent a few days in one in Spain when-”
“They can’t stay with you,” I said.
“They can’t?” He brightened considerably.
“Your chauffeur may try to kill them,” I explained.
“My … Taylor?”
“Taylor,” I confirmed.
“Why?”
“Ask the Dalis. I’m sending someone to pick Gala up in the next hour, a big bald guy named Jeremy Butler. He’ll take her back to Carmel and keep an eye on her. I don’t think Taylor wants to hurt her, but let’s not take chances.”
“I can’t believe J.T. would-”
“He shot at Dali. He tried to kill me about ten minutes ago. A second man named Gunther Wherthman will pick up Dali. You can’t miss him. He’s a little over three feet tall.”
“Peters, did Dali put you up to this? Is this one of-”
“Barry, I’m getting them out of your house. You owe me a bonus.”
“I said I’d pay if you got the … all right. Let’s compromise. Five hundred dollars.”
“Deal,” I said.
“What if I can’t talk them into going with your men?”
“Do your best. Tell them they’ll stand a good chance of being dead by dawn if they don’t. Tell them their only other choice is to go to the police. My men are already on the way.”
“Where are you taking Dali?”
No answer from me.
“I see. You think I might be …”
“It’s easier not to tell you and not to have to think about it, especially when you owe me five hundred bucks. One more thing.”
The pink-faced night clerk came over to the open booth, bearing a white mug filled with steaming coffee. I nodded and took it gratefully. She looked pleased.
“What?”
“Taylor wants twenty-five thousand dollars by tomorrow to return the last clock and the last painting. Can you get it and give it to Gunther when he comes?”
I took a sip while he thought about it. The coffee was bitter, strong, with grounds at the bottom. It was just what I needed.
“Cash?”
“Cash.”
“I can’t believe Taylor … I’ve got that much in the house. I’ll give it to your dwarf when he comes. I’ll want a receipt.”
“He’s a little person, not a dwarf.”
“I’m sorry,” said Zeman. “I don’t know the protocol. I know …”
“… cars,” I finished. This was deteriorating into the same conversation I’d had with Taylor. “Since you’ve got cash around, give the five hundred you owe me to Gunther in a separate envelope. Still think Salvador’s a good investment?”
“Yes,” he said. “You want to know what you should do with that five hundred?”
“What?”
“American Bantam. Out of business. Making Army vehicles now. You can pick up any one of the 1941 line for about three hundred. They’ll be worth thousands in twenty years, maybe ten.”
“Thanks.” I hung up.
Then I called Jeremy. Alice answered.
“I woke you,” I said, looking at my father’s watch, said it was nine, which was a lot closer than it usually got. I figured the time for two or three in the morning.
“No,” she answered. “Jeremy was reading to me. He just finished a new poem. I’ll get him.”
I was down to the thick grounds at the bottom of the cup. The pink-faced clerk seemed to sense it and appeared next to me, gesturing with the tilt of an imaginary cup to her lips. I nodded yes and handed her the cup.
“Toby,” said Jeremy. “I just finished a poem I’d like you to hear.”
I was about to ask the man to leave his work, his wife, and his baby to drive a lunatic painter’s wife to Carmel. The least I could do was listen to his poem. “Go ahead,” I said. And he did:
The filigreed fingernail of God
etched a fine bright line across the sky
as I watched through the window and heard
behind me the patter of an insurance salesman.
Over my shoulder I saw my wife nod,
for she had seen the wonder, as I,
had seen the heavenly bird
over the patter of the insurance man.
“Did you see that?” she asked him
in joy. Eyes beclouded, dim,
he answered, “It’s nothing, let’s insure your car.
It’s nothing, just a shooting star.”