"A toast, Mr. Peelers," Mrs. Plaut said, holding up her glass. "Absent friends."
"Absent friends," I repeated, touching my glass to hers.
I finished my glass at about the same time as Mrs. Plaut.
"It's the nectar that does it," she said.
"I'll help you clean up."
"Only one who I allowed to help with cleanup was the Mister."
I went through the day room into the hallway and onto the porch, where Mame Stoltz had already departed and Clark Gable was pacing and checking his watch.
"Sorry about that, Peters," he said. "In there, I mean."
"About what?"
"I got a little impatient. Hell, I lost all my patience, looked around and saw… some people trying to protect a man in uniform during a war. You've got to admit that you're relying on a quartet too old, small, or blind to be on active duty."
"Add lame," I said. "I'm both too old and I've got a bad back. You were right. We're a sideshow, but we're not half bad when the wind is blowing our way and the sun is shining."
"And the gods are looking down," said Gable with a smile.
I told him about our conclusion that Spelling would probably go for Lionel Varney at the Academy Awards the next night. It made sense to Gable. I told him that we might be wrong and that Spelling knew where Gable and I lived, so it might be a good idea for us to get out of LA. for the night and for me to take him to whatever transportation back to England he might find on a Saturday.
"I don't hide, Peters," he said, sitting on the white porch railing.
"Why risk getting killed?" I said, leaning against the wall and watching a pair of smiling young women tooling down Heliotrope in a convertible. "Besides, the papers probably know you're back by now. They'll probably be waiting for you in Encino."
Gable shrugged and turned to see what I was looking at. The girl in the passenger seat looked up and saw him. She screamed and we could hear her squeal to the driver as they roared away.
"Clark Gable. I swear. On the porch. Go around the block. Really."
"I'm going home before they make it around the block, Peters," he said, getting up from the rail.
"They might spot you," I said.
"Naw, one of the nice things about a cycle is that you can wear a leather helmet and goggles and the police won't think you're about to rob a bank. Stay on the job and give me a call in the morning. I'll lock the doors and keep a gun next to my bed."
"I think you should…"
He was already down the stairs.
"Hitler's boys have been trying to shoot me out of the sky for almost a year," he said with a familiar lopsided grin. "His best haven't done it. I'm not about to let a stateside lunatic give the Fuehrer some good news."
I could hear the phone ringing inside the house. I couldn't tell if it was Mrs. Plaut's phone or the pay phone on the upstairs landing. Gable waved, a clipped little wave to the side, and hurried to his motorcycle parked at the curb. He was roaring down the street, head down, and went right past the girls in the convertible who had circled the block and were looking for the king. They paid no attention to the man on the motorcycle. I moved to the porch steps as the girls came up alongside the house.
"My friend says Clark Gable is on your porch," the driver shouted.
"He was," the passenger said.
"My cousin Conrad," I said. "Stunt man. Done some work for Gable."
"I could have sworn," said the passenger.
They both looked at me, a heavyset Chrysler waiting impatiently behind them for the girls to finish their conversation.
"Are you anybody?" the girl in the driver's seat said.
Her hair was long and black. Her skin perfect and tan. Her teeth as white as memory.
"No," I said. "I'm a plumber."
The guy in the Chrysler lost his patience and hit the horn. The girls drove off, away from the sunset and toward Sunset Boulevard.
"For you, Mr. Peelers," Mrs. Plaut said behind me. "Phone. Man from the brotherhood. Upstairs."
I thanked her and went back in the house, taking the stairs one at a time, feeling a little sorry for myself, determined to give Anne a call, a night out, some conversation, when Spelling was locked up. I picked up the phone. It was Phil.
"Can't give Varney any cover," he said abruptly.
"Can't gi… Phil, I think Spelling's going to try to kill him at the Academy Awards dinner tomorrow night. Listen, if you read those notes carefully, you…"
"Can't," Phil said impatiently, and I knew that if he was here standing next to me I'd either shut up now or find out what it felt like to be thrown down Mrs. Plaut's always clean and carpeted stairs.
"Why?"
"There's a war on," he said. "The Japs are getting suicidal. The R.A.F. is bombing Berlin."
"So?"
"So Mick Veblin is district supervisor," Phil said. "You know Mick Veblin?"
"No," I said.
"G. Lane Price, the chief of police of Glendale, knows him. Very well. I'm under investigation for not arresting you when there was sufficient evidence. And Mick is also curious about how I let Wally Hospodar get shot in the back seat of an unmarked police vehicle and why said vehicle is a mess. I have very little credibility here, Toby, and I'll be lucky to hold onto my job."
"I'm sorry, Phil."
"Hell," he said. "Let's just call it a birthday present from you to me."
"Birth-? Phil. It's your birthday."
"Every year at this time."
"I forgot."
"You always do," he said. "But I really don't give a shit. You're on your own with Varney, and Veblin himself will probably want to talk to you."
"What do you want me to say to him?"
"What do I… Toby, I want you to lie your ass off and save my job. Can you do that?"
"I can do that."
"Fine."
"Listen, Phil…"
He hung up hard.
So the Los Angeles Police Department was out. It was going to be up to the second team. If I was lucky, I could reach Hy at Hy's for Him on Melrose before he closed. Gunther had his own tux, but Hy, who catered to the lost, lonely, and the once famous, had a tux in the back room that fit me, plus one for a giant and another for a small fat man who sweated a lot. I was feeling less sorry for myself already.
Chapter 12
I called Hy. I had done some odd jobs for him over the years-tracking his missing mother-in-law, spending a night looking through a hole hi the dressing-room wall to catch an employee who was making off with the merchandise, persuading a couple of down-and-outers to make a final and complete payment for goods. I wouldn't say Hy owed me, but then again being nice to people you do business with is good business. Hy was in and was willing to give me a rate on the tuxedos. I didn't tell him money was no object.
I got in my Crosley and headed for Hy's, listening to "A Date with Judy" on the radio. "Night and day, at home or away, always carry Turns," the announcer said. I thought it was a good idea. For the next fifteen minutes, Judy Foster displayed acute anxiety to her brother Randolph about whether Oogie Pringle would call her about the most important school dance of the year.
I double-parked on Melrose right in front of Hy's shop, under the red-on-white banner reading, "Absolutely Everything Must Go Even If It Breaks Me." A cartoon of Hy, complete with sad bulldog face and suspenders over a little belly, looked down at those of us seeking a bargain at his expense.
Hy was at the door with the three boxes. I took them.
"How's business?" I asked.
"Between you and me," he said, looking around the busy shop to be sure no one was listening, "not so bad. Saturdays people buy like there's no tomorrow. I tell them there's no tomorrow. The newspapers tell them there might not be a tomorrow. And me, I lost my lease and everything must go."
"You own the building, Hymie," I reminded him.
"I am not always easy on myself. You got a formal occasion or are you gonna dress up like a waiter again?"