“Should have X rays,” he said, “and rest.”
“I haven’t got the time,” I said. “Isn’t there something you can do to keep me going for a few days? It’s an emergency situation. Life and death.”
Hodgdon turned and looked at me levelly.
“I can try to straighten it while it’s sore,” he said, “but it would be painful and require a bit of guesswork on my part without X rays. If it worked, I could give you a shot to kill the pain and a knee brace. I suggest…”
“Do it,” I said.
“Okay,” he said and came to the table. Over his shoulder on the wall was a photograph of Thomas Dewey, the governor of New York. I met Dewey’s little eyes and tried not to watch Hodgdon, who touched my knee again and took a grip over and under it. I knew his hands and arms were strong. They had sent little black handballs zipping past my head for three years. “Here we go.”
I yelled in surprise. Tom Dewey took it better. Pain I had expected, but not torture. My eyes filled with tears. When they cleared, I could see Doc Hodgdon bending my knee.
“I think you’re in luck,” he said. He went to his cabinet, opened it, pulled out a huge hypodermic, and filled it with a clear liquid.
“Maybe I should give the knee a rest,” I said as he advanced, checking the liquid with a little spray into the air.
“It’s all over,” he said, grabbing my thigh firmly. I met Dewey’s eyes again. Hodgdon’s fingers probed my kneecap, found a space and plunged the needle in. This time I bit my teeth.
“You should be feeling no pain and be able to walk in two or three minutes,” he said, placing the spent hypo gently in the sink. He opened the lower section of his cabinet and came out with an elastic hinged brace. It took him about ten seconds to get it on my knee. “Come back and see me in a few days. As soon as you can, give that leg some rest. That’s all it needs now. And you can forget about handball for a month or so. I’ll send you a bill.”
In three minutes I was walking through the office, past the chunky lady with the Life, the twig nurse, and the kid with the cast. I didn’t look at them, but I was sure they were all shaking their heads in disapproval. I went out the door, down the steps, and to my car, amazed at how little my leg bothered me. I didn’t think about it long. I was back on my way to Culver City and the secret rendezvous of Camile Shatzkin. That sounded like a good soap opera title, but I had no one to suggest it to.
The place I was looking for was just off Jefferson Boulevard, and the apartment I wanted was clearly marked by the lack of name. There was some mail in the box, but I couldn’t see whom it was addressed to, probably “Occupant.” I rang the bell and got no answer. Then I tried the bell marked “Leo Rouse, Superintendent.” A nearby ring told me Leo Rouse’s apartment was on the ground floor, and an opening door confirmed my brilliant observation. Rouse was around sixty, with an enormous belly and an equal number of teeth and strands of hair, about six. He wore overalls and a flannel shirt and was gumming something ferociously.
“Mr. Rouse?” I asked through the closed inner glass door.
“Yeah?” he said.
“I’d like to speak to you.” I opened my wallet and showed him a card. He opened the door but didn’t stand back to let me in.
“Mr. Rouse, my name is Booth, Lorne Booth, California National Bank.”
“Your card said you was Jennings from Blast-a-Bug Exterminators,” he said suspiciously.
I laughed.
“Got that card this morning from Jennings. They’re doing an estimate on an apartment complex I have an interest in out in Van Nuys.”
Rouse cocked his head and kept chewing. I estimated six to twelve hours before he could get down, let alone digest, whatever carnivorous thing he was worrying into masticated submission.
“What I’m doing,” I said quickly, “is checking the credit rating of two depositors who are taking out, or at least asking for, a small business loan. Both coincidentally reside right in this building.”
“Who?” he said.
“Long on the first floor and whoever is in apartment 2G. My notes have the address and apartment, but Mrs. Ontiveros failed to type in the name. She’s had a lot on her mind with her brother Sid going into the Army and…”
“What you want?” said Rouse.
“How long has Long lived in this building?”
“Three, four years. They got no money to invest. Can’t even keep up with the rent.”
“Good to know,” I said. “Just the kind of information I need. Now about 2G. That’s…?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Offen,” he supplied. “Don’t know anything about them.”
“How long they live here?” I asked with benign solemnity.
“Three months, but they don’t live here. They rent the place. Hardly ever sleep here. Hardly ever show up.”
“Doesn’t sound like the Offens who applied for the loan,” I said, puzzled. “Could you describe them?”
“She’s little younger than you. Some might say pretty. I’d say hoity-toity. Never saw him. She pays the rent. They’re right above me. Every once in a while I hear his voice and another guy.”
“This worries me,” I said, leaning against the wall and pushing my hat back. “I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Rouse. I can see you’re a man who can be trusted with a confidence. I’ve tentatively approved this loan, and my career could be in serious trouble if I make a mistake. Bartkowski in mortgages is near retirement, and I have a shot at his desk. I’d really like to take a look at the Offens’ assets, very quietly, discreetly… it would mean a lot to me.” I pulled a five from my wallet, and then another. Rouse stopped chewing, went back in his apartment, and exchanged words with a shrill woman before returning. He had a ring of keys in his left hand and his right hand out, palm up. I crossed it with the two bills, and he led the way up the stairs. The hallway was dark and slightly musty, though the building seemed to be only about ten years old.
“Your apartments all come furnished?” I asked.
“Right,” he said, inserting the right key into 2G. The door popped open, and he stepped in and stood in the center of the room. It was clear he had no intention of letting me go in there alone. “All I need,” I said, touching my chin, “is some evidence of financial stability. A checking account, paid bills.”
Rouse didn’t answer. The room was small and furnished in unmatching bits and ends. The carpet was dark green, and the room smelled of dust. I tried drawers, tables, and behind the pillows on the sofa. Nothing. I tried closets and found no clothes. I even tried the garbage. There wasn’t any. The refrigerator held three beers and a bottle of wine. There was no telephone. The only thing that indicated anyone had been in the two small rooms was the fact that the bedding was put on haphazardly. Someone had slept in or used the bed.
I put on a very sad face, a face of utter dejection that signaled the end of nations and careers.
“Nothing,” I sighed. Rouse did not respond. “This is very distressing. Mr. Rouse, I wonder if I could impose on you further? If you hear Mr. and Mrs. Offen come back at any hour of the day or night, please call the number I’m going to write on the back of this card. My gratitude will be five more dollars.”
“Right,” said Rouse.
Someone was coming up the dark stairs when we closed the door, but I paid no attention until the footsteps stopped somewhere below us, maybe five or six steps. I looked down into the dusty darkness at a thin figure. Rouse looked down too. The figure stared in our direction for a beat and then leaped noisily down the stairs three or four at a time. I considered running down to take a look, but the slamming of the door and my knee told me not to. The figure had a distinct resemblance to the guy who had attacked me in Wilson Wong’s parking lot.
“Who was that?” I asked Rouse.
Rouse shrugged. “Didn’t get a good look. Someone with a key, though, else he couldn’t get in downstairs. I didn’t hear any buzzers.”
I couldn’t find my banker’s card so I left Rouse the exterminator’s card with my office and home numbers written on the back. I told him to ask for my assistant, Mr. Peters, and give him the message.