Elmer leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s Betsy Jane Perkins, the actress — Eddie was crazy about her, and she felt the same about him. She was trying to straighten him out, and I think she might’ve succeeded, if it hadn’t been for that ex-husband of hers.”
“Yeah?”
“Guy named Fred Peterson. He’s a shrimp.”
“A midget?”
“No, a shrimp — a ‘normal’-size guy who stands just under five feet. He’s a theatrical agent, still is Betsy Jane’s agent; specializes in booking little people. Makes him feel like a big man, lording it over us.”
“He is a regular?” I swiveled on the stool and glanced around. “Is he here?”
“Yes, he’s a regular, no, he’s not here. He wouldn’t pay his respects to Eddie, that’s for goddamn sure.”
“Why?”
“Lately Fred’s been trying to get back in Betsy Jane’s good graces, among other things. Why don’t you talk to her? She’s a sweet kid. I think she’d do anything to help out where Eddie’s concerned.”
I took Elmer’s advice, and my rum and Coke and I went over and stood next to the booth where the painfully pretty little woman gloomily sat. She looked up at me with beautiful if bloodshot blue eyes; her heavy, doll-like makeup was a little grief-smeared, but she was naturally pretty, with a fairly short, Marilyn-ish do.
“Miss Perkins, my name is Nate Heller — I was a friend of Eddie Gaedel’s.”
“I don’t remember Eddie mentioning you, Mr. Heller,” she said, almost primly, her voice a melodic soprano with a vibrato of sorrow.
“I’m an associate of Bill Veeck’s. I escorted Eddie to that famous game in St. Louis back in ’51.”
She had brightened at the mention of Veeck’s name, and was already gesturing for me to sit across from her.
“I saw you at the funeral parlor,” she said, “talking to Helen.”
“Helen?”
“Mrs. Gaedel.”
“Yes. She feels the circumstances of her son’s death are somewhat suspicious.”
The blue eyes lowered. “I’d prefer to reminisce about Eddie and the fun times, the good times, than...”
“Face the truth?”
“Mr. Heller, I don’t know what happened to Eddie. I just know I’ve lost him, right when I thought...” She began to cry, and got in her purse, rustling for a handkerchief.
I glanced over at Elmer, behind the bar, and he was squinting at me, making a vaguely frantic gesture that I didn’t get. Shrugging at him, I returned my attention to the Living Doll.
“You’d been trying to help Eddie. Encourage him to stop drinking, I understand. Not run with such a rough crowd.”
“That’s right.”
I’d hoped for elaboration.
I tried venturing down a different avenue. “I understand some j.d.s have been preying on little people in this neighborhood.”
“That... that’s true.”
“Eddie might have been beaten and robbed.”
“Yes... he might have.”
“But you don’t think that’s the case, do you?”
Now she was getting a compact out of her purse, checking her makeup. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Heller — I look a fright.”
And she went off to the ladies’ room.
I just sat there and sipped my rum and Coke, wondering if I would get anything out of Betsy Jane except tears, when an unMunchkin-like baritone growled at me.
“You got a fetish, pal?”
I turned and looked up at the source of the irritation, and the reason for Elmer’s motioning to me: he was short, but no midget, possibly five foot, almost handsome, with a Steve Canyon jaw compromised by pugged nose and cow eyes; his hair was dark blond and slicked back and he wore a mustache that would have been stylish as hell if this were 1935. Deeply tanned, his build was brawny, his hairy, muscular chest shown off by the deep V-neck cut of his pale green herringbone golf shirt, his arms short but muscular.
I said, “What?”
“You got a scratch to itch, buddy?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
He leaned in, eyes popping, teeth bared, cords in his neck taut; he reeked of Old Spice. “You some kind of pervert, pops? Some kinda letch for the midget ladies?”
Very quietly, I said, “Back off.”
Something about how I’d said it gave him pause, and the clenched fist that was his face twitched a couple times, and he and his Old Spice aura backed away — but he kept standing there, muscular arms folded now, like a stubby, pissed-off genie.
“And you must be Fred Peterson,” I said.
“Who wants to know?”
Not offering a hand to shake, I said, “My name’s Heller — friend of Eddie Gaedel’s, and Bill Veeck’s.”
He blinked. “What, you were over at the funeral home?”
“That’s right.”
“Paying your respects.”
“Yes. And looking into Eddie’s murder.”
He frowned; then he scrambled across from me into the booth, where Betsy Jane had been sitting. “What do you mean, murder?”
“He was beaten to death, Fred. You don’t mind if I call you ‘Fred’...?”
His hands were folded, but squeezing, as if he were doing isometrics. “The cops said it was natural causes. Why’s it your business, the cops say it’s natural causes?”
“I’m a private investigator, working for Veeck. When I get enough evidence, I’ll turn it over to the cops and see if I can’t change their minds about how ‘natural’ those causes were.”
He leaned forward, hands still clasped, a vein in his forehead jumping. “Listen, that little prick had a big mouth and a lot of enemies. You’re gonna get nowhere!”
I shrugged, sipped my rum and Coke. “Maybe I can get somewhere with Betsy Jane.”
The cow eyes flashed. “Stay away from her.”
“Why should I? She seems to like me, and I like her. She’s a cute kid. She interests me... kind of a new frontier.”
“I said stay away.”
“Who died and appointed you head of the Lollipop Guild? I’m going to find out who killed Eddie Gaedel, and have myself some tight little fun along the way.”
And I grinned at him, until he growled a few obscenities and bolted away, heading toward the rear of the bar, almost bumping into Betsy Jane, coming back from the restroom. She froze seeing him, and he clutched her by the shoulders and got right in her face and said something to her, apparently something unpleasant, even threatening. Then he stalked toward the rear exit.
Her expression alarmed, she took her seat across from me and said, “You should go now.”
“That was your agent, right?”
“...right.”
“And your boyfriend?”
“No... husband. Ex-husband. Please go.”
“Jealous of you and Eddie, by any chance? Did you go to him with the idea for a new act, you and Eddie as boy and girl livin’ dolls?”
She shook her head, blonde bangs shimmering. “Mr. Heller, you don’t know what kind of position you’re putting me in...”
I knew that her ex-husband didn’t want any man putting this doll in any position.
But I said, “I think for a little guy, your ex-husband and current agent has a tall temper. And I think he’s goddamn lucky the cops didn’t investigate this case, because he makes one hell of a suspect in Eddie’s death.”
She began to weep again, but this was different, this was more than grief — there was fear in it.
“What do you know, Betsy Jane?”
“Nuh... nothing... nothing...”
“Tell me. Just tell me — so that I know. I won’t take anything to the police without your permission.”
Damp eyelashes fluttered. “Well... I... I don’t know anything, except that... on that last night, Fred was... nice to Eddie and me.”
“Nice?”
“Yes. He’d been furious with me, at the suggestion that Eddie and I would work as a team, livid that I would suggest that he, of all people, should book such an act... We had two, no three, terrible arguments about it. Then... then he changed. He can do that, run hot and cold. He apologized, said he’d been a jerk, said he wanted to make it up, wanted to help. Sat and talked with us all evening, making plans about the act.”