The Fala Factor

7

One slow drive down the cul-de-sac alongside Olson’s animal clinic convinced me that no one was watching the place. There were no cars on the street and as far as I could see there were no cars down the narrow lane that ran back to Olson’s house. However, as far as I could see was not very far. There were many ways to handle this. Most of them involved exercising some caution. Caution was a word that, in spite of many attempts to engrave it on my skull and spine, had never made its way into my brain.

I found a driveway across from Olson’s, drove in far enough to be sure the car wouldn’t be seen from the street, and found a space between a pair of trees. I took out my little notebook and pencil and left a message under my windshield wiper for whoever lived there that my car had broken down, that I had come to deliver something to them, and that I’d be right back. That should hold off a call to the police, at least long enough for me to do whatever I was going to do.

It must have been around four. My watch was no help. The sun was bright and I was in a hurry. I walked straight across the street and up to the front door of the clinic. The door was locked and there was a sign on it saying the clinic was temporarily closed due to Dr. Olson’s death. It was spelled correctly and in an even hand.

In case anyone was watching from a nearby bush, I knocked at the door, tried to peer through the tiny window, and then started up the driveway. Out of sight of both the street and the house, I doubled back and circled the clinic from the rear, looking for a door or window.

There was a door, but it was locked. Behind it I could hear barking and some sounds I didn’t recognize. The first two windows I tried were locked and unforgiving. The third window was locked too, but the lock didn’t have its heart in the job. I managed to get my fingers under the bottom of the window, trying not to think of what would happen in the next second or two if Bass were behind the window and decided to lean his weight down on my fingers.

There was a guy named Stumpy Fredericks, California middleweight champ around 1924 or ’25. He had no fingers on his hands Stump’s were like rocks, fingers never got sore, but his seconds had a hell of a time keeping his boxing gloves from flopping around. I tried not to think of Stumpy, who never told how he had lost his fingers. I failed. Maybe it was the thought of those fingerless boxing gloves flapping in the face of some confused kid out of Monterey that gave me the extra push that broke the lock. The window flew up and rattled a dozen dogs into something like song.

Instead of jumping through the window, I stood still for a second listening, trying to hear if someone were inside, or if someone outside might have heard the noise. I waited, waited, and waited, and then I crawled in, closing the window behind me.

The dogs had calmed down a bit but the parrot I had seen in the office the day before was somewhere croaking “I’m Henry the Eighth I am.”

There was plenty of light from the window. I was in one of the surgery/treatment rooms. I moved around the metal table in the center and went to the door. The door wasn’t quite closed so I pushed it open slowly, carefully, and stepped into the hallway looking both ways. “Monks, monks, monks,” the parrot called and I followed his voice back into the building to a closed door. Even with the door closed I could tell from the smell that I had found what I was looking for. I opened the door and the barking and croaking started again.

“Shh,” I whispered. “Everything’s okeydokey. No one’s going to be operated on. Everyone’s going to be fed.”

One massive German shepherd in the cage on my right didn’t believe me. He rolled back his upper lip and showed some less-than-inviting teeth. The room was big, but the cages weren’t full. It took no more than a few seconds to scan the cages and see there was no black Scottie.

My next step was going to be a look through Olson’s papers. It would have been my next step if, when I turned, Anne Olson hadn’t been standing there. Her hair was combed straight. He slacks were dark and her sweater white. Her eyes were also clear and sober and the gun in her hand was blue. She was color-coordinated.

“What are you doing?” she asked. Her voice quavered and quivered a little but it was a reasonable question.

“I came to return the suit,” I said. “Is mine dry?”

She shook her head no.

“Well,” I sighed, “then I’ll come back some other-”

“That’s not why you came back. You’re looking for something. You killed Roy for something and now you’ve come back for it.”

“I didn’t kill your husband,” I said. “If the police haven’t told you that by now, you should figure it out yourself. Remember, the water was dripping? I ran up the stairs. How the hell fast could I have drowned him? And by the way, what happened to you last night? And since I’m asking questions, is your name Laura or Anne?”

The gun stayed on my chest and the parrot behind me cackled more about Henry the Eighth and monks.

Mrs. Olson said nothing.

“I came here looking for a dog,” I said, “a black Scottie. I think your husband took President Roosevelt’s dog and brought him to California. I think that had something to do with his being killed. If I can figure it out, the police can figure it out and they will. I’ve got a deal to make with you. You put the gun away and tell me what you know about what your husband did, and I’ll see that you get no trouble and a lot of credit for finding the dog.”

The gun stayed up as I smiled and held out my right hand. The bullet, which would have made a hole in it had I not slipped on something wet, pinged off the bar of the cage behind me and took off the head of the parrot in mid “monk.”

“Cut it out,” I shouted, backing away, trying to make myself heard over the animals, which had gone wild from the noise, my fear, and the feeling of sudden death.

The second shot took a piece of the ear of the German shepherd, who was nowhere near me. Anne or Laura Olson was now crying and shooting, her eyes full of tears and her finger not knowing what it was clicking off. I took the three or four steps toward her, grabbed her hand, and pulled the gun away. The one-eared shepherd managed to get its snout out and sink his teeth into Olson’s pants. I pulled away hearing the tear and feeling the tug. The noise shivered through me as I reached behind the woman, opened the door, and pushed her through. I followed her and slammed the door closed behind us. It was better but not perfect.

“You’re going to kill me now,” she sobbed. “That’s what I get. I’ve never hurt anyone or anything in my life and this is what I get.”

I considered reminding her that she had just sent a bird to parrot heaven and created a funny-looking dog, but I let it pass. Instead I led her to the small operating room, where I found what looked like a clean cup and filled it with water for her.

She took the water in two hands and downed it in the same number of gulps.

“You’re not going to kill me,” she said, looking up at me from the one chair in the room. “If you were going to kill me, you wouldn’t give me water, unless you’re some kind of sadist or you plan to torture me for some sick reason, or you want me to tell you something I don’t know, or …”

“You want some more water?”

She shook her head no and went silent. Her right hand came up automatically to brush back her hair. I took the cup and touched her hand.

“I was drunk the other night,” she said.

“I didn’t notice,” I answered. “You want your gun back, without bullets?”

“It was Roy’s. I got it out of his office. I don’t know much about guns,” she said.

“I wouldn’t know it by the way you were mowing down pets in … I’m sorry.”

“I accept your apology,” she said with dignity, finding a handkerchief in the pocket of her slacks. “I didn’t love Roy Olson.”

Since I hadn’t asked, I nodded in sympathy.

“He was a friend of my father’s back in Washington. It just happened. I’d been through a divorce and Roy was there and going to California and I wanted out. It was a mistake. Have you ever made a mistake?”

“Never,” I said. “Did you make a mistake with Bass?”

The shudder was real. “He’s a … a … one of those things with no sex.”

“Politician,” I helped.

“No … you’re joking.”

“I hope so,” I agreed. “What do you know about the dog?”

“He had a black Scottie when we came here,” she said, looking up at me and taking my hand. “But I never thought it was, what’s his name, Fala. I still don’t understand. Why?”

“That’s what I want to find out. Do you know a friend of your husband’s named Martin something?”

She stood up and seemed to be trembling a little more. “You think this Martin killed Roy.”

“Or Bass, or both,” I said.

“You didn’t do it, then,” she said, stepping toward me.

“That’s how we started this conversation. I didn’t do it. All I want to do is find the dog. To do that, I might have to find out who killed your husband.”

“Could you come back to the house with me for a while,” she said, holding my hand. “I … I don’t want to be alone in there, where he was killed. Whoever did it might come back. I thought it was …”

She put her arms around me and laid her head on my shoulder.

“You have a bad habit of not finishing your sentences,” I said, putting the gun on a nearby table so I could hold onto her and keep from toppling over.

“I wasn’t completely drunk the other night,” she said. Her hair was in my nose. It was dark, clean, and smelted like some flower I couldn’t place. “I don’t see people, go anywhere. My husband never even wanted to make love.” Her head came back and her mouth was inches from mine.

“I’ve got to find a dog,” I said.

“You can come up to the house for a little while,” she said, touching my cheek.

“Well,” I said, “maybe for a little while.”

This time no dripping water fell on our heads. She pushed me back gently onto the operating table, where my head hit the gun. I moved the gun and made room for her. With a dead parrot in the next room, we did something like making love on an animal examining table.

When we were finished, which was not long after we started, she put on her underpants, bra, slacks, sweater, and gun, and I put on her husband’s suit.

“We’ll get another one of Roy’s suits for you at the house,” she said, smiling and touching my nose.

“Is your name really Anne?” I said.

“Laura Anne,” she answered.

“I’ve got a phone call to make,” I said.

She kissed me and told me to go ahead and make the call from the clinic and then come up to the house, where she would have a surprise waiting for me.

“I’m not up to another surprise right now,” I said with a stupid grin.

“We’ll see,” she said, backing out of the door.

I called Mrs. Plaut’s, praying to the ghosts of dead parrots that she would not answer the phone. My prayers went unanswered.

“Yes?” she asked the phone in that voice that made it seem as if she couldn’t understand how any human sound could come from a machine.

“It’s me, Mrs. Plaut, Toby Peters.”

“Yes,” she said reasonably.

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she repeated.

“Good, please get Gunther on the phone,” I said, dropping my voice only slightly from the level I used to threaten boxers who were safely busy in a ring a stadium away.

“Is anyone there?” Mrs. Plaut said, making it clear she had heard nothing of my end of the conversation.

“Gunther Wherthman,” I screamed.

“Mr. Wortman,” she said, “will you please answer this madman. I can make no sense of him.”

“Can I help?” came Gunther’s voice.

“Thank God,” I sighed. “Gunther, I won’t be able to make it back for dinner.”

“That is most unfortunate, Toby. I am preparing a buttery quiche and have purchased several bottles of Lucky Lager beer which, as I recall, you are fond of.”

“The fact is,” I said, feeling guilty, “I may not make it back to the boarding house at all tonight.”

“May I ask,” he said, pausing to frame his question with dignity, “if it is a business situation or a young lady.”

“It’s business and the lady isn’t exactly young, but neither am I.”

“The quiche will hold till tomorrow,” said Gunther. “In fact, my aunt who taught me the recipe believed that it tasted best on the second day. Take care of yourself, Toby.”

The hole in my pants, or rather Olson’s pants, was large enough to shove a dead parrot through, but the thought didn’t appeal to me. I thought of getting a veterinarian for the shepherd with the missing ear, but the resident vet was dead. Laura Anne Olson might have a suggestion. The dog and I weren’t exactly friends, but I’d been in his position enough times to know how it feels.

I trotted up the pathway to the house and stopped short. There was a car parked at the door, a car I had seen parked in front of Jane Poslik’s apartment earlier that day. If it was Mrs. Olson’s car, I had a few questions about her travels. If it wasn’t, then she might be inside with a visitor she at least wanted to meet. I tried the front door. It opened and I stepped in.

“Anne,” I shouted. “Laura?”

Something, someone moved in the living room. I stepped toward it carefully, considering a run to my glove compartment for my.38, but there might not be time.

“Anne,” I repeated, staying out of the doorway that would set me up in backlight for whoever might be standing or sitting in the shadows beyond.

Someone was in the room, in the distant corner in a chair. The figure stood up and moved into the light.

“Anne, huh?” said Cawelti with a smirk. “Laura.”

“Where is she?” I said, moving forward to meet him.

“Who, Mrs. Olson?”

“You know that’s who I mean.”

“She’s dead,” he said.

I looked up at the spot where water had leaked through the ceiling two nights before and took a step toward the hallway. If I hadn’t stopped to call Gunther, I would have been with her, but it had only been a minute or two and Cawelti was here. Something was wrong.

“Is this a sick joke of yours, fireman?” I asked, turning to him again.

“No joke, little brother,” he grinned. “She’s dead. Died two days ago, on Tuesday, in the Victor Hotel just off Wilshire, private room and a bath. Just found the body today. Very messy.”

“Cut the crap Cawelti, I saw her five minutes ago down in the clinic, and there was nothing wrong with her. She-”

“-wasn’t Mrs. Olson,” he finished. “That’s why I’m here. Laura Olson, middle name Faye, was about fifty, short, fat, and no beauty. The woman who was here when you were parading in the negative was another broad, if there was really someone here.”

“You’re full of-” I began.

“She took you in.” He chuckled, looking down at my pants. “The way Captain Pevsner figures it, if she exists someplace outside of your troubled mind, she and someone else did in Olson just as you came knocking at the door. She came downstairs to keep you busy while he finished the job and then they set you up. That’s the way your brother figures it, but I’d like to keep you involved.”

“Let’s go find her,” I said, turning to the door.

“Come on, Peters, as far as I figure, there is no ‘her,’ just you. You’re a sorry sight.”

We were a few feet apart by now and all it would take was the wrong word. He searched for it.

“The way I figure it, you were playing with yourself,” he said, looking down at my pants leg.

“Let’s go to the station and talk to the captain,” I said.

“Day off,” Cawelti said, enjoying the moment.

“Seidman,” I tried.

“Home, sick, tooth problem. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“How badly do you want a nose like mine,” I said, sweetly.

“I’m ten years younger and twenty pounds heavier than you are, Peters,” he answered.

“And I’ve got a bad back and a weak skull, fireman, but I’ve got something you don’t have. I’m the most stubborn terrier you ever ran into. I don’t give up. I just keep coming. You knock me down and I get up again. I get up and up until you’re too tired to move your arms and you ask for mercy and I stomp on your face.”

Something was in Cawelti’s eyes now that told me he thought he was looking at a crazy man. That was just what I was shooting for. What I told him was the truth. I’d take twenty in the gut to give one good one back. I could live with the twenty, but I had found that the other guy would usually do whatever he could to keep from getting that one good one.

“You’re nuts,” Cawelti said.

“I do my best.” I grinned. “Someone shot some animals in the clinic. You’d better call a vet.”

“Get out of here,” he said, not backing away but not pushing for the fight. If he was going to lay into me, it would be in front of an audience, someone who could pull us apart after I got hurt and before he did.

When I got back to my car, the note was still there. A man was standing in the doorway of the house nearby apparently waiting for me and the package the message on my car had promised. I waved to him, got in my car, and drove away.

I stopped at a pay phone and called a North Hollywood number. My sister-in-law Ruth answered.

“You’re coming for dinner tomorrow, aren’t you, Toby?” she said.

“I’m coming,” I answered. “Listen, I’ve got two tickets for Volez and Yolanda tomorrow night. You and Phil can go. I’ll sit with the kids.”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice making it obvious that the idea excited her. “Let me ask Phil.”

She put down the phone and wandered away and then I heard light breathing on the other end.

“Smush,” said a little voice.

“Lucy?” I said. “This is Uncle Toby.”

“Lock,” she said and clobbered the phone with her pet lock, a lock that had found my head more than once with velocity well beyond what you could expect from a two year old. She had her father’s arm and probably his disposition.

“Terrific,” I said. “Get Mommy.”

“Toby?” came Ruth’s voice. “He said okay Can you come early for dinner then, about four?”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

When I hung up, I checked at a nearby restaurant and found out that it was almost five in the afternoon. I had expected a night with someone who called herself Anne Olson. A tailor on the corner was closing his door when I caught him and persuaded him with an ugly look and the promise of a good tip to let me in. It took him about five minutes to sew up the tear in Olson’s pants.

“Good as new,” he said, stepping back to admire his work after I had the pants back on and he had two bucks in his hands.

“You want to come around with me and tell that to everyone who thinks different?” I asked.

“It’s what I tell them all,” said the tailor, tucking the two bucks away. “And it is good as new, better, only it don’t look so good. Looking and being good is different,” he said with some slight European accent.

“You got a point,” I agreed and went back to my car.

My session with the fake Mrs Olson should have left me satisfied, but I couldn’t hold back the urge to get over to Spring Street and Levy’s Restaurant. My appetites were up and to avoid figuring out what was happening in the Fala case, I decided to make an assault on a Levy corned beef sandwich and on Carmen the cashier.

The corned beef proved easy, complete with pickle and a chocolate phosphate. Carmen proved to be, as always, Carmen. She sat dark, placid, a counter fighter with formidable front, and large brown eyes.

“You’re voluptuous,” I said, holding up the line of three people behind me wanting to pay their tabs.

“You’re holding up the line,” she said without a smile.

“Phil Harris is still at the Biltmore Bowl,” I whispered. “Name a night.”

“Come on, bud,” a guy behind me whimpered.

Carmen gave me a look that could with imagination be read as a smile. She was a widow of great reserve and resistance and I was probably one of the more resistible elements in her life.

“No wrestling this week?” she asked softly.

“Thursday at the Eastside Avenue over on Pico,” I said. “I’d like to get together before that.”

“I am sure you would,” came the voice of the guy behind me, “but I’ve got a show to get to.”

“The wrestling match next Sunday,” she said, ringing up my bill.

“I can’t wait,” I said.

“You’ll wait,” she said, promising nothing. So it would have to be five days before my next assault on the Mona Lisa of the restaurant world.

“Ain’t love grand?” said the little guy who was late for his show as he plunked down a half a buck to pay for his sandwich.

“Ain’t it,” I agreed before stepping outside to see the sun coming down over Spring Street. I got back in my car, ignoring the bruised far side, and drove up to Eleventh and then across to Broadway, where I found a parking space right in front of the Peerless Book Shop. I’d been in the place a dozen times or so, twice to look for books and ten times to look for leads on missing people or people with not too savory reputations.

The Peerless Book Shop had a good collection of cheap used books. There were also some new ones that went for used prices because the owner, Morris “Academy” Dolmitz, would, from time to time, pick up four or five hundred copies of some title from a source he didn’t want to know too much about. When I walked in this time, the place was piled with copies of John Steinbeck’s The Moon is Down and Robert Frost’s A Witness Tree. There were other books all over the place, in boxes, on shelves. If Academy had to rely on book sales, he would have been a poor man. As it was, his main income came from bets he placed in the back room.

No one was in the shop but Academy, who sat behind the counter on his stool, his mop of white hair falling into his eyes, a white zippered sweater over a red flannel shirt covering a little pot belly. Academy was around sixty-five and had seen and heard it all.

“What can I do you for?” he said, looking up at me with tiny gray eyes and a smile of even false teeth.

“I’m looking for a fella,” I said.

“I deal books,” said Academy, holding out his hands, “not fellas. You know that, Peters. Ask me one. You know what I mean. Ask?”

He sat up, waiting.

“Best actor, 1934,” I said.

“Victor McLaglen, The Informer,” he said, in disgust. “Give me a hard one for chrissake. Whatdya think I am, a dumb putz here?”

“Best cartoon, 1935,” I said.

“Three Orphan Kittens, Walt Disney, Silly Symphony. One more.” He grinned, eyes open wide.

“Sound recording, 1929,” I said.

Academy was bouncing in his chair like a kid.

“You’re a good one, Peters, a good one. Douglas Shearer, MGM, for The Big House.”

“I’m looking for a mountain named Bass,” I threw in, and Academy stopped grinning. His mouth closed tight, and his false teeth went clickety-clack. “You can’t miss him.”

“Not a familiar name,” he said through his teeth, trying to go back to his book.

“Your memory’s suddenly failing you?”

“It happens like that,” he said with a shrug. He opened the book and pretended to go back to his reading. I reached over the counter, closed the book, and looked at it.

“That’s a dirty book,” I said.

“It’s a classic,” he answered, reaching for the book. “What do you think you are doing here anyway?”

I held the book away from his hand and he sat back, shaking his head. “Peters,” he clacked. “You know I got a button down here and you know I can push it and you know two guys’ll come through that door and squash you like a rose between the pages of a bible.”

“Colorfully put, Academy, but I’ve got questions and a big mouth,” I answered, handing him the de Sade. “You know my brother’s a captain now?”

“I know,” he said. “Things like that I know. It’s my business. What are you, threatening me or what?”

“Threatening you,” I agreed.

“So that’s the way it is,” he said, feigning defeat. “Human nature. All these books, you know, they’re about human nature. I know human nature.”

“And who won the Academy awards,” I said impatiently. “Bass. He worked for you. I want to know why you hired him, where he is now, who his friends are, or who else he’s been working for.”

“Ten bucks,” said Academy, folding his arms on his chest.

“Come on Academy,” I said. “You don’t need my ten bucks.”

“Principle’s involved here, Peters,” he said. “I give you something for a threat and pretty soon every bit player on the avenue’s in here paying in closed fists and loud voices instead of cash. I’m running a business here. Know what I mean?”

I fished out the ten and handed it across the counter.

“Bass is a putz,” he said.

“Everybody’s a putz to you. Give me something hard.”

“Bass is special putz,” he said. “Doesn’t show a temper. Cold, a little dumb, one of those that likes hurting. You know the kind?”

“I’m waiting for news here, Academy,” I said impatiently.

He clacked his teeth and went into the spiel.

“He did about four months in the back room. Customer named Martin, got an office around here someplace, sometimes a customer, recommended him. Bass was some ways okay. He collected for me when a guy came up slow with the gelt. Trouble was when Bass collected, the guy he collected from didn’t show up here anymore. He was making guys pay but he was losing me repeat customers. You need a kind of festive atmosphere back there,” he said, nodding over his shoulder at the solid wooden door. I’d been back there once.

“There is no way short of Cedric Gibbons and an MGM crew of making that dirty brown betting room festive,” I said.

“You know we got free coffee going in there all the time?” he went on. “So, I told this Martin that it would be nice if Bass found another job. I didn’t want, you might guess, to tell Bass myself. Anyway, this Martin guy says it’s all right, he’s got a good job for Bass working for some animal doctor.”

“Two questions,” I said, holding up two fingers. “Where does Bass live and how do I find this Martin?”

Dolmitz puffed out some air, clacked his teeth and said, “Bass lives some place on Sixth near Westlake Park. I don’t know the address. Martin’s got an office around here is all I know. He’s maybe fifty-five, young guy, thin, gray hair, not too big, wears those little glasses like Ben Franklin. I don’t know what he does. That’s the best you get from me, pally.”

“That wasn’t ten bucks’ worth,” I said, holding out my hand for change. Dolmitz’s hand went under the counter where I knew the button was.

“Take a book or two,” he said. “We’ll call it even.”

I grabbed a copy of The Moon is Down and the Frost poems and went for the door.

“You want to know who won best film editor in 1938?” he called, as I went to the door, the books tucked under my arm.

“Ralph Dawson for The Adventures of Robin Hood,” I said. He had come up with the wrong question. I had been on the security force at Warners when Dawson won. I’d seen him come back with the Oscar in his hand.

“Son of a …” Dolmitz began, but I was on the street before he could finish.

“Half an hour later I was back at Mrs. Plaut’s knocking on Gunther’s door.

“Come in,” he called and turned around in the small chair at the small desk where he worked.

“Did you eat yet?” I said. “I had a change in plans.”

“No,” he said with a small smile. “I wanted to finish this troublesome passage. The quiche is best at room temperature, in any case. I shall bring it right in with the beers.”

Back in my room I set the table, took off Olson’s jacket and tie, and turned on the radio. The quiche was great. So was the beer. We ate and listened to “Truth or Consequences” and I gave Gunther the Steinbeck book, for which he thanked me.

“Gunther, if you’ve got time tomorrow, you could do me a favor and go down around Broadway and Eleventh and try to track down a guy involved in the case.”

Gunther, after finishing the final small morsel of quiche on his lap, agreed with enthusiasm, and I told him what I knew about Martin.

“You’ve had a busy day, Toby,” he said, sympathetically. “I’ll go back to my work and leave you to your rest.”

“A good dinner, Gunther, thanks.”

Gunther gathered his plate and his book and had made it to the hallway when we heard the phone on the landing ring. I ran past him to beat Mrs. Plaut in case she might be hovering around. I caught it on the third ring.

“Hello,” I said, “Mrs Plaut’s boarding house.”

“Toby Peters, please,” said a man’s voice I had heard somewhere but couldn’t place.

“You’re talking to him,” I said.

“You have been making some inquiries about me,” he said. “I don’t like that at all. I would prefer that you stop.”

“I can’t stop, Marty,” I said. “I’ve got a client. Why don’t we just get together and talk it over. I’ve got some questions about who scrubbed Doc Olson and his wife, who the lady pretending to be Mrs. Olson was, and what you have to do with a hulk named Bass.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t listen,” he said patiently. “But I wanted to give you the opportunity. What happens next will be your responsibility, not mine.”

“Is that the way it works? You drop the bomb and if I don’t get out of the way, it’s my fault?”

“Something like that,” he said.

“Give back the dog and I stop looking,” I said. “Maybe I don’t care who gave Olson and his wife a bath.”

“You care,” he said. “I know that sound in your voice. We have nothing further to discuss. You have my sincere warning and, if it will do any good, you have my assurance that what I have done has been for the security of our country.”

“And which country is that?” I said.

“The United States of America,” he answered and hung up.