A Fatal Glass of Beer (10 page)

“Rommel is fleeing, abandoning his tanks, about to surrender,” said Gunther.

“You understand Yiddish?” said Fields.

“It’s not a difficult language,” said Gunther. “Mostly German. Some Polish and Russian with bits of other things. A language of proud wanderers.”

“I think now’s a good time,” I said.

Fields and I had developed this ritual which took place anytime in the afternoon after lunch. I’d say it was a good time. He’d reach into one of his pockets and come out with my day’s pay. It took him a little longer this time. Reaching into his pocket was awkward and he couldn’t find small enough bills.

We hit Coshocton a little after four and had no trouble finding the bank. There wasn’t much to Coshocton. It seemed like a nice enough small town. Gunther stopped the car at the curb and Fields and I rushed to the bank door. A burly man in a brown uniform and cap stood in the doorway, letting people out.

Fields tried to move past him. The uniformed man’s arm came up to stop him.

“Bank’s closed, sorry.”

“Emergency,” said Fields. “Wife’s dying of quintaberry of the liver. Surgeon won’t operate without cash. Can’t get cash without going into the bank.”

“Morning,” the man said, with a definite accent.

“Morning will be too late,” said Fields. “The better half could have gone to meet her maker before dawn. The medical profession is mercenary. Six children will be essentially orphans.”

“They’ll have you,” the burly man said, unmoved, as he let a pair of customers leave.

“I’m a cad and a drunkard,” Fields said sadly. “A glass of beer could be fatal and then where would the lovely urchins be?”

The burly bank dick looked at us with suspicion.

“Your wife is not dying,” he said.

“You are not only a doorman,” said Fields, “but you’re also a telepathic diagnostician.”

“You’re the radio funny guy,” the man said. “Make jokes with Charlie McCarthy and Mortimer Snerd. I read about you somewhere. Come back in the morning.”

“The death of a sweet, innocent woman will be on your oversized cranium,” Fields said as the man went back into the bank and locked the door. He turned back to me. “At least Hipnoodle can’t get in,” he said. “Sign says the bank opens at nine. We’ll be here at six. Scant hours or less behind us speeds the Chimp and his partner, determined to steal my money and kill me …”

“Unless you give up the chase,” I reminded him.

“That is not an option,” said Fields.

“I didn’t think it was,” I said. “Let’s find a place to eat and sleep.”

In less than three minutes Gunther found a hotel, small, with a restaurant. In a corner of the lobby, dark behind glass windows and a glass door, was a barbershop.

“Are we too early for dinner?” I asked the girl who checked us in.

“Start serving at four-thirty,” she said. “We’ll get your bags up to your room and you’ll be just on time. You might want to freshen up a little first, but that’s your business.”

She couldn’t have been more than seventeen, long blond hair tied with a ribbon. No makeup, green dress. There was a sharp cry from behind the desk. I looked around expecting to see the Chimp with a gun in his hand. The girl disappeared behind the counter and came up with a baby in her arms.

“Mom and dad are in Canton,” the young woman explained. “Aunt Claire is pretty sick. Sister and I are minding the place till they get back. Actually, mom is usually back here behind the desk. Pop’s the barber. I keep the place clean.”

She rocked the nearly bald baby, who stopped crying and gurgled softly.

“I’d best feed him,” she said shyly. “My husband’s a Seabee. Hardly had a chance to be together after we were married.”

“A lovely child,” said Fields with a smile. “Does he bounce?”

The girl smiled.

“Does he have a name, or do you wish him to remain incognito till he reaches maturity and can carry on a coherent conversation?” asked Fields while Gunther and I plopped into nearby chairs, abandoning the luggage in front of the desk.

“His name is Bill,” she said. “William, same as my husband.”

“That’s my name,” Fields said, looking at the child more seriously. “I have a son who’s also named Bill.”

“Wow,” the child bride said. “Some coincidence.”

“Indeed,” said Fields.

“Are there any other hotels in town?” I asked.

“One,” she said. “New Marion on Second Street.”

“This is W. C. Fields,” I said. “We’re being hounded by one of Mr. Fields’s former employees who mistakenly thinks he is owed money when, in fact, he stole some valuable property from Mr. Fields. So, we would appreciate …”

“Snake River Rock doesn’t have to fall on me,” the girl said with a smile, rocking her baby. “I won’t let on to anyone you’re here. Wow, W. C. Fields. My husband saw you in a movie where you kicked a little boy.”

“Filmic illusion,” said Fields. “Baby LeRoy enjoyed it. I’m actually very fond of the little creatures.”

“Well,” she said. “I’ve got to feed Billy. Leave your things there. Here’s your keys. My little brother’ll get everything up to your rooms.”

I needed a shave, a shower, and some rest. But I was hungry.

“I prefer to change clothes and bathe before dinner,” said Gunther.

“And I,” said Fields, “will retire to my room to work out a plan to thwart the Chimp and his partner.”

“And call your secretary to find out more about the Chimp,” I reminded him.

Our rooms were on the second floor. There was no elevator. Fields and Gunther made an odd pair walking up the stairs.

“Bring me a shrimp-salad sandwich,” said Fields, who carried his picnic basket. “No pickle.”

When they were gone, I felt my stubbled cheeks and looked into a small mirror in the lobby. I straightened my jacket and shirt, ran a hand through my hair, patted the .38 in the holster under my zipper jacket, and looked at myself again. I looked tough, even to me. The stubble with touches of gray in it added to the image.

The restaurant had three booths, four tables, and a counter with eight stools. I was the only customer. A waitress who was probably the older sister of the girl at the desk told me I could sit anywhere. I chose the booth in the corner. I could look through the curtains onto the street and I could see anyone coming into the restaurant.

I ordered Fields’s sandwich to go. The waitress said the closest they had was tuna. I told her it would have to do and said I’d start with coffee while I went over the menu. I wasn’t waiting for Gunther. By the time he felt sufficiently groomed to come downstairs to eat, I’d be on my way upstairs to our room or already there.

I drank the water the girl had placed before me and then ordered as I held up my coffee cup.

“What’s special?” I asked.

“Chicken pie and dumplings,” she said.

“Sold,” I said.

“Homemade pies for dessert,” she went on. “Made ’em myself, at least some of them.”

“You got apple?”

“Sure.”

“Apple pie and, if you’ve got it, a scoop of ice cream.”

She didn’t bother to write it down. No one else came in while I waited. The radio was on and the waitress was listening to “Mary Noble, Backstage Wife.” From what I could tell, Mary, with great determination and dignity, was warning a young actress to stay away from Mary’s husband.

The waitress returned in a few minutes with the chicken pie and dumplings.

“You from New York?” she said, standing next to me as I started to eat.

“Los Angeles,” I said.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Are you a policeman or a gangster?”

“Somewhere in between,” I said.

The chicken pie and dumplings smelled terrific. I felt better immediately and held back visions of apple pie and ice cream. She stood, wanting to say more.

“Married?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Me neither. Gonna be in town long?”

“Just overnight,” I said.

“I could close down at nine,” she said.

I looked up at her. Cute. Maybe twenty-three. Bored. Someone looking dangerous comes in for the chicken and dumplings and she decides to take a chance.

“I’m old enough to be your father,” I said. “Easy. Probably older than your father.”

“So’s Harold Winch,” she said. “I go out with him. He stutters. Not many young men in town with the war and all.”

“Look,” I said, zipping my jacket down partway and showing my gun and holster to her. “I’m the bodyguard for a movie star. We just checked in for the night. I’m not going to be getting any sleep. I’ll be sitting up all night with this in my lap. There’s a guy following us, thinks my client owes him money. You’re one cute kid but …”

“I understand,” she said with a sigh. “You got a girl back in Los Angeles?”

“A woman,” I amended as I continued to eat. “She’s a waitress too.”

She nodded. “Want some more?”

I grinned and said sure. She took my plate and came back with another helping.

“If I went to Los Angeles and looked you up,” she said, “could you maybe get me into movies? I mean, this guy you’re protecting. He must have connections.”

“We can try,” I said. “My name’s Toby Peters. I’m in the phone book. I’m telling you not to try, to take my word, but it won’t do any good and, who knows, you’ve got the energy, looks, figure, teeth, and nerve. Look me up in L.A.”

“I’ll get your pie,” she said.

She moved across the empty room behind the counter and someone appeared in the door of the restaurant. It was the Chimp. He spotted me right away. I held up my .38 in my right hand and worked on a dumpling with my left.

He glared at me for a moment, took a step toward me, changed his mind, and disappeared. I dropped four dollars and some change on the table as the waitress returned.

“I think I’ll eat this in my room,” I said. “Got to get back to work.”

She shrugged, gave me a disappointed look, and handed me Fields’s tuna sandwich, neatly wrapped in wax paper.

I put the sandwich in my pocket and, one hand holding the pie and ice cream and the other my .38, went into the lobby. Empty. I went up the stairs to Fields’s room, gave him the knock, and waited while he opened the door. He was in his underwear and still wearing his hat.

“I saw the Chimp downstairs,” I said, handing him the sandwich. “He saw me. Keep your door locked. I’ll listen for anyone coming.”

“Called my secretary,” Fields said. “The Chimp is Albert Woloski. Forty-four years of age. Two prison terms, plus an overnight misdemeanor for purse snatching. Two felonies. Armed robbery. Did eight years with the Carnes Circus—roustabout, cook, tumbler, catcher for a trapeze act. Can’t say he’s the least savory character I’ve encountered in my travels, but the others weren’t trying to steal all my money and kill me.”

“Keep your door locked,” I said. “And put a chair under the knob.”

“Up at six,” he answered.

I nodded and he closed the door.

I went to my room. Gunther was dressed. I told him about the Chimp and recommended the chicken and dumplings. The ice cream was melting on my pie.

“Thank you,” said Gunther, checking his pocket watch.

“Warning,” I said. “Waitress is a nice young dish who doesn’t get around much and isn’t shy.”

“I shall endeavor to resist,” he said. “Chicken and dumplings?”

“Apple pie’s good too,” I added, taking a bite.

Gunther was back in about an hour. He ate slowly, even when he was alone. He had not seen the Chimp and the waitress had expressed to him a similar invitation to the one she’d given me, which he had politely refused.

We went to bed early. My gun was on the table near my mattress. The door was locked and a chair in place under the knob.

I fell asleep almost instantly and stayed that way until I heard the two gunshots a little after three in the morning. They were followed by two more.

If man is made in God’s image, does God have prostate trouble?

I fumbled for my gun and the light, found both, and saw Gunther standing next to his bed, waiting for direction. I was wearing boxer shorts, a white undershirt, and a look of bewilderment. I ran for the door, kicked the chair out of the way, opened the locks, and dashed out into the hall, where the chances of getting myself shot were pretty good.

The door to Fields’s room was open. I ran to it, gun ready, breathing hard. The lamp was out but from the light in the hall I could make out a figure crouched next to the bed.

Behind me a few people were opening their doors just a crack to see what was going on. A hum of low voices murmured in a frightened blur. There was a switch on the wall. Gunther, at my side, hit the switch and I leveled my gun.

Kneeling beside Fields’s bed was the Chimp—Albert Woloski—with a gun in his hand and confusion on his primate face.

He stood up and reached toward the bedclothes, still holding the gun in his hand.

“Drop it,” I ordered.

Maybe it was the boxer shorts and undershirt. Maybe the Chimp thought I could shoot faster than he could. Whatever the reason, he went headfirst through the open window next to the bed.

Gunther and I ran after him and leaned out. It was a two-story drop, but the Chimp was up and running down the empty street. He was limping slightly but moving fast.

I turned to Fields’s bed and pulled back the covers. By now the young girl who had checked us in stood in the doorway in a pink robe, her blond hair down.

The bed was empty. A pillow lay under the blanket. Feathers were showing through the two bullet holes in the pillow. I checked the blanket. Two more bullet holes.

“How many shots did you hear?” I asked Gunther.

“Four,” he said. “Where is Mr. Fields?”

“What’s goin’ on here?” the frightened girl in the doorway asked.

“Long story,” I said, going for the washroom.

It was empty.

“Is there an all-night bar in town?” I asked the girl.

“No,” she said as Gunther and I moved past her.

There were three people, a woman and two men, in the hallway, tentative, close to the doors to their rooms. They were all over sixty.

“Any of you see or hear anything?” I asked.