“The point?” I asked.
“Phil has a lot of cases on his mind,” he said.
“Phil is fifty and will never be more than a lieutenant,” I said. “Surliness is a way of life for him. He’s at war and the world is full of enemies, including me.”
“Maybe so,” sighed Seidman. I looked into the eyes in his sunken face. They were as black and faraway as the night sky. There was no distinction between the iris and the pupil. It was one wide, deep circle to infinity.
“Faulkner,” I said, above the start of an argument in a distant corner. The manacled old man had punched the cop in the kidney, and the cop had restrained himself admirably, limiting his wrath to one elbow in the old guy’s stomach and a lot of shouting. Seidman looked over at the conflict without emotion and spoke to me.
“Cawelti’s case,” he said. “Looks like a tight one. One live witness. One dead man who identified the killer. One gun found in Faulkner’s hotel room. Who could ask for more?”
“I could,” I said.
Seidman’s voice went down so that I could hardly hear it.
“So could Cawelti,” he said. “He’s not looking into corners. Wants to wrap this up tight, get his name in the papers, a pat on the head from Phil, and a nice note in his personnel file.”
“What about Faulkner’s alibi?” I tried, looking around for the well-groomed lady, but she was gone.
“That writer, Vernoff, says Faulkner went out alone for a drink just before nine,” Seidman said. “Plenty of time to pump a few drinks into himself and a few shots of something more deadly into Shatzkin and hurry back to the hotel.”
“Something sound wrong with that to you?” I said.
Seidman shrugged. “Hell of a complicated way to commit a murder. No motive.” Seidman’s eyes moved up and over toward Phil’s door behind my back. I could sense the hulking presence of my brother behind me. I got off Seidman’s desk and limped toward the squad room door. I got four feet before Phil’s hand grabbed my left shoulder. I turned, wondering what he had in store for me this time.
“This has been a hell of a week,” he said as quietly as he could, which was not very quiet. It was as close as he had ever come to an apology.
“They all are,” I said.
“They all are,” he agreed and turned to stalk back into his office.
The two Japanese kids were still on the bench waiting for someone to take them away and shoot them for treason. Coronet, the desk sergeant, was keeping his eye on them to the point where a good lightfinger could have taken his gun, his uniform, and the rusty fixtures of the Wilshire station without his knowing it. My knee throbbed, but I made it across the tile floor and out the door into the cold. In my pocket was a comfortable advance from Martin Leib and a few notes. I went to the drugstore at the corner, got some coffee and a second breakfast of Shredded Wheat, and tried to decide what to do next.
The waitress, who recognized me from previous visits and probably thought I was a cop from down the street, served me quietly, but her radio blasted the news behind her. Corregidor was beating back the Japanese, and the Nazi drive into Russia was being stalled by bad weather and angry Russians. Dorothy Thompson was getting a divorce from Sinclair Lewis, and the Joe Louis/Buddy Baer rematch was definitely going to be covered on the radio. It was too hard to think, and I had too many things to think about. I needed a new notebook and some toothpaste. I picked up a can of Pepsodent tooth powder for thirty-nine cents and for another ten cents got Bob Hope’s book They Got Me Covered as a premium. I figured I’d go home, soak my knee in the bath, and let Hope cheer me up while I decided what to do next.
I got into my specked Buick, ground it into gear, and made for Wilshire, dropping the idea of Carmen and the Florentine Room. My intentions shifted. The next day was Sunday. Maybe I’d take my two nephews Nate and Davey to see Dumbo. At least that’s what I’d tell Phil and Ruth. I would really take them back to Billings’s adobe theater for Host to a Ghost and Revolt of the Zombies. I knew I could trust the boys to tell a lie for their dear old Uncle Toby.
On the way home the knee almost decided to stop peddling gas, so I detoured slightly to County Hospital and groaned into the emergency room, past the numb row of urban walking wounded to a woman in white inside a window-frame reception area. Only her head was showing. She was simply short but looked decapitated.
“I want to see Doctor Parry,” I told the disembodied head with its shock of stiff red hair. “He’s my nephew.”
“He is no longer at County,” she said. I hoped her hands would come up to get rid of the headless image, but they didn’t. “Joined the Army.”
Parry was not my nephew. He was a young resident whom I had attached myself to as my personal medic. I felt depressed as hell and in real need of that hot bath and Bob Hope. “If you’ll have a seat,” said the head, “someone else can take care of you.”
I looked around and estimated the wait before I received medical attention as four weeks to a decade. I could have bullied and tricked my way in, but I was too depressed.
“What is your emergency?” tried the head flatly.
“Mortality,” I said, dragging my foot behind me toward the door like the Universal Mummy.
Back at the boarding house, I pulled myself up the stairs trying to avoid Mrs. Plaut, who caught me before I made it to the top. She was as close to deaf as a human can be and still function, but she had heard me clumping.
“You had a call, Mr. Peelers,” she said. “Don’t remember who it was. I think he said Charlie McCarthy. Couldn’t be.” Her almost-eighty-year-old frame turned away. “And there’s no hot water. I forgot to pay the gas bill again. I’ll take care of it first thing Monday.”
“Thanks,” I said, completing my journey up the fourteen stairs, clutching my Walgreen’s bag to my bosom.
Gunther came into the hall and looked with some concern at my leg. “Phil,” I explained.
Gunther had encountered Phil before and needed no further explanation.
“No hot water,” he said.
“I know,” I said back.
“I’ll boil some on your hot plate,” he volunteered and disappeared into my room. I followed him, threw my coat on the one semicomfortable chair in the room, and took off my clothes. Gunther went back to his room for a huge pot. I stripped to my underwear and watched him struggle with the pot that weighed about as much as he did, but I didn’t offer to help. Pride should be respected.
I made it to the bathroom, found it unoccupied, and went inside. I brushed my teeth and let some cold water into the tub.
I got through a few lines of the Hope book: “There was a great excitement at the little house next door to the Barretts of Wimpole Street. My best friend was having a baby. Me.”
That was as far as I got. Gunther, like a diminutive Gunga Din, lugged the boiling water in and dumped it into the tub. I climbed in and let out a groan. Gunther climbed up on the toilet seat and waited patiently. “You wish company or not?” he asked.
I explained the Faulkner case and asked Gunther to try to track down someone at Bernstein’s Fish Grotto who might have seen or remembered Faulkner or Shatzkin and find out whether Shatzkin had made a reservation the day he met Faulkner. I would try for Mrs. Shatzkin and Vernoff the writer. I also had some guilt pangs about Lugosi and again considered picking up Dave and Nate later in the afternoon and taking them to the show where I could spend a few minutes with Billings.
“Life gets ted-jus, don’t it,” I said.
“That is an idiom?” Gunther said seriously, perched upon the toilet seat.
“Line from a song by a guy named Bert Williams,” I said, pulling myself out of the tub. “And now to work.”
CHAPTER FOUR
With Gunther’s help, I got my knee bandaged tightly. With a couple of pain pills Shelly Minck had given me months earlier for my back, I was ready to work, provided I didn’t have to run and no one kicked me in the kneecap. I made some phone calls. I got the home address of Jerry Vernoff, the writer who had worked with Faulkner the night before, from the telephone directory. Using Martin Leib’s name got me Shatzkin’s home address in Bel Air from Warner Brothers. Shatzkin’s office was listed in the phone book.