That was old business. New business was the place I was living in on Long Beach Boulevard near Slauson. It was small and cheap, partly because the place had the smell of fast decline. It was one of a series of two-room, one story wooden structures L.A. management people called bungalows. To people passing by, the place looked like a motor court that had lost its license and sign. Paint was peeling from all the houses in the court like the skin from a sunburned, aging actress. Like the actress, the bungalows were functional, but not particularly appealing. When it rained, the ground in front of my place became a swamp. The furnished furnishings were faded and the shower didn’t work, but it had a great advantage: It was cheap. Jeremy Butler, the poetic wrestler who owned my office building, also owned this place and suggested that I move in and keep an eye on the property for him. In return, I paid practically nothing in rent. A few days earlier I had paid with a sore stomach when I caught a kid trying to break into one of the bungalows at night. The kid had butted me with his head and taken off. His head had hit the point where I had recently taken a bullet, and the wound had just barely scarred when the kid hit it.
When I pulled the Buick in front of my place, it was about four in the afternoon. The Sante Fe moaned, rattling the walls, and I went inside, kicking off my shoes at the door. Through the thin walls I could hear a couple with hillbilly accents arguing, but I couldn’t make out the words.
I ran the water in the bath full blast. Full blast meant it would be about three-quarters full in half an hour. The half hour was spent getting coffee and pouring myself a big bowl of Quaker Puffed Wheat with a lot of sugar. I finished the Puffed Wheat while I took a bath and read the comics. It was the day before Sadie Hawkin’s Day, but I was sure Li’l Abner would be all right. I ran through Mary Worth’s Family and Tarzan, and got happy for Dick Tracy. He said he was going on vacation.
I put on a pair of shorts, plopped on my bed, and listened to the radio for about an hour with my eyes closed. By a few minutes after six, I was dressed in my second suit and ready to go. Such was the domestic life of Toby Peters, which suited me just fine most of the time.
The hillbilly couple were still arguing when I left, but they weren’t breaking anything so I ignored them and got into my Buick. When I was a kid, my father and brother and I always named our cars. Since my dad’s car was always a heap, we needed a new one every year or so. I remember one was called Valentino, a Model A Ford. I’d thought about naming the Buick, but nothing seemed right for it. I decided to ask Butler. As a poet, he might have some ideas. I took Long Beach to Washington and went up Normandie heading for Wilshire.
It was on a stretch of Normandie near some factories that the bullet missed my head. The street was pretty well deserted, but a car pulled up behind me and gave me the horn to get out of the way. I didn’t even look in the rear view mirror. As the car passed, my neck began to itch, and I started to turn. The bullet went through the driver’s side window near my nose and right out the opposite window. I hit the brakes, held the wheel and ducked down below the door. My tires hit something and the Buick spun around and stopped. I didn’t have my. 38 with me. I crouched over, listened for a few seconds to be sure the other car had gone. When I sat up, the street was clear and the sun was still shining. The holes in both windows were small, but they sent out rays like the sun in a kid’s drawing. I rolled the windows open so no one would ask about the holes.
Then, I headed back to my place and got my. 38. It was getting late for my meeting with Victor Fleming, but I needed some solid reassurance. It could simply have been a nut. There are plenty of nuts in Los Angeles, especially kids who are looking for dangerous thrills. There is something about the monotony of L.A. that sometimes drives people mad. Maybe it’s coming to the ocean and finding there is no place further to take your life. It was also possible that an enemy had been laying for me. I had a few old enemies and some recent ones. It was also possible that it had something to do with the dead Munchkin. That seemed just as wild, since I didn’t know anything the cops didn’t know. Or did I? I went over everything in my head as I drove, keeping my eyes open for another attack. I came up with one idea. Late or not, I had to check it out. I stopped at a gas station and called my office while a guy with a Brooklyn Dodgers cap and an old, grey sweater gave me half a buck’s worth.
Shelly was still in the office. He wanted to talk about his root canal, but I didn’t have the time and he sounded a little hurt.
“You had a call, Toby,” he said, accepting temporary defeat. “A guy with a high voice. Said he wanted to hire you and had to get to you fast. So I gave him your address. Did he find you?”
“He found me, Shelly, thanks.” I found out the caller had no accent and told Shelly I’d see him when I could.
It didn’t make sense, at least not to me. I dropped it, after deciding to bill the cost of new car windows to M.G.M., and headed for the Brown Derby. It was almost seven when I got there. I found a space a few blocks away and jogged. The Derby was a greyish dome with a canopy in front and a single line of rectangular windows running around it. Perched on top of the dome and held up by a tangle of steel bars was the replica of a brown derby. The place looked something like an erupted boil wearing a little hat.
I told the waiter that Fleming was expecting me and was led to a table in a corner. The room was jammed but the noise level was low.
Fleming got up and shook hands when I introduced myself. He was a tall guy, about sixty, with well-groomed grey hair. His nose looked as if it had taken one in the past. He was wearing a tweed suit, a checkered tie and a brown sweater. He looked very English, but his voice was American.
“Have a seat, Peters,” he said. There was another guy at the table and Fleming introduced him as Dr. Roloff, a psychiatrist.
Roloff was equally tweedy and even more grey than Fleming, though about ten years younger.
“Dr. Roloff has been kind enough to give me some ideas for my next picture,” Fleming explained. “A version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
I must have looked surprised because Fleming added, “I know it’s been done with Freddie March. A good film, but I have some ideas and Spencer Tracy is interested. But that’s another game. What can I do for you, Peters? Can we get you something to eat?”
“Nothing to eat, just some information and I’ll get out of your conference. The police talked to you today about an argument you saw between two people dressed in Munchkin suits.”
Fleming nodded and I went on.
“What exactly did you see and hear?”
“Very little,” said Fleming, taking a belt of coffee. “I was coming back from breakfast with Clark Gable, and we saw the two little people arguing. Clark looked. I wanted nothing to do with it. I had a year of working with them. Most of them were fine, but a lot of them were a pain in the ass. They argued, disappeared, showed up late. Once they screwed up a take on purpose by singing ‘Ding Dong the Bitch is Dead.’ I didn’t notice it. The sound man didn’t notice it. We had to reshoot it.”