I'm a fool to kill you

TWENTY-NINE

Driving back to the Beverly Hills Hotel from the MGM lot I thought again about the question Jerry had asked me that morning, before I left.

I had not identified myself to the clerk or the manager before going to Ava’s room. How, then, had someone managed to be in the lobby in time to hear me being paged, and see Larry pick up the call?

Had I been followed from the hotel? If so, why? Nobody knew I was in L.A., or why I was there, except Frank, Jack, Ted Silver from McCarran Airport, and Ben Hoff from LAX. I knew Frank and Jack would never talk, felt fairly sure about Ted.

That left Ben Hoff.

I’d have to go to the airport to talk to him, and I wanted to take Jerry with me.

And if the airports weren’t safe — if information was being sold, or the airports were being watched — I’d have to rent a car to take Ava back to Las Vegas with me.

If somebody was looking for Ava did they have enough juice to cover airports and rent-a-car companies? Might be I’d have to borrow a car.

A better one than the cab I was driving.

The first time I realized I was being followed was when I heard tires screech behind me. Apparently, whoever was following me had been cut off by another car and had to swerve to miss it. That brought the dark sedan to my attention.

I made a few subtle turns, nothing obvious. I didn’t want them to know I knew they were following me. But I sure couldn’t drive back to the Beverly Hills Hotel. I was going to have to stop somewhere and give Jerry a call.

I spotted a likely place to stop: a hotdog stand beneath a faded Burma Shave billboard, with a pay phone alongside. I was pretty sure if I made a call, my tail wouldn’t find it curious, or unusual. I was right. They pulled over, but didn’t get out.

I pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the stand, walked over and ordered a hotdog with the works. Then I took it with me to the phone and dialed the Beverly Hills Hotel. I told the operator to connect me to Lucy Johnson’s bungalow, number 6.

‘Hello?’

‘Jerry?

‘Hey, Mr G. What’s goin’ on?’

‘Looks like whoever’s looking for Ava, it’s not cops, or they would’ve gone to the studio.’

‘So who are they?’

‘We only know who they aren’t, Jerry,’ I said. ‘How’s Ava?’

‘Gettin’ antsy.’

‘What is she doing?’

‘We’re playin’ cards. Gin. I owe her like a million bucks.’

‘Well, keep playing. I’m on my way. It might take me a while because I’ve picked up a tail.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘You still drivin’ that cab?’

‘I am.’

‘You think you can lose ’em?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Go someplace where there’s lots of cabs, Mr G. Ya can lose ’em that way.’

‘Jerry, that’s brilliant.’

Leave it to the criminal mind.

‘And what are we gonna do next, Mr G.?’

I had to take a moment to swallow the bite of hotdog I’d taken.

‘Mr G.? Whataya eatin’?’

I’d forgotten who I was talking to. Jerry could hear chewing from miles away.

‘Oh, I’m at a hotdog stand.’

‘You went for hotdogs?’ he asked, sounding hurt. ‘Without me?’

His tone made me feel bad.

‘Did you have your pancakes?’

‘Well, yeah, but. . hot dogs.’

‘I’ll bring you some.’

‘Hey, Miss Ava. Ya want a hotdog?’

I heard Ava shout, ‘Yes!’

‘Don’t forget the mustard,’ Jerry told me. ‘And the kraut.’

‘Jerry,’ I said, warning him, ‘these are not Brooklyn hotdogs.’

‘Then bring plenty of mustard,’ he said, and hung up.