A Fatal Glass of Beer (15 page)

“Does the stuff never stop?” he asked.

“We’re hungry,” I said. “It’s Sunday. The Chimp can’t get into the bank till tomorrow and we’ll be there in plenty of time.”

Fields ran a hand over his gray-whiskered face and agreed to a small “pit stop” at the nearest establishment that sold sandwiches, razor blades, and replenishments for his supply of martini ingredients, though he had enough to get him across the country at least five times. He had counted on either Gunther or me joining him in drink as we traveled. Gunther did, several times in our journey, join the comedian in a cocktail. I hate martinis, don’t like hard liquor in general, though I don’t usually turn down a beer.

At first our lack of companionship had irked Fields, who clearly stated his distrust of adult males who did not consume “reasonable” quantities of alcohol. He admitted, however, at one weak moment, that he himself didn’t like the taste of whiskey, which was why he had settled on martinis after a youth of beer and a few years of “the harder stuff.”

We stopped in York, got gas, and were directed to the only shop the girl who pumped the gas thought might be open on Sunday morning. We found the place, a drugstore, and after the three of us dug out our razors, we went inside and sat down on wrought-iron chairs at a round table, where we were waited on by a dark, tall man who was definitely an Indian. The man wore denims and a plaid shirt. His hair was the whitest I’ve ever seen.

“Sioux?” asked Fields.

“About the only Indians you’ll find around here,” the man said, taking our order, an egg sandwich on white toast and a Pepsi for me, with a bag of potato chips; a cheese sandwich on toast, milk, and a scoop of vanilla ice cream for Gunther; a couple of pieces of toast and “just a dollop of jelly” for Fields.

“You got a name?” asked Fields.

“Yellow Buffalo,” said the man, “but people call me Steve.”

The man nodded and moved behind the counter to put some bread in a toaster. We were the only customers.

There was a phone on the wall next to a big sign that said there was a sale on Persona Precision Blades. Top Quality. Ten for a dollar.

“I’ll have a package of those blades, Yellow Buffalo,” Fields said. “And some rejuvenation for my dwindling supply of liquid.”

When the man, who continued to work, said that the store sold no liquor and there wasn’t anyplace he could get any in town on Sunday, Fields began to worry.

“No time to go in search of a liquor store open on Sunday in Nebraska,” I said. “We’ve got to get to Ogallala, wake up the banker, beat the Chimp to your account. Besides, you’ve got enough to last you a week.”

Fields nodded reluctantly, examining his straw hat and shaking his head.

“Be right back,” I said, heading for the phone.

I had saved a pocketful of change for an emergency. I had run into such emergencies before. It was one of the little things you picked up being a private detective, especially one with a string of old cars that didn’t care where they decided to quit.

I pulled the Philadelphia number from my back pocket, got the operator, and asked what the charges would be for three minutes. I counted my change and knew I could make that, plus a minute or two more. I placed my call and got a weary, “Forty-third, Sergeant Stinnett.”

“Is Gus Belcher back?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Sinnett. “I’ll ring up.”

I stood there waiting, watching almost thirty seconds go by and looking down at the pile of dimes, nickels, and quarters I’d stacked on a case of Wildroot Cream Oil.

“Detective Conroy speaking,” a voice came on.

“I need Belcher or his partner,” I said. “I’m calling long distance and the operator’s going to ask me for more money.”

“They’re not here,” Conroy said, obviously not impressed by whatever distance my call was coming from.

“Will you get in touch with Belcher or his partner and have them call me at this number? Fast. Tell ’em it’s Toby Peters. Someone’s been murdered.”

Murder didn’t seem to impress Conroy either.

“Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”

I gave him the number on the phone and asked him again to please hurry.

“I’m zipping,” said Conroy, who hung up.

When I got back to the table, Fields was asking Yellow Buffalo, “Own the place?”

“No,” said the man. “Work here for the Simmses. Work alone on Sunday. Saving up to buy the place from Simms when he gets too old to work it during the week.”

“That be soon?” asked Fields.

“Soon,” said the Indian, buttering toast. “He’s four years younger than me, but he’s not well. Pretty good man. Wants a fair price. People around here know me. My son’ll come back after the war. He’ll get married, help me run the place. Make it grow.”

“Son’s a soldier?” asked Fields.

“Communications,” said the Indian. “Speaks on the radio to other Sioux so Germans don’t understand.”

“You speak Sioux?” Fields asked Gunther.

“No,” said Gunther, sitting straight, his mind far away.

Yellow Buffalo brought our food as the phone began to ring. The call was for me, from Philadelphia. It was Belcher.

“Who’s dead?” Belcher asked.

“Hipnoodle,” I said. “Only his name wasn’t Hipnoodle. It was Burton, Lester Burton. Forger. He got most of Fields’s money. Someone shot him in Ottumwa, Iowa. Whoever did it still has three banks to go unless he figures he’s got enough and heads back home.”

“Ottumwa is a long way from Philadelphia,” Belcher said.

“Can’t argue with that,” I said.

“Suspects?”

“Fellow who works for Fields, nicknamed the Chimp, real name is Albert Woloski, did time for armed robbery, don’t know where. He looks a little like an ape, used to work in the Carnes Circus.”

Belcher repeated what I said, reading it back from the notes he was taking.

“And?” asked Belcher.

“Woloski tried to shoot Fields in his bed night before last.”

“Fields okay?” he asked with real concern.

“Besides having no liver, eating nothing, and knocking back enough to get the entire Pacific Fleet drunk every day, I’d say he’s doing fine.”

“Man’s a Philadelphia treasure,” said Belcher, sighing. “I’ll see what I can find out. Where are you?”

“Heading for Ogallala, Nebraska,” I said.

“Spell it,” Belcher said.

I did and he told me he would make some calls and that I should call him from Ogallala.

“If you need the police,” he said, “tell them to call me for a rundown on what we’ve got, but I’m telling you now, you’re way out of our ball park.”

“Right,” I said. “Catch any fish?”

“Older son caught a few,” he said. “Too small, but I pan-fried them. Not bad. Wouldn’t do any good to suggest you try to talk Fields into just going home?” he asked.

“None at all,” I said. “Fields won’t listen.”

I didn’t add that at this point I wanted to see the thing through. Lester Burton had gotten to me.

“Take care of Fields,” he said. “And call.”

He hung up.

We finished our meal, Fields bought a paper, had a brief discussion about going into partnership with Yellow Buffalo on the Simms pharmacy, with the possibility of getting a license to dispense drinking alcohol.

Yellow Buffalo wasn’t interested.

Fields retired to the rest room, where he shaved and returned awake and grinning knowingly. Gunther and I were next, each shaving with a Persona blade carefully handed to us by Fields.

Fields tipped generously with a bill pulled out of his pocket and we were on our way. Or we thought we were.

“He recognized me,” said Fields. “Saw it in his eyes. Indians don’t give anything away, but if you watch their eyes … and Gunther. Notice how he didn’t even pay attention to him? How do you not pay attention to a man three feet tall in a three-piece suit on a Sunday morning in York, Nebraska.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I said.

“And,” he said, pointing his cane, “we have a flat tire.”

He was right again.

Fields supervised, free with his advice, concerned about his supply of liquid refreshment in the trunk that we had to move to get to the spare tire. Gunther managed to remain almost unblemished by the ordeal, at least physically. My back complained once when we pulled out the spare, and once when we took off the flat and wrestled it into the trunk.

Fields proclaimed that it was hot for this time of year as he directed our every move, warning us to be careful of the delicate finish on the Cadillac.

When we were done, Fields climbed into the car and began to read the newspaper he had bought. Gunther and I went back into the drugstore and washed up in the rest room. Yellow Buffalo was nowhere in sight.

We drove while Fields read us the highlights of the day, at least the ones that interested him.

“Senator Truman,” he said, “the loud little Democratic hack from Missouri, finally said something I agree with. Fiorello La Guardia has no more business being made a brigadier general than Darryl F. Zanuck has being made a colonel. At least La Guardia hasn’t written a book about his nonexistent war experiences.”

Neither of us responded. We looked at the corn.

“Says here Conrad Veidt died,” Fields said. “Playing golf. Got to be careful of how you play the game. Dangerous. He was only fifty.”

“He played the Nazi colonel in
Casablanca
,” I said.

“And Cesare the Somnambulist in
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
,” added Gunther, who seldom went to movies.

“Irony,” said Fields. “Man fled Germany because he was a Jew and wound up making good money playing Nazis. Like Preminger and von Stroheim. All Jews. All typecast playing Nazis.”

Gunther slid closed the window between us and himself and turned on the radio so softly that Fields had to strain to be sure Gunther wasn’t listening to music.

“Sporting news,” Fields said, folding over a page. “Alfred Snyder, the one-armed fencer, won ten out of eleven bouts in a tournament. How many hands do you need to fence? Might even be an unfair advantage having one arm. Damn thing isn’t there to hit or get in your way.”

I hadn’t anything to say to this observation, so Fields went on with, “Bad news. Five-year-old Bobby Hookey, the jitterbugging singer, is getting his own radio show. Not only is he a child but he caterwauls, jumps around, and gets paid for his acts of atrocity. If I ever have the displeasure of running into him, I will feign disorientation and sit on the little bastard.”

Finally, Fields said, “Now, here’s an item worthy of serious attention. You can get a live turtle mailed to you for a dollar with a name of your choosing on its back. Get it from Penscript Company in Boston. What name would you want on the back of a turtle? How long can the name be? If you have a longer name for him, do you get a bigger turtle? Will they let you give the foul-smelling little beast an obscene name? And what if I want my name on it? William Claude Dukinfield. Dare they reject?”

He tore the item carefully from the paper, pocketed it in his wallet, patted down the pocket, and sat back to consider turtles and feisty little senators from Missouri.

A little after two in the afternoon we got lost. A detour at the Hastings junction took us south into Kansas.

“We are, according to that last road sign,” said Fields into the microphone to the front seat, “now in the great and sovereign state of Kansas. I have no aversion to the state. In fact, I remember several memorable nights in Kansas City, or was it Topeka, with a chorus nymph named Mimi, whose real name, as I later discovered, was Esther Pertwee. However, we are supposed to be in Nebraska, heading at nearly breakneck speed toward the hamlet of Ogallala where a man who looks like a chimpanzee may well be planning to steal another several thousand dollars of my money.”

“We are lost,” said Gunther into his microphone, with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances.

“I assume,” said Fields, “you concur with my observation that we have wandered aimlessly out of our way in anti-Oz, and not that our souls have been doomed to purgatory or beyond by a wrong turn.”

“We’re not that far off,” I said, opening the slider and leaning into the front seat and looking at the map.

I pointed a route to Gunther, who agreed and made a right turn at the next intersection.

“Was ever man so cursed,” Fields muttered, taking a drink. “Kansas from a car is just as flat as Illinois and Nebraska. Tobias Smollett’s picaresque wanderers were not as afflicted by loss of money, dignity, and direction as we. I am in need of sustenance.”

He poured himself a fresh drink from his thermos and sat back, closing his eyes against the mind-numbing sea of grain.

Several hours and much mumbling later we saw a sign through the twilight indicating that Ogallala was ten miles away.

“We will rouse the local banker,” said Fields. “We will beat that primate to my money and then I—we—will thrash him soundly. Or maybe we’ll just turn him in to the constabulary.”

We had moved into a small woods with low overhanging rock on both sides of the road, when the front window exploded. Glass flew. I covered my eyes and heard a grunt from Fields. The car swerved. I opened my eyes and saw us heading for a wall of red rock. Gunther managed to avoid the wall at the last second with a loud squealing of tires and brakes. We slowed to a near stop.

“You all right, Gunther?” I asked.

“A small cut on my right cheek,” he said, checking his face in the rearview mirror. “Mr. Fields?”

I looked at Fields. He was calmly fishing a shard of glass from his martini glass and examining it for more small bits. His hat had tumbled from his head but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Spontaneous fracturing along a weak fault line,” said Fields, sweeping pieces of glass from his lap. “I shall have my cadre of attorneys seize upon this manufacturing outrage.”

But it wasn’t a flaw in the glass.

A second bullet tore through the open window and whumped solidly into the padded seat a few inches from my head.

“The damn Chimp is trying to kill me again,” Fields croaked, leaning forward to squint out of the breezy front window.

“Us,” I said. “He’s trying to kill all of us.”

Gunther composed himself enough to push his foot to the floor, but a third shot came through the front window and blew out the back window.