Melting Clock (14 page)

“Today. I’ll call you at your office. You don’t have the money, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll kill Dali or I’ll call the police, tell them about the whole thing, tell them it was Dali and his crazy wife’s idea and they got Adam and Claude killed. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

He was scared and ranting now.

“I’ll let him know,” I said as calmly as I could.

“The second clock’s not here,” he said. “I looked for it all through the house. Where is it?”

“Police probably took it.”

“Why?” he asked. “Did they give it back to the Spanish loony?”

“They didn’t tell me, Jim.”

“Don’t call me Jim. I’m not your servant.”

“They didn’t tell me, Mr. Taylor.”

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“What do you want me to call you, for Chrissake?” I asked.

The gun went off. Either he was serious about shooting me if I asked a question or the finger-twitching had worn down the trigger spring. The bullet tore past me into the wall and I turned and dived through the window, taking the shade with me. The shade kept me from getting cut by the shattering glass. I did a belly flop on the grass and lost my wind. I tried to get up but didn’t have the air so I rolled to the right, pushing the torn window shade from me and expecting another shot from Taylor. He might not be able to shoot straight, but given enough chances at a close target he was bound to meet with some success eventually.

No shot came as I got to my knees, but I did hear Taylor coming out the window after me. Lights came on in the house on the other side of the fence as I heard Taylor move toward me in the darkness.

“Twenty-five thousand, cash, by noon,” he said. “I’m a desperate man.”

And I’m a weary one, I thought, but said nothing. I couldn’t have said it even if I wanted to. I was still trying to get a near-normal breath. He moved past me, running toward his car across the street, the rifle in his right hand.

I hobbled in the general direction of the Crosley. There was no telling how long it would take the cops to show up; I’d guessed wrong about that the last time I was here. Taylor was down the street and long gone when I made it to my car and got in. There were no more lights on in the houses along the street, but I had the feeling people were watching from dark windows. They couldn’t have missed the shot and the explosion of glass.

No police cars screeched around the corner ahead of me to cut off my escape and I saw none in the rear-view mirror. I should have gone back for my gun after Taylor had left. It was too late now. I headed for Beverly Hills, half shot near sunrise, in need of a shave, and trying to think.

I stopped at the all-night Victory Drugstore on La Cienega and got change from a woman of who-knows-what age behind the counter. She had a round pink face and a smile that said she was either simpleminded or believed fervently that Jesus was coming no later than Wednesday to take her out of this miserable job.

“Got coffee?” I asked her.

“Lunch counter’s closed,” she said. “But I can heat up what was left in the pot, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine,” I said, heading for the phone in the back of the store.

My first call was to Zeman’s. It was answered by Zeman himself.

“Did you call the police?” I asked.

“No,” he said wearily. “The Dalis don’t want the police involved. They think they’ll be arrested. Dali’s afraid of jails. He spent a few days in one in Spain when—”

“They can’t stay with you,” I said.

“They can’t?” He brightened considerably.

“Your chauffeur may try to kill them,” I explained.

“My … Taylor?”

“Taylor,” I confirmed.

“Why?”

“Ask the Dalis. I’m sending someone to pick Gala up in the next hour, a big bald guy named Jeremy Butler. He’ll take her back to Carmel and keep an eye on her. I don’t think Taylor wants to hurt her, but let’s not take chances.”

“I can’t believe J.T. would—”

“He shot at Dali. He tried to kill me about ten minutes ago. A second man named Gunther Wherthman will pick up Dali. You can’t miss him. He’s a little over three feet tall.”

“Peters, did Dali put you up to this? Is this one of—”

“Barry, I’m getting them out of your house. You owe me a bonus.”

“I said I’d pay if you got the … all right. Let’s compromise. Five hundred dollars.”

“Deal,” I said.

“What if I can’t talk them into going with your men?”

“Do your best. Tell them they’ll stand a good chance of being dead by dawn if they don’t. Tell them their only other choice is to go to the police. My men are already on the way.”

“Where are you taking Dali?”

No answer from me.

“I see. You think I might be …”

“It’s easier not to tell you and not to have to think about it, especially when you owe me five hundred bucks. One more thing.”

The pink-faced night clerk came over to the open booth, bearing a white mug filled with steaming coffee. I nodded and took it gratefully. She looked pleased.

“What?”

“Taylor wants twenty-five thousand dollars by tomorrow to return the last clock and the last painting. Can you get it and give it to Gunther when he comes?”

I took a sip while he thought about it. The coffee was bitter, strong, with grounds at the bottom. It was just what I needed.

“Cash?”

“Cash.”

“I can’t believe Taylor … I’ve got that much in the house. I’ll give it to your dwarf when he comes. I’ll want a receipt.”

“He’s a little person, not a dwarf.”

“I’m sorry,” said Zeman. “I don’t know the protocol. I know …”

“… cars,” I finished. This was deteriorating into the same conversation I’d had with Taylor. “Since you’ve got cash around, give the five hundred you owe me to Gunther in a separate envelope. Still think Salvador’s a good investment?”

“Yes,” he said. “You want to know what you should do with that five hundred?”

“What?”

“American Bantam. Out of business. Making Army vehicles now. You can pick up any one of the 1941 line for about three hundred. They’ll be worth thousands in twenty years, maybe ten.”

“Thanks.” I hung up.

Then I called Jeremy. Alice answered.

“I woke you,” I said, looking at my father’s watch, said it was nine, which was a lot closer than it usually got. I figured the time for two or three in the morning.

“No,” she answered. “Jeremy was reading to me. He just finished a new poem. I’ll get him.”

I was down to the thick grounds at the bottom of the cup. The pink-faced clerk seemed to sense it and appeared next to me, gesturing with the tilt of an imaginary cup to her lips. I nodded yes and handed her the cup.

“Toby,” said Jeremy. “I just finished a poem I’d like you to hear.”

I was about to ask the man to leave his work, his wife, and his baby to drive a lunatic painter’s wife to Carmel. The least I could do was listen to his poem. “Go ahead,” I said. And he did:

The filigreed fingernail of God

etched a fine bright line across the sky

as I watched through the window and heard

behind me the patter of an insurance salesman.

Over my shoulder I saw my wife nod,

for she had seen the wonder, as I,

had seen the heavenly bird

over the patter of the insurance man.

“Did you see that?” she asked him

in joy. Eyes beclouded, dim,

he answered, “It’s nothing, let’s insure your car.

It’s nothing, just a shooting star.”

“I like it,” I said.

“What did you feel?”

“Sorry for the insurance man,” I said.

“Yes,” said Jeremy. “Yes.”

I told Jeremy what I needed. He listened, then asked if I really felt this was essential. I said it was and he agreed. I thanked him, hung up, and dialed Mrs. Plaut’s, wondering if I felt sorry for the insurance man for the same reason Jeremy did.

Mr. Hill answered the phone and told me that he had to be up in two hours to get to the post office and sort his mail. I told him I was sorry, that it was an emergency.

“Nice New Year’s party,” he said.

“Nice party,” I agreed, and he went to get Gunther.

“Toby?” asked Gunther in a voice coated with sleep.

“Gunther, I need a favor.”

I explained and he readily agreed to pick Dali up and take him to my room.

“Gwen had to go back to San Francisco for a few days,” he explained.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Just a few days,” he reminded me in his Swiss accent, which to too many people sounded suspiciously Germanic.

“I appreciate this, Gunther,” I said.

“I have not always appreciated Señor Dali’s insensitivities,” he said, “but I am intrigued by his art. It should be most interesting.”

“Thanks, Gunther,” I said and hung up.

I had one more call to make, but I wanted to think about it for a few seconds. The counter woman came back with the second cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Glad to,” she said. “Slow at night. Most nights. I’d close it up but my son, it’s his store. My husband and I take turns nights till Miles gets back from the war.”

“Army?”

“Marines,” she said with a big smile. I could see both pride and fear in it.

“It should be over soon,” I said.

“Admiral Halsey, Bull Halsey, says we’ll have the war won by 1943.”

“He should know,” I said.

“Commander of the South Pacific Force of the Pacific Fleet,” she said. “He should know. Want something to eat?”

“I don’t want you to …”

“I like the company,” she said brightly.

“Got cereal?”

“Just Wheatena left.”

“Sounds great.”

As she bustled back to the lunch counter, I dropped my next nickel and called the Wilshire District Police Station. I didn’t have to look up the number.

“Briggs?”

“Sergeant Briggs, right,” came the Irish-accented voice.

“This is Toby Peters. Someone just stole my gun.”

“Stole your gun,” he said flatly. “You got a story to go with this? Some bullshit. Things are slow here and I could use a tale or two.”

“Someone broke in my car, took it out of my glove compartment. I’m reporting it. I was parked on Santa Monica near La Cienega. Happened about four hours ago. I just noticed it when I went to lock it up at home.”

“Maybe the Japs took it. Or those Fifth Col-youmnists.”

“Could be. You want the serial number? I’ve got it right—”

“I’ll get it off the records,” he said. “But you’ve got to come in and fill out the papers. You know.”

“Can it wait till morning, late?”

“Why not?” said Briggs. “I’ll have the blotter report on your brother’s desk when he comes in. He likes a good read with his first cup.”

“Thanks, Briggs,” I said and hung up.

My guess was that the .38 I’d thrown on Adam Place’s bed was already on the desk of a cop in Culver City. I had the Wheatena and talked to the counter woman, whose name was Rose. I’d read her wrong. She wasn’t simple and she wasn’t waiting for Jesus. She was waiting for Miles Anthony McCullough, waiting for someone to show photographs of her grandchildren to. I ate my Wheatena and looked at the kids. They were all cute and they all looked like Rose McCullough.

T
he coffee kept me awake till I hit Mrs. Plaut’s boarding house. I had trouble parking on Heliotrope, even with a car the size of my Crosley, but I managed to squeak into a space about two blocks away. The night light was on. I made it up to my room, kicked off my shoes, unzipped my windbreaker and placed it on one of my two kitchen chairs. My pants went on the other. My shirt had been through a tough day so, reluctant as I was, I retired it till I could find the time to wash it. My retired shirts made a small pile in the closet.

I checked the time on my Beech-Nut Gum wall clock and lay down on the mattress on the floor. I’d shave in the morning. I’d brush my teeth in the morning. I’d change my underwear in the morning. I’d become a better person in the morning. Right now I’d just lie there with the lights on and wait for Gunther to get back with Dali. That was my plan.

What was it the insurance man had said in Jeremy’s poem? “It’s nothing, just a shooting star.” I closed my eyes and saw the shooting star. Was I an insurance salesman or a poet at the window? I was asleep before I could think of an answer.

I dreamed of stone women crumbling in the sand, of mustaches without faces, of derby hats floating, eggs opening with something coming out that I didn’t want to see, of Gala’s clocks melting on Rose McCullough’s grill at the Victory Drugstore. Koko the Clown kept popping up from behind rocks and through holes in screaming birds. He grinned but refused to play a major role in the dreams.

When I opened my eyes, Dash the cat was sitting on my chest and Gunther Wherthman, hair neatly trimmed, in three-piece suit complete with pocket watch and chain and black shoes polished to look like glass, was sitting on the sofa. He had a fat leather briefcase in his lap.

“You were asleep when we came in,” he said.

I scratched Dash’s head, eased him away, sat up and tried to rejoin the ranks of the living. It was no use. I lay back down and took a shot at focusing on Mrs. Plaut’s pillow on the sofa, the pillow that had “God Bless Us Every One,” neatly embroidered on it in red.