Melting Clock (2 page)

          •  Guy Lombardo on the radio from 11:30
P.M.
till midnight, when we sang “Auld Lang Syne.”

When Carmen Lombardo sang “and never brought to mind,” I thought I saw a tear in the corner of the eye of Gunther Wherthman, my best friend, who lives in the room next door to mine, and who also happens to be three feet tall and Swiss. Gunther had brought a date to the festivities, a graduate student in music history named Gwen, whom we had met on a case in San Francisco two months before. Gwen looked on Gunther with adoration, seeing only a gentle man who spoke and wrote eight languages and knew the difference between a woman and a lady. Gwen looked a bit more like a toothpick than a woman or a lady, but Gunther saw only the adoration.

I had asked Anne, my former wife, to spend New Year’s Eve with me but she’d said she had to stay home and do her nails instead. I had a feeling she was doing more than her nails. I tried Carmen, the cashier at Levy’s, but the ample Carmen had said she’d promised her son that she’d be with him New Year’s Eve.

“You wanna come?” she had asked without enthusiasm as she rang up my Reuben and Pepsi. “We’re gonna toast marshmallows and stuff.”

“What stuff are you going to toast?” I’d asked.

“Just stuff,” she said.

That had been the second-longest conversation I had ever had with Carmen. The longest one had been about Roy Rogers.

So, I had decided to stay home and join the Plaut New Year’s Eve party. I should have gone to Carmen’s house to toast stuff.

Mrs. Plaut had concluded New Year’s Eve with the reading of a passage about her Cousin Ardis Clickman, from her massive memoirs. I was editing her memoirs. At various times Mrs. Plaut thought I was an exterminator, then a book editor. I don’t know how she’d come to either conclusion. Many have tried to penetrate Mrs. Plaut’s fantasies. All have failed. I had long since given up telling her that my name was and is Peters, Toby Peters, private investigator, not exterminator, not editor.

“Mr. Peelers,” she said on that semi-sultry Los Angeles night, “you need pay special attention since you will get my inflection which is not available to you when you are at the task of editing the Plaut saga.”

“I’ll pay special attention,” I had promised.

I looked at her bird, whose name changed at Mrs. Plaut’s whim. From the perch in his cage, Carlyle—or was his name now Emmett?—cocked his head to one side and contemplated the tale Mrs. Plaut monotoned for almost an hour.

It had to do with “The Mister” who, along with Uncle John Anthony Plaut and Aunt Claudia had, on New Year’s Night, 1871, decided to attack the local settlement of Pawnees—always good fun when one grew weary of watching the fire crackle and re-reading
Goody’s Journal.

It seems that “The Mister,” who would later marry Mrs. Plaut when he was ancient and she was a child, was particularly fond of the Pawnees. Since I valued my sanity more than my curiosity, I didn’t bother to question this. I doubt if Mr. Hill even heard it. His eyes indicated that, inspired by elderberry punch, he was off to undreamed of ports of call. No, it was Gwen, who took things and people at their word, who asked the question,

“Why did they want to attack the Pawnees?”

“One may like a class of human species and still feel the necessity of causing their demise for reasons to do with survival and such like,” Mrs. Plaut explained, patiently.

“Well,” I said when I thought she had finished her tale. “This was some party, but I’ve got to get up early.”

“I’ve never known a man to refuse a final cup of Grandmother’s elderberry punch,” she said, evening up the pages of the hand-written manuscript. Over the years, the thing had grown to massive proportions.

“I must,” I said sadly.

Mrs. Plaut placed her manuscript back in the linen-covered box from whence it had come and handed it to me.

“I think it’s time I took Gwen home,” said Gunther, jumping down from the sofa with practiced dignity and offering his hand to his date. He was the only one dressed for the occasion, complete with three-piece suit and tie with a matching handkerchief in the jacket pocket.

Mr. Hill, if his face was a reasonable window to his soul, was over the sea in Erin, dreaming of Leprechauns.

And that was it.

I wished everyone a happy New Year and went to the pay phone on the second-floor landing. I dropped in a nickel and called Anne. She answered on the first ring.

“Hello,” she said in the voice that never failed to stir memories.

“Annie, Annie was the miller’s daughter,” I recited. “Far she wandered from the singing waters. Up hill, down hill Annie went a maying …”

“Toby, I was in bed.”

“Happy New Year,” I said. “You want me to come over?”

“No,” she said.

“I’m sober,” I said.

“I can tell. You never were much of a drinker, even on New Year’s Eve.”

“I’ve had a depressing night,” I said.

“So you’d like to come over and depress me?”

“That was not my plan.”

“You didn’t have a plan, Toby,” she said quietly. “You never have a plan.”

And then I heard it—something, someone.

“You’re not alone,” I said.

She said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You couldn’t know,” Anne said gently.

“No, I’m sorry you’re not alone.”

“I hope you have a good new year, Toby,” she said.

“Yeah.” I hung up, imagining Anne who, at forty-one, was dark, full, and might be considering her third husband. I had been the first. Ralph, the second husband, was another story.

There was only one other person to call. I did it. A girl answered.

“Who’s this?” I asked.

“Tina Swerler,” she said. “The babysitter. The Pevsners are out. It’s after midnight.”

“Did I wake up the kids?”

“Lucy and Dave are asleep. Nat’s still up.”

“Can I talk to him?”

Pause and then, “Uncle Toby?”

“Yeah.”

“You on a case?”

“Yeah,” I said.

Nat was twelve. He knew better than to ask me if I’d killed anyone today. That was David’s question. David was eight and kept track of my murders in the pursuit of justice. The last time I had checked with David the count was sixteen. I was still well behind David Harding, Counterspy. The truth was I’d never killed anyone, and had only shot in the general direction of a few people in the ten years since I’d left the Glendale Police Department. I was and am a terrible shot.

“Tina let me taste wine,” Nat said.

“How old is Tina?” I asked.

“Seventeen,” he said.

“Tell your father and mother I said happy New Year. And tell David and Lucy. I’ll try to stop by tomorrow.”

“You mean later,” he corrected me. “It’s already tomorrow.”

“It’s never tomorrow,” I corrected him.

“I guess,” he replied, perplexed. “Are you drunk, Uncle Toby?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Good-night, kid.”

“Good-night, Uncle Toby. Uncle Toby?”

“Yeah, Nat.”

“He doesn’t want to be called David, or even Dave. He wants to be called Durango.”

“Durango Pevsner,” I said. “I’ll try to remember. Thanks. Good-night.”

There was no one else to call. I wouldn’t go to Phil’s house in the morning. I didn’t know why. I just knew I wouldn’t go. I’d stay in my room till I went nuts. Then I’d go to my office or to a movie. Usually I could count on Gunther to accompany me to nearly any movie, but Gunther now had Gwen.

I went into the bathroom I shared with Mr. Hill and Gunther, put Mrs. Plaut’s manuscript on the sink and looked at my face in the mirror. I had shaved before the party but I still didn’t look like Victor Mature. The hair was there and dark, mainly, with flecks of gray. The nose was flat and the eyes brown. The ears stuck out a little, which should have detracted from the image of the guy who shouldn’t be messed with, the guy who knows how to take a punch and how to give one. Only I hadn’t given many punches.

I had a good face for my profession. Maybe I should have been better at it, but I lacked ambition. That was what Anne had always said, that I lacked ambition and was still about fourteen years old emotionally.

Who the hell was Anne with tonight? No, don’t think that way. Next thing you know you’ll be listening in on phone calls, going through her garbage for notes, taking photographs from trees, and following her around to girdle shops.

I went back to my room. My room at Mrs. Plaut’s was modest. Sofa with doilies made by the great lady herself, complete with a small purple pillow on which was sewn “God Bless Us Every One.” On the wall was a Beech-Nut Gum clock that told pretty good time, at least as compared to my watch. I took the watch off and put it on the little dresser near the door. It had been my father’s, the only thing he had left me. It told the right time twice a day if I was lucky and didn’t rewind it.

I had a bed, but I didn’t use it much. I dragged the mattress onto the floor to appease the God of Bad Backs. There were a few Gobel beers in the small refrigerator in the corner. They’d been there for months. I fished behind the milk and found one. I pulled it out, closed the door, sat at my little table for two, and popped the top with my Pepsi opener.

I didn’t want a beer, but I drank it. I owed it to Nat.

With Mrs. Plaut’s chapter at my side, I lay on the mattress and was asleep on the floor in my underwear before the Beech-Nut Gum clock clicked to one.

When I woke up in the morning, the cat was sleeping on the bed next to me.

The cat’s name is Dash. Notice I didn’t say “My cat’s name is Dash.” He’s not mine. He abides with me when he wants to come in through the window, get some attention, and eat. He’s big and orange and saved my life once.

I made the dangerous barefooted journey to the front porch in my blue beach robe that had
Downtown Y.M.C.A.
written on the back in black letters. I almost never beat Mrs. Plaut to the
L.A. Times,
but she must have slept in after a party that rivaled those thrown by John Barrymore and Fatty Arbuckle.

Back in my room, I fixed myself a bowl of Wheaties and a glass of Borden’s Hemo, did the same for Dash, and read the paper while I ate. I considered a second round for both me and the cat, but milk was up to fifteen cents a quart and clients were down almost one hundred percent.

My back was okay and I wasn’t feeling as sorry for myself as I had the night before, partly because the sun was bright, partly because it was a new year and the news wasn’t bad.

The Soviets were routing the Nazis, claiming that more than 312,000 Germans had been killed. Even Hitler was telling the Germans that it was going to be a tough year. And here at home, oleomargarine was hard to get.

In the movie section I found two choices, either
Who Done It?
with Abbott and Costello or
Time to Kill
with Lloyd Nolan as Mike Shayne. Tough choice. I decided on both of them, providing the Rose Bowl game was over early enough. I had a busy day planned.

I lay in bed grappling with Mrs. Plaut’s prose until the game came on. The
Times
had reported that Georgia coach Wally Butts had said Frank Sinkwich wouldn’t start. His star running back had a bad ankle. Sophomore Charlie Trippi would replace him. Trippi was supposed to be okay, but no offensive match for U.C.L.A. quarterback Bob Waterfield’s arm.

I slept on and off through most of the game and woke up when the crowd, reported at 93,000, roared and I heard a voice say that Sinkwich had gone in for the touchdown. Dash didn’t seem to be around.

“Telephone,” came Mrs. Plaut’s voice from outside my door.

I mumbled some dry-mouthed something that I hoped would satisfy her and let her know I was trying to rejoin the land of the living, but Mrs. Plaut was not an easy woman to reach. She came through the door and looked down at me. She was wearing what at first looked like a cloak and dagger but turned out to be a U.C.L.A. shawl and trowel.

“Telephone,” she repeated.

“Mrs. Plaut, though I know this will do me no good, to hold onto the illusion that you and I are capable of communication, I’ll ask you again, please don’t come in here without the following scenario: You knock and I answer. I answer one of several ways: Come in. Just a minute. Or, I can’t open the door now. There are variations on this.”

“Phone is waiting,” she said, looking first at me and then at the crumpled
L.A. Times,
“and I’ve got apples to peel.”

“I’m almost naked,” I said, sitting up.

“You are just noticing that?” she asked. “I knew it as soon as I came through the door. Kindly put the newspaper back together, especially the funny papers and the cooking, and bring it down to me.”

“Who …?” I began, but she was gone.

I put on my blue robe and went out to the phone on the landing. “Hello,” I said.

“Dali is distraught,” came a high-pitched woman’s voice with a distinct accent that might have been Russian.

“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

“When Dali is distraught, he cannot work,” she went on. “He can think only brown. Brown is not a good color for Dali to think in.”

“I see,” I said. Downstairs, Mrs. Plaut carried a bowl of apples out onto the front porch.

“Only Dali truly sees,” she said.

“What are we talking about?” I asked.

“You did not answer Dali’s letter.”

Then it hit me. A few weeks ago when I was lying on the mattress in broken-legged pain, Mrs. Plaut had handed me a pink envelope with an eye painted on it. She told me that the letter had been delivered by a woman in a funny hat.

“You’re the woman in the funny hat,” I said.

“I am Gala, the wife of Dali, formerly Gala Eluard, born Elena Deluvina Diakonoff.”

I considered asking her what the next race she was running in was, now that I knew her lineage, but I sometimes remember what side my bread is margarined on.

“What can I do for you?” I asked amiably, smelling insanity or a client or both. I have taken money from both the guilty and the insane. With the price of milk going up and margarine as hard to get as gas coupons, a man in my business took what he could get. Shoplifter patrol at the neighborhood Ralph’s Grocery was the only work I’d done for the past two weeks.