The Fala Factor

8

No one tried to kill me on Sunday morning, but then again I didn’t try to find Martin or the fake Mrs. Olson. I read the L.A. Times over a couple of bowls of Wheaties and a cup of coffee. I went right for the funnies after finding out that the Japanese were a few miles from the Chinese border. Dixie Dugan, Mickey Finn, Texas Slim, and Dirty Dalton kept me company through breakfast. I had to wait for the bathroom because Joe Hill the mailman was taking a bath, but some time after ten I got in, shaved, washed, and made ready.

I was dressing in my room when Mrs. Plaut burst in with a bundle in her arms. She paid no attention to my near nudity and plopped the bundle on the sofa.

“Found this on the doorstep this a.m.,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said, getting into my pants. She just stood there in her blue paisley dress and waited. There would be no getting rid of her till her curiosity was satisfied. I started to put on my shirt.

“I’m late for church,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, getting my second arm in and moving to the bundle without buttoning up. TOBY PETERS was printed on the outside of the brown paper wrapper in neat letters. I pulled off the string and found my neatly pressed suit, the one I had traded with Doc Olson. The torn sleeve had been neatly repaired. Lying on top of the suit was a card on which was written in what looked like a feminine hand: Sorry, really.

“It’s your suit,” said Mrs. Plaut, disappointed.

“I’m sorry it’s nothing more exciting,” I apologized, and Mrs. Plaut left in disgust.

For about an hour I sat making notes and trying to sort the case out. Nothing came so I finished dressing, hung my suit in the closet, and went out into the late morning with a book under my arm. The sun was bright and the two little girls who lived next door to Mrs. Plaut were throwing a ball against Mrs. Plaut’s steps.

“My mother says you’re a criminal,” said the younger girl. She was about eight and wore pigtails. There were blue ribbons in her pigtails.

The older girl, about ten, looked embarrassed, and whispered, “Gussie, no.”

“I’m a private detective,” I said.

“My mother said you kill people,” the girl went on, looking up at me.

“Only them what needs killing, little lady,” I said in my best Harry Carey. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got my work to do.”

My work consisted of a run up to Burbank with some worry about how much gas might be left in my gaugeless tank. Rationing was soon going to officially cut me to five or six gallons a week. I knew I could get more through Arnie, but I wasn’t sure I could pay the price.

Jeremy was parked halfway down the block where he could keep his eye on the stairs leading up to Jane Poslik’s apartment. I parked behind him and walked over to lean through the window and hand him the Robert Frost poems and the paper bag I had stopped for on the way.

“Tea, hard rolls, and some poetry,” I said, handing him the bag. “Your favorite.”

“You are very thoughtful, Toby,” he said, laying aside the pad of paper he had been writing on and taking the book and the package.

“Right, very thoughtful. I send you out on a Sunday morning to wait for the Frankenstein monster and I go off for dinner with the family,” I said.

“Sunday is like any other day to me, Toby. It holds no special significance. The sun is warm. I am relaxed and this is a good place to work and to read. Forget your guilt. Would you like a roll?”

I declined and he told me that Jane Poslik had gone out an hour earlier to pick up a newspaper but was now safely back in her apartment. No one had come or gone.

“I’ll relieve you this evening,” I said.

“I would prefer,” Jeremy put in, examining the first roll, “that you devote your time to finding the person who threatens this woman. That would be more effective than protecting her at the point of her greatest vulnerability. It’s a simple principle of wrestling.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll keep at it.”

When I arrived at my brother’s small house on Bluebelle in North Hollywood, it was about three. Lucy greeted me at the door, her hands behind her back probably concealing her padlock. Nate and Dave, my nephews, were seated in the small dining room playing with toy soldiers. Nate was almost fourteen and Dave about eleven. I picked Lucy up carefully to avoid hidden locks and said hi to the boys.

“Uncle Tobe,” Nate called. He touched something in front of him and a toothpick flew across the table mowing down a lead soldier. Dave groaned.

“How’s it going, Huey and Dewey?” I said, pinching Lucy’s nose gently.

“Okay,” said Nate. “I’m smashing him. He’s the Nazis.”

“No I’m not, Nate. You’re the Nazis.”

Ruth came in, skinny, tired, with tinted blond hair that wouldn’t stay up and a gentle smile.

“Toby, you’re early,” she said.

“I’ll go away and come back,” I said, starting to put Lucy down.

“No, Uncle Toby,” Dave said.

Phil came through the front door, a package in his arms, and grunted at me.

“Take this and put it on the kitchen table. Make yourself useful.”

I put Lucy down, took the package, and went into the kitchen.

“How’s Seidman?” I said over my shoulder.

“Minck almost killed him,” Phil said, following me in after picking up his daughter, who stuck her finger in his hairy ear. “He has a hell of an infection. An oral surgeon at the university is taking care of him. Steve may kill that dirty dentist when he gets out of the hospital.”

The rest of the afternoon went fine. Lucy clipped me once on the shoulder with a wooden toy. We listened to a baseball game on Nate’s short wave. The Red Sox snapped a thirteen-game Cleveland winning streak, 8–4, in Boston. Charlie Wagner was the winning pitcher. Bobby Doerr had three hits. Pesky picked up a couple and Ted Williams had one. Foxx and DiMaggio were blanked. Nate, a Red Sox fan, was happy.

Ruth had made turkey, salad, iced tea, and a jello mold with little pieces of pineapple in it.

“Remember when I used to think you killed people every day,” Dave said after dinner. “That was dumb. No one kills people every day except maybe in the war. My dad doesn’t even kill people every day.”

“Dumb, dumb, dumb,” Nate said, looking at the ceiling.

“Dumb, dumb,” Lucy repeated, giggling.

“It’s not funny, you little twerp,” Dave said to his sister, which made her giggle even more.

Ruth and Phil took the tickets I gave them and went off to Volez and Yolanda after dinner. As soon as they were gone, Nate said, “Okay Uncle Toby, tell us about someone you beat up or shot this week or something.”

With Lucy on my lap, I made up a tale of scarred Nazi villains and assorted gore, none of it mine. By the time I was finished Lucy was alseep in my lap sucking her thumb.

“Is that a true story?” Dave asked when I was finished.

“Would I lie to you guys?” I said.

By ten the boys were asleep and Lucy was up crying for Ruth. I played with her, let her pull my hair, gave her rides on my back, and blessed the moment Ruth and Phil came through the door to take over.

“Thanks, Toby,” Ruth said, giving me a kiss on the cheek at the door after she took Lucy.

“My pleasure,” I said.

Phil’s hands were plunged deeply in his pockets. He bit his lower lip, ran his right hand across his bristly hair, and put out his hand. I took it.

“Business as usual tomorrow,” he said, pointing a thick finger in my face.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said, meaning it, and went out into the night.

When I was a kid back in Glendale, Sunday nights were for reading, talking, and playing board games. Sometimes we would go to a movie. My father liked comedies. Harold Lloyd was his favorite. I liked anything just so it moved. A late movie would have been nice, but I couldn’t leave Jeremy on that dark street all night.

I pulled up behind him and walked to the car. His eyes were closed and he was snoring gently. I hadn’t thought about it before, but now it hit me that Jeremy Butler was not a young man in his prime. He was at least five years older than I was. Even a bull deserves some time in the pasture.

“Jeremy,” I said softly through the open window.

His eyes came open instantly and he looked at me.

“Relief is here,” I went on. “I can’t sleep and it’s too late to do anything else. Go on home. You can take over tomorrow. If I don’t turn anything up by afternoon, we’ll talk to Miss Poslik about moving.”

“I was asleep,” Jeremy said softly.

“It was a reasonable thing to do,” I said. “It’s almost midnight and you’ve been sitting here all day and night.”

“I had a responsibility,” he said. “The meaning of one’s life is measured by the responsibilities he accepts and lives up to.”

“We agree pretty much on that, but you haven’t let me down.”

“We must check on Miss Poslik,” he grunted, getting out of the car and motioning me aside. He closed the door and moved down the street, a huge dark cutout moving lightly. I caught up with him.

“I don’t think the sight of you at her door at midnight would reassure her,” I said. “I’ll check. She knows me.”

That seemed reasonable to Jeremy, who zipped up his windbreaker and went with me to the apartment. There were no lights on as I started up the steps, but my footsteps must have sent a shock inside. The living room lights came on as I reached the top and brought my hand back to knock.

“Who’s out there?” Jane Poslik’s voice came through the door.

“Me, Peters,” I said. “I’ve got to tell you something.”

The door came open and she stood there wearing a man’s blue bathrobe with white dragons clutched over her chest. She kept the screen door locked.

“I think it best that you not come in,” she said.

“Good idea. I don’t want to frighten you, but I think Bass might pay you a visit.”

She shuddered and clutched the dragon robe around her neck.

“Why?”

“Because I came here yesterday or because that Martin guy you heard Doc Olson talking to found out that you have been talking about Fala,” I said. “He was parked outside your apartment when I was here. I think you should move out of here for a day or two. It shouldn’t take more than that to clear all this up.”

She stood thinking about it for a while, undecided, and I tipped the scale by repeating “Bass.” It was enough. It was either scaring her or being responsible for another possible corpse.

“I haven’t got anyplace to go,” she said.

“I’ll find some place; just throw some things together. I’ll wait out here. Take your time.”

She unlocked the door and told me to come in and wait. I looked at Lucille Ball dressed as Madame Du Barry for about five minutes while Jane packed. She came in wearing a brown cloth coat and carrying a brown, very worn leather suitcase.

“Ready,” she said, and I led her out.

At the top of the stairs I told her that a rather large, very gentle friend was on the street waiting for us and assured her that he was more than a match for Bass, something that I was beginning to doubt but didn’t want to share with anyone, not even me.

We closed the scene with Jeremy saying that he was sure she could stay with Alice Palice for a day or two. That sounded like a good idea to me since Alice was nearly as formidable as Jeremy himself. I wished them a good night and waited in the street to be sure no car was hidden in a driveway ready to follow. Satisfied, I got back into my Ford and drove home.

I made it to my room in the darkened boarding house without waking anyone, and removed my clothes. My original plan was to change my underwear, but I altered my plan. Never let the enemy anticipate what you might do. In this case the enemy was my own desire to keep reasonably respectable.

In my Sunday night dreams, Johnny Pesky threw me out in a close play at second, Lucy chased me through Pershing Square with a giant lock, and Koko the Clown kept saying “Monks, monks, monks.” And then it all came together. Lucy threw her lock to Pesky who heaved it at Koko, taking off his clown’s hat.

I woke up thinking it had been one hell of a throw and was disappointed to find that it had all been a dream.

“Are you stirring?” came Gunther’s voice through the door just as I was sitting up.

“I’m astir,” I said, and he came in.

He was wearing a lighter suit today, but it was still three pieces, including tie. My wall clock said it was almost eight. Gunther held a stack of cards in his hand and a very tiny satisfied smile on his lips.

“I have information,” he announced, tapping the cards with his finger. “I could not work last evening so I made a sojourn to Broadway. It being Sunday there were not many people traversing the streets, but there were restaurants. And,” he said triumphantly, “it was in one of these establishments that I encountered success.”

“You found Martin?” I asked, sitting up further.

Gunther had not only found Martin Lyle, but had tapped some resources, mostly writers he knew, who gave him a profile of the man and his business. Lyle’s office was in the 900s on Broadway right near Little Joe’s Italian Restaurant. Lyle ran an office, the New Whigs, a political group of reactionary Republicans who had left the party deciding that even the most conservative branches were too soft. The New Whigs were, according to Gunther, believed to have plenty of money and no more than a few dozen members, six of whom lived in or around Los Angeles and the rest in Washington, D.C.

“And this I discovered this morning,” Gunther concluded. “I made a most early call to an acquaintance who has actually written a piece on the group for the New Politics Review. He is, like me, a Swiss. He told me that a principal aim of the group is to discredit President Roosevelt and the Republicans so they can propose their own presidential candidate. Apparently, they have been in touch with both Generals Patton and MacArthur about running as New Whig candidates. My friend does not know how either of these army officers may have answered. And, finally …”

The pause was for effect and I didn’t want to deprive Gunther of it since he had done such a first-rate job.

“Finally,” he repeated, “your Doctor Olson was a founding member of the New Whigs. Is that not an interesting piece of datum?”

“An interesting piece of datum,” I agreed, getting up and putting on my neatly pressed suit. The suit from Doc Olson was heaped in a corner. I’d worry about that, and about making the bed and changing my underwear, some other time.

“What is it that we now do, Toby?” Gunther said seriously.

“You stay here in case I get a call,” I said. “Jeremy’s guarding an important witness and Eleanor Roosevelt may be in touch.”

“I will listen attentively and keep Mrs. Plaut from chaotic intervention,” he said.

“Perfect,” I said, putting my shoes on. “I’ve got time for coffee and some cereal. Join me.”

“I have eaten,” he said, “but I will have some coffee if you permit me to rewash the cups.”

I permitted him and he drank while I downed two bowls of Little Kernels and we worked on a plan. It wasn’t much of a plan but it might do. I read the side of the cereal box to Gunther using my best Georgia accent.

“To me it sounds correct,” Gunther shrugged, “but having my own difficulty with exact pronounciation I am not able to know the subtleties of accent. I am sorry.”

It would have to do. In the hall, I looked up the number of the New Whigs, dropped in my nickel, gave the operator the number, and waited. It was a few minutes after nine. Lyle himself answered on the fourth ring. I recognized his voice from the warning call on Saturday. I felt like shouting “Bingo.”

“The New Whig Party,” he said. “Can I help you?”

Dropping my voice and plunging in, I croaked, “Mah name is O’Hara. Ah’ve heard good things, good things about you from a friend in Washington, a big fellah, good smile.”

“Allen Hall,” he supplied.

“Sounds about right,” I said. “Suggested I should get in touch with you should I get to this part of the country on business. That’s just what I’m doing.”

For some reason the image of Thomas Mitchell as O’Hara in Gone With the Wind had popped into my mind and now I was tangled in my awful Southern accent overlaid with an even worse Irish brogue.

“Well, Mr. O’Hara,” Lyle oozed, “would your schedule permit a visit to our modest but adequate West Coast offices some time in the next few days?”

“Got a big meeting this afternoon with some folks at Pacific Electric Railway. Let’s see heh. Could make it this mornin’ if that’s okay on your side of the border?”

Lyle agreed and we set the time for ten, one hour away. I hung up and tried to recite some Mother Goose with a Southern accent.

I was well into “Taffy was a Welshman,” and almost to the bottom of the stairs, when Mrs. Plaut appeared, large wrench in hand.

“You are saying if all wrong, Mr. Peelers,” she corrected. “There is an impediment.”

“Thank you,” I shouted and then had an inspiration that would better have been forgotten. “You have an old Western hat in the garage. White hat, in the back seat of the car in the garage.”

Mrs. Plaut had a 1927 Ford in her garage. It had been there since 1928 when Mr. Plaut died. She had worked on it when the mood struck her but had never driven it. I had borrowed her tools a few times for minor surgery on the piles of scrap Arnie had sold me, and I remembered the hat.

“I’m sorry Mr. Peelers,” she said, holding the wrench in two hands. “I thought you said you wanted Myron’s hat from the car.”

“That’s just what I do want.” I nodded furiously. “I just want to borrow it.”

She stood blinking at me for a full ten seconds.

“Myron’s hat?”

“Myron’s hat,” I agreed.

She shrugged, turned, and led the way through the house, out the back door and down to the garage, where sat the old Ford with Myron’s hat in the backseat. I reached back, dusted off the hat, and tried it on. It was a bit small, but it would do. I looked at myself in the windshield, which Mrs. Plaut kept spotlessly clean. The effect was less than perfect.

“You look like Tom Mix,” said Mrs. Plaut, eyeing me critically. “Though Mix had a very large shnoz and you’ve got practically none. Though you are a match in the homely department.”

“Thanks for your honest appraisal, Mrs. P.,” I said.

The hood of the Ford was up and she inserted the wrench, turning her back on me.

“That hat,” her voice echoed from under the hood, “originally belonged to Uncle Cruikshank, the one in chapter four of the family book you will recall.”

“I recall,” I said, stepping toward the garage door.

“That’s Uncle Ned Cruikshank, the assistant sheriff in Alemeda, Kansas, before the gout epidemic of 1867.”

“I’m going now Mrs. Plaut,” I shouted.

“Uncle Cruikshank died in that hat,” she said. “A bully named Sousa or something like that blew him out from under it in the environs of Alemeda.”

“A comforting thought,” I said. “I must-”

“Myron was fond of that hat, Mr. Peelers. Try not to get it soiled or yourself blown out from under it.”

I pledged not to, to her deaf ears. In the sunlight, committed to the hat, I began to have second thoughts, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. I strode off toward my faithless Ford, climbed into the saddle, and barely made it to Arnie’s garage as the gas tank went bone dry.

Arnie filled it up and gave me an estimate on fixing the door. The estimate from No-Neck was twenty bucks.

“I’ll make it fifteen if you throw in that hat,” he said as he pumped gas into the tank “lt’d be some good laughs around here.”

“I didn’t know you had a sense of humor, Arnie,” I said, adjusting the hat on my own head.

“I’m as sensitive as the next guy,” he said, pulling the gas nozzle out. “That’s two bucks for the gas and another fifteen cents for oil.”

I paid, took off my hat so I could get into the car without knocking it off, and drove away. A pair of boots would’ve helped, but I didn’t have the time. My disguise would have to do.

Parking on Broadway was tough. I pulled around a corner and drove into a parking lot. I got out, put on my hat, and gave the guy in overalls a broad grin and told him I expected to be back in an hour.

“You got it, Tex,” he said.

“How’d you all know I was from Texas?” I said.

He was climbing into my Ford and shaking his head. I figured him at about eighteen years old, maybe nineteen.

“It’s the hat, Tex,” he said with a wink. “Real authentic. You guys all have them authentic hats just like in the movies. You want a tip?”

“Sure enough, son,” I said.

“You’re layin it on too thick,” he whispered confidentially. “I’m from Lubbock. Anyone talk like that back home, we’d know he was a Yankee pissing around and we’d hog tie him and ship him north on a cattle car.”

He screeched rubber and headed toward the corner of the lot. What did he know? I left the lot and headed down Broadway past Little Joe’s to the building where Martin Lyle and his New Whigs had their office. It was a respectable building, if not in a high prestige neighborhood. It even had an elevator that worked at reasonable speed and carried me up to the eighth floor with no stops.

“Good weather you folks up heah are having,” I told the bespectacled, pudgy woman who operated the elevator. She turned, looked me up and down, shook her head, and went back to work. I was beginning to seriously doubt the credibility of my disguise, but it was too late. I got off the elevator, touched the brim of my hat to her and went down the hall to room 803, which had stenciled in gold on its door THE NEW WHIG PABTY HEADQUARTERS, and below that in smaller letters, MARTIN LYLE, EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR. Below that there remained the outline of additional lettering that had been scratched away. I bent to look and was fairly sure that the removed letters read DR. ROY OLSON, PRESIDENT.

I was squinting at the door when it opened and a pale woman looked down at me. She was wearing a dark blue suit, her black hair back in a bun, and a serious look on her face.

“Can I help you?” she said.

“Name’s O’Hara,” I said, standing as high as five nine would take me. “I’ve got an appointment with your Mr. Lyle.”

Damn, the Irish accent had taken over. I touched the brim of my hat to remind me of who I was supposed to be and cursed my stupid disguise silently.

“Come in, Mr. O’Hara,” she said, and I did.

The outer office was small. Secretary’s desk, some files, photographs, paintings of stern-looking old men in ancient suits. “Who are those fellas?” I said, pointing at the wall paintings.

“Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, William Henry Harrison, and Winfield Scott,” she said, going back to her desk efficiently.

The photographs on the wall flanking the portraits were, according to the woman, of various congressmen, none of whom I recognized.

“Most impressive,” I said, getting back my Southern exposure.

“We think so,” she said efficiently. “I’ll show you right in.”

She got up from behind the desk again, knocked at the door behind her, and, hearing a “Come in,” opened it and motioned me to follow her.

I wasn’t sure of what I expected Martin Lyle to look like. I was counting on his never having seen me before and of my accent being just good enough to disguise my voice. Lyle was standing behind his desk, which featured a tabletop American flag. Both hands were on the desk and he had a small smile on his face, the same small smile I had seen on his birdlike face in Doc Olson’s waiting room when he had been sitting there with his parrot.

“You may leave us,” Miss Frederickson,” Lyle said. “In fact, you may simply close the office and take that package to Mr. Sikes in Santa Monica.”

Without a word, Miss Frederickson closed the door and left.

“Now,” Lyle said, apparently not recognizing me in the hat or never having paid attention to me in Olson’s office, “let’s talk about our old friends in Washington.”

I had the big hat in my hands as I sat in the chair across from Lyle, who remained standing, a small smile on his face.

“Allen Hall,” he said evenly.

“Big fellah.” I grinned.

“And am I to understand that you would like to consider joining our organization?” Lyle said, still standing.

“Maybe so,” I chuckled. “Maybe so. I’m ready to do whatever it takes to save this great country of ours from going down with the likes of Franklin De-lay-no Rosey-velt.”

“And so are we,” he said as the door to his right opened and Bass stepped into the room. “So are we, Mr. Peters.”

Bass looked as close to respectable as it was possible for a moving truck to look. He wore a suit, white shirt, and tie, though the short end of the tie was too short and the long, too long. His washed-out blond hair was combed back carefully.

“Accent gave me away?” I said, trying to be calm.

“I knew who you were when you called,” said Lyle, motioning to Bass with a nod of his head. Bass clearly did not understand the nod so Lyle had to sound it out for him. “Go stand at the door to insure that Mr. Peters does not leave before we’ve had a nice chat. You like chatting, don’t you Mr. Peters?”

“I like chatting,” I said, bouncing my cowboy hat on my knee.

“Good,” said Lyle, still standing as he adjusted his rimless glasses. “I’m going to try to reason with you.”

“At the moment I’m very much interested in listening to reason,” I said amiably.

Lyle touched the tip of the gold-painted flag pole on his desk and looked at the flag as he went on.

“Your interference, your insistence on pursuing me and Mr. Bass, could result in publicity so devastating that it could reach the Whig Party. Did you know that we elected two presidents of the United States, two, both of whom were secretly assassinated to keep the Whig Party from flourishing?”

“Two?” I prompted like the congregation in a Southern Baptist Church.

“William Henry Harrison and Zachariah Taylor,” Lyle said. “General Harrison was poisoned by Martin Van Buren less than a month after he took office, and General Taylor was stabbed by minions of Polk after they first corrupted Taylor and forced Henry Clay to expell him from the Party.”

“I never heard any of that,” I said, pretending great interest.

“You mock me, Peters, but the proof is in our book, the manuscript of which will soon be going to the printer to coincide with our national campaign for the presidency. This war we are in would never have come to pass if Henry Clay or Daniel Webster, our founders, had been elected to the presidency.”

“They were against the war with Japan?” I asked.

“Bass,” Lyle said over his shoulder to the unseen Bass behind him. This time Bass understood. He stepped forward and hit the top of my head with an open palm. It felt like a steel beam falling from the top of a tall building.

“Clay and Webster were against our entry into the Mexican Wars,” Lyle explained, though I had trouble hearing him over the vibrating in my ears. “Clay made the mistake of issuing the Raleigh papers early in his own campaign. He opposed the Mexican War. But …”

And with this Lyle raised a fist.

“But …” I agreed, solemnly glancing over to be sure Bass wasn’t going to prompt me.

“But once we were in a war, the Whigs went to military leadership to lead the country as we always did. Tippecanoe, Taylor, and Winfield Scott. And that is what we want, Mr. Peters. A strong military leader to take American back where it belongs, behind its own strong borders, defended with a big stick.”

“And with you behind the scenes as Henry Clay?” I added. “And Bass here will be Daniel Webster?”

“Doctor Olson was to have served that function,” said Lyle. “Behind your sarcasm is accidental truth, Mr. Peters.”

“So?” I said, twirling the cowboy hat in my hand until Lyle nodded and Bass stepped forward to take the hat from me.

“So, if you involve us in some tale of murder, threats, and this dog obsession, it will be very difficult to get a military figure of the stature of Patton, MacArthur, or Eisenhower to join us. We need credibility. Our ranks are small but our resources boundless and our determination unswerving. New members join us every day.”

“Like Mr. Academy,” said Bass, from behind me. I turned to face him, but he had sunk back into attention for his leader, who fixed him with a less than paternal look.

“We did not kill Doctor Olson,” Lyle went on, returning his gaze to the flag. “Roy Olson was a man of great vision, though he had little fortitude for the essential actions of political realism.”

“Like dognapping,” I said.

This time I moved my head as Bass’s palm descended. It was a good and bad idea. It kept my brain from turning to Kosto pudding, but it resulted in his hand hitting my left shoulder. My left arm, hand, and fingers went numb.

“The dog was … There are more important things than the dog,” Lyle sighed.

“Mrs. Olson,” I said, trying to get some life into my tingling fingers.

“Between us,” said Lyle, “and no one will ever believe you outside this room-that was an accident. She found out about certain … things.”

Like the dog, I thought, but I didn’t say anything this time. I wanted two good legs if the chance came to get out of the room. I’d also need at least one good hand to open the door.

“Mr. Bass attempted to reason with her, but things got out of hand.”

With this, Lyle’s hands went up as if to show that the matter was out of his hands, a question of fate or bad timing.

“It was,” he went on, “an accident.”

“And the woman who pretended to be Mrs. Olson,” I said. “The one who kept me from maybe saving Olson the night he was killed, the one who took off my pants in the clinic yesterday?”

Lyle looked at me with genuine curiosity.

“I may have misjudged you, Peters,” he said. “You may simply be mad. Bass, do you know of any such woman?”

We both turned to face, Bass, who looked bewildered. The conversation had passed him by.

“Woman,” I said. “You know what that is? Mrs. Olson, not the one you killed, but the other one.”

“No,” said Bass, but it sounded less like the answer to a question than an attempt to ward off the one weapon with which he couldn’t cope, words.

“Mr. Peters,” Lyle returned to me. “This is getting us nowhere. Certain things have to be done if political viability is to be maintained, if this country is, literally, going to be saved. Your petty investigations of an inconsequential murder and a less consequential missing dog might well jeopardize the fragile but vital web we are constructing. It is, indeed, like the first, strong strand of the spider. It is the strand on which the entire structure is based, a structure that will grow and encompass our enemies, but that first strand must be protected until it is strengthened. Do you understand?”

“You’re no Daniel Webster,” I said. “Or Henry Clay. Spiders and webs. Come on, Lyle. People are getting killed out there. China’s going to fall. The RAF is getting shot down over Germany and you’re back in the nineteenth century.”

“Bass,” Lyle cried, and before I could move from the chair, Bass had his arms around me and had lifted me up. I lost my wind and gasped for air, but my voice came out in a little puff.

“Wait,” I tried to say, but Lyle had opened the window behind him and nodded to Bass, who carried me easily around the desk.

“Wait,” I tried again, but Bass didn’t wait. He stuck my head and shoulders out the window, eight floors above Broadway. Traffic was heavy below me. I spotted my own car in the parking lot and even spotted the parking lot attendant from Lubbock.

“Since there is no reasoning with you, Mr. Peters,” Lyle said within the room, “then you will simply have an accident or commit suicide.”

“Others,” I gasped as I felt Bass’s arms loosen and tried not to imagine myself bouncing off the building.

“Others?” said Lyle. “Others what? What others?”

Bass’s grip had loosened enough for me to cough out the words, “Butler. Bass knows him.”

“I beat him,” Bass said, proudly shaking me.

“One out of three,” I said

“Pull him in,” Lyle’s voice called out, and in I came. Bass threw me into the corner of the room, where I bounced off the wall and sat catching my breath.

“I think you’re lying about your friends waiting for you,” said Lyle, closing the window and advancing toward me with Bass right behind.

“Send Kong down to look,” I said as I got up.

Bass looked puzzled and then something clicked.

“He called me a monkey,” he said, pushing past Lyle and reaching down for me.

“Bass,” Lyle shouted, stopping the hands inches from my throat. I could smell Bass’s breath. It should have smelled of garlic, but it was more like mint, which was even more unpleasant than garlic would have been.

“I haven’t time for games like this, Peters,” Lyle shouted. “Let us call this little visit a warning, a friendly warning. If you persist, the warning will have been made. Now get your silly hat and take your silly ideas out of here. Out of here.”

I picked up my hat, and using the wall, got up with Bass glaring at me.

“Monks, monks, monks,” I said, limping to the door and brushing off my hat.

“What? What did you say?” Lyle croaked.

“Your parrot, that’s what he said the last time I saw him. He said he was Henry the Eighth and then the bit about the monks.”

“Those were Henry the Eighth’s last words,” Lyle said.

“Those were the parrot’s last words too before that second Mrs. Olson you know nothing about blew his head off.” My hand was on the door and I looked back at Lyle. His upper lip was trembling.

“Henry is dead?” he said.

“Unless a parrot can live without a head.” I sighed. “Just thought I’d give you a little good news to start the day off right.”

Before he could recover and consider having Bass remove my head, I went out the door, hobbled through the outer office, went into the hall, and headed for the stairs, the location of which I had noted before I had entered the office.

I wasn’t sure what I had discovered beyond the fact that Bass had killed Mrs. Olson, but that was a start and a few things were fitting into place.

Jeremy was working on the mirror in the Farraday elevator when I arrived. He sprayed, scrubbed, looked at his own image. Since my ribs were bruised, I rode up with him.

“I should replace this mirror,” he said, “but I like to maintain the original. Replacement is necessary in all things but there comes a point at which so much has been replaced that what you have is but the replica of what once stood. When that process begins, we are too often unaware of the transition. However, my fear, Toby, is that when singular replacements become necessary, I will lose my interest in maintaining the building.”

“That will never happen,” I assured him as we groaned up past the first floor, which reminded me. “How are Alice and Jane getting along?”

“Remarkably,” he said, working away at the mirror “Miss Poslik is very much interested in our children’s book and has already begun illustrations. Of course, we could offer her no money at this point, perhaps at no point, but there is a communal feeling about this project.… What is wrong with you, Toby?” he asked, suddenly looking at me in his mirror as we squeaked past the second floor.

“I ran into your old friend Bass,” I said, gently touching my rib cage to reassure myself again that nothing was broken. “He sends you his best.”

“I doubt that,” he said, turning to examine me “You are fortunate that he simply toyed with you.”

“He dangled me out of an eighth-floor window,” I said as we approached the third-floor landing The elevator came to a stop and Jeremy, tiny bucket in huge hand, stepped out after sliding open the metal door. His lips were tight in anger.

“He should have been dealt with long ago, before he had the opportunity to seriously hurt anyone,” he said.

“He killed a woman last week,” I said, as the elevator door closed.

“And he is on the streets?” asked Jeremy, looking up at the slowly rising cage.

“No proof,” I said, sagging back against the mesh.

“Justice does not always require evidence of the senses,” his voice came up. “It can even go beyond intuition.”

Our voices were echoing down the halls now, vibrating off metal and marble and over the whine of machines and distant humming voices.

“I thought you were coming to the idea that there was no good and evil,” I shouted. “What about your poem in the park?”

“I have no obligation to be consistent,” he shouted back. “My thoughts and feelings are one. When enlightenment comes, it will come not because I will it but because I am ready for it.”

“Whatever you say, Jeremy,” I said, as the elevator came to a stop on four. I said it quietly to myself. It was hard to think about enlightenment with a ringing skull and bruised ribs.

When I reached the outer door, I knew that things had changed, that I would enter a cleaner but even less savory realm because it would be a false one. The still moist sign on the pebbled glass read SHELDON MINCK, D.D.S. There was no reference, even in small letters, to the existence of Toby Peters, Private Investigator. Inside the door, the waiting room had been scrubbed and a new, metal-legged trio of chairs sat waiting emptily. The small table was clean, the ashtray scrubbed and empty, and two editions of the dental journal, both recent, rested waiting for an eager patient to explore their visual wonders. The ancient poster of gum disorders was gone. In its place was a framed, glass-covered sign urging waiting victims to buy war bonds and stamps.

Beyond the next door, the wonders continued. The sink was still clean, the instruments lined up neatly on a white towel, and Shelly was wearing a freshly scrubbed white jacket buttoned to the neck. He was sitting in the dental chair puffing on the remains of a cigar when I came in. Before he peered up from his magazine through his thick lenses he heard me and cupped the cigar in his palm.

Coughing and choking, he bolted out of the chair.

“It’s … you … for God’s sake … for chrissake Toby. I thought it was the inspectors. You could give a man. “He returned his cigar to his mouth, still coughing and pushing his glasses back on his nose.”

“I thought they were coming tomorrow,” I said, heading for my office.

“They like to fool you,” he said with a wry smile “You know, come in a day early or a day late. But I’ll be ready. How do you like the place?”

“Depressing,” I said. “I liked it better the old way.”

“Mildred likes it better this way,” Shelly said defiantly.

“Then Mildred can come down and work in it. I think I’ll move out.” The words came out before I had a sense that they were coming.

“Out?” Shelly choked. “You wouldn’t. We’re friends. Who would I get to rent that closet?”

“Why is my name off the door?” I said through my teeth.

“I’ll put it back on as soon as the inspection is over,” he said, looking to heaven for help with my unbending position.

“You’ve got three days,” I said. “Three days. It goes back on or I move out. And if this hands-off-the-walls stuff continues, out I go.”

“You’re threatening an old friend,” Shelly said sadly, flipping the pages of his magazine.

“I’m threatening you,” I said “That’s not quite the same thing.”

“I was going to ask you a favor,” Shelly said. “But with your present attitude …”

He paused, waiting for me to ask him what the favor was. I didn’t ask.

“I was thinking that when the inspector came you could pretend to be a patient. You know, sit in the chair, let me clean your teeth, take an X ray.”

I laughed. The laugh hurt my ribs.

“Anyone who lets you x-ray his mouth with that left-over prop from Metropolis deserves the fate that awaits him.”

“Never mind,” he said, shoving his face into the magazine. “Just forget it. You’ll get your name back on the door. And in case you’re interested, you’ve got a visitor.”

The visitor was Cawelti, who was looking at the photograph of me, my dad, Phil, and the dog. Cawelti’s hands were behind his back.

“Nice family portrait,” he said.

“I don’t want to talk to you, fireman,” I said, getting behind my desk and biting my lower lip to keep from showing the pain in my aching ribs. My feet kicked something under my desk. Shelly had put the coffee pot, cups, and various pieces of junk and magazines in a box and shoved them there. I kicked them and the rattling turned Cawelti’s head toward me.

“Seidman’s doing better,” he said, pulling out the visitor’s chair and sitting on it after turning it around. I hated people who did that. It would have been nice if the damned chair collapsed, but it didn’t. “No thanks to your friend out there.”

“Shelly would be happy to work on you for nothing,” I said. “You got business with me, fireman, or is this social chitchat? Should I send out for coffee and cookies?”

“Jane Poslik is missing,” he said. “You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?”

He leaned forward, his arms on the top of the chair, his head resting on his hands. I could see where he had cut his face shaving that morning.

“You cut yourself shaving,” I said.

His hand inadvertently shot up to touch his chin and then backed down. His face went bright red.

“Jane Poslik, prick,” he said, clenching his teeth.

“I don’t think she’s got one,” I said back through my clenched teeth.

“You think you’re funny,” said Cawelti, standing and pushing the chair into the corner.

Shelly’s voice came through the door in a petulant whine.

“Hold it down in there, will you? There’s a doctor at work out here. Inspectors could be coming in any time now.”

“Shut up, you hack,” Cawelti shouted back.

“That’s quack,” Shelly shot back. “Im a quack, not a hack. Get your insults straight at least in there.”

“He’s right,” I agreed. “He is a quack.” Then I whispered to Cawelti. “I’d say you get half credit for your answer Any more questions?”

Cawelti’s hand came across the desk toward my neck, but I was ready for him. I came up with the coffee pot in my hand and swiped at his advancing arm. I caught him at the elbow.

“You son of a bitch,” he yelped, jumping back holding his arm.

“I’ll be sure to tell my brother what you called our mother the next time I see him,” I said, still holding the coffee pot like a hammer.

He turned and left, slamming the door behind him. In the outer office I could hear Shelly say, “Hey, try to stay away from here a few days, will you? I’ve got some classy people coming through. Hey, hey, what are you-” The door slammed and Cawelti was gone.

“Some caliber of people you’ve got coming to see you, Toby,” he shouted at me. “Spitting on the floor. My patients don’t even do that.”

I put the coffee pot back in the cardboard box under my desk, pulled the box out. and carried it into Shelly s office. He was settled in his chair, the LA. Times covering his face.

“Where the hell is Madagascar?” he said from behind the open paper. A puff of smoke popped over the back page.

“A French island, I think. Somewhere near Africa.” I said, walking toward him slowly.

“British occupied it over the weekend,” he said. “About time our side occupied something instead of moving out of somewhere.”

Shelly was still behind his newspaper as he flipped the pages.

“Mildred and I didn’t get away over the weekend,” he said. “We were in here cleaning up, but I think we’ll take in The Man Who Came to Dinner over at the Bliss-Hayden Theater. You know, a reward for passing the inspection. Right here Katherine Van Blau says Doris Day as Maggie the secretary ‘proved herself to be an actress of scope and fine sincerity.’ You think that’s the same Doris Day who stole Cal Applebaum’s mother’s candleholders? Couldn’t be. She wouldn’t come back here with the same-”

I dropped the carton on the floor and cut off Shelly’s babbling. The newspaper came down and Shelly’s eyes focused on the floor as an ash fell on his recently washed white jacket.

“What the hell?” he said. “Toby. I can’t have that stuff in here with the inspection.”

“Find another place for it Take it home. Put it in the trunk of your car. Put it out in the hall. Someone will steal it within five minutes. I don’t care where you put it, but not in my office.”

“You don’t plan on cooperating with me on this crisis, do you?” he said, nodding his head knowingly, a man who finally recognizes betrayal.

“You’re beginning to understand that, are you?”

“All right. All right. Just leave it there. I’ll take care of it,” he said, looking down at the carton. “Just go on with whatever you were doing. It doesn’t matter that I might lose my license, that I might not be able to help all those people out there who rely on me.”

“Like Steve Seidman,” I said. “You could at least go see him in the hospital or call.”

“Me?” Shelly said, putting his newspaper aside and pointing to his chest. “I didn’t do anything to him. If he has an infection or something, it’s because …”

“Good-bye Shel,” I said sweetly and left the office.

I had a hard time finding Jeremy. He wasn’t in his office. He wasn’t in the elevator recleaning the mirror. He wasn’t Lysoling the stairs or polishing the name plates in the lobby. I went back up to Alice Palice’s “suite” and found him there. Alice’s suite consisted of much the same space Shelly occupied two floors above. In the center of the main room was a large oak dining room table. On the table was Alice’s printing press. Surrounding the printing press were cans of ink, towels, and stacks of paper. In fact the room was a mess filled with paper and books. It looked like moving day on the Island of Yap just before the invasion. The smell of ink hit hard and not unpleasantly. Jeremy was standing and shaking his head over something he was reading, which had probably been printed on the press.

“Toby,” he said, “one should be careful about one’s promises. I told Alice I would keep an eye on things for her, she is expecting a delivery. She and Miss Poslik have gone downtown to a sale at Bullocks. They are getting along very well.” He put the printed material down and looked around the room. “I would be very willing to put all this in order, but Alice and I have an agreement.”

“Think you could close up shop and keep me company while I keep an eye on the guy who I think has the dog?” I said.

“You need company?”

“I may run into Bass,” I explained.

“Then it will be my pleasure to join you.”

We took my car, which proved to be a mistake. Since the passenger door wouldn’t open, Jeremy had to slide in on the driver’s side. It was a tight fit past the steering wheel and we almost had to give up. We didn’t think of what might happen getting out. Fifteen minutes later we were parked in front of Lyle’s building on Broadway. I left Jeremy and found by listening at the door that Lyle was still in his office. Then it was back downstairs and more waiting while Jeremy tried to educate me with poetry and a lecture on modern literature. At one point a guy who looked like an old George Brent came out of the shoe store we were parked in front of. He looked like he was going to tell us to move. Then he got close enough to see my face and Jeremy’s body and decided instead to pretend he was looking for stray customers.

Around noon, just when I was going to suggest that I pick up some sandwiches, Lyle came out of the front door of the building followed by Bass. I could feel Jeremy sitting up next to me. Lyle wore a thin coat, which he pulled around his neck. He looked up at the sky and saw a wave of clouds coming that I hadn’t paid attention to. Rain was on the way.

Lyle and Bass went down the street and I started the engine. They didn’t go far. They got in a big Chrysler parked near the corner. Lyle got in back. Bass drove. The New Whigs didn’t fool around with any of this equality stuff.

Following them was no problem. I was good at it and they didn’t know enough to even suspect that I might be there.

It was a long ride. We followed the Chrysler west to Sepulveda and then stayed safely behind as we took Sepulveda up through the hills into the valley past Tarzana. A turn on Reseda and in two more blocks, Bass and Lyle pulled into the small parking lot next to the Midlothian Theater, a small neighborhood cigar box.

I kept driving, made a turn in a driveway where a man in a baseball cap was watering his lawn, an effort that struck me as particularly dumb since Helen Keller could have told him that the rain would be coming down dark and heavy and not in minutes or hours. But the man didn’t seem to care. He nodded at us as I pulled out of his driveway, somewhat relieved, I think, that we weren’t coming to visit him, and went on with his watering.

We parked across from the Midlothian in front of a candy shop and watched Lyle and Bass as they were let into the theater. We already knew why we were there. The marquee read WHIG PARTY RALLY TODAY AT ONE. Then, below this sign in those little black letters was CELEBRITIES-CELEBRITIES-CELEBRITIES. The ts in the last two celebrities were red instead of black. Jeremy thought that was an interesting, eye-catching design concept that he might suggest to Alice for their book. I thought the kid who had put up the announcement had just run out of small black ts.

From where we sat we could see both the front entrance to the theater and Lyle’s car. For the next hour we talked about design graphics, oriental healing (which Jeremy was learning), and the people who straggled into the theater. We didn’t keep count but Jeremy, who was accustomed to gauging wrestling crowds, put the final total at forty-seven, mostly women. We also guessed that most of the crowd had been drawn by the promise of celebrities, none of whom I could identify going in. The most interesting attendee, as far as I was concerned, was Academy Dolmitz, who drove up a few minutes before one, parked in the gravel lot, and got into the theater as fast as he could, apparently hoping that no one would see him. Academy’s pride in his political party was touching. Then Jeremy thought he recognized Hugh Herbert. I said the guy didn’t look much like Herbert to me but maybe he was right.

At a minute or two after one, Lyle stuck his head out the door and looked both ways, either for the celebrities who hadn’t arrived or in the hope of grabbing unwary housewives from the street to fill a few seats. His scanning of the street brought him quickly to me. With Jeremy at my side there wasn’t any room to hide, so I threw a cool smile on my lips and looked straight back at the gleaming lenses of Lyle’s glassses. Lyle’s face went through a mess of emotions that would have been the envy of a starlet on her first screen test: surprise, curiosity, anger, mock confidence, smirk, shaken, superiority, and controlled but quivering anger. Then he pulled his head back in. It was replaced about a minute later by the bulk of Bass, who found us and began to cross the street, ignoring an Olds driven by a guy in overalls who almost ran him down.

“Out, quickly,” said Jeremy, touching my arm.

I opened the door and got out, almost falling into the path of another car. Had my passenger door been working, which it was not thanks to Bass, Jeremy could have gotten out with dignity untested, but he did a fairly good job of it in any case and managed to be at my side just as Bass reached out a hand in the general direction of my throat.

I didn’t back away. I couldn’t back away without hitting my car or stepping into traffic, but backing away wasn’t necessary. Jeremy’s hand shot out and pushed Bass’s down.

Bass looked at Jeremy, whom he seemed to be seeing for the first time, and said, “Butler. You’re through. You quit.”

“We both did,” Jeremy said evenly, understanding what made little sense to me.

A woman of about fifty, dead black mink around her neck and a hat with a long black feather, had stopped on the sidewalk as she came out of the candy store. The sight of two giants in the street was enough to get her attention. I looked at her and shrugged as if I had been recruited as a reluctant referee.

“What are you looking at?” Bass said to the woman.

I gave her credit. She managed to keep from dropping her purse and candy as her heels clacked down the street.

“Go back across the street, Bass,” Jeremy said calmly.

“I’ve got to do him,” Bass said, nodding at me as if I were a package he had been assigned to gift-wrap.

“No,” said Jeremy gently, as a guy in a black Buick stopped his car to complain about our standing in the street and then changed his mind and sped away.

“I’ll do him and I’ll do you again,” Bass said, his eyes wide and his lips dry.

“You didn’t beat me,” Jeremy said.

“Two out of three,” Bass hissed.

“I won the two,” Jeremy said, his huge hands slightly away from his body, ready.

“Bass, I think you better go back and ask Lyle about this,” I said. “He didn’t count on Jeremy being here and I don’t think he wants the two of you messing up Reseda. It wouldn’t do the party any good.”

“He’s right,” said Jeremy. “We’re already attracting attention.”

We gave Bass time to react to the argument. He didn’t seem capable of fixing his attention on more than one major problem at a time, but the blast of a horn from a skidding car and the blue speck of a policeman about a block away got through to him. He clenched his fists, looked at me and Jeremy, and then pounded a dent into the top of a passing car. The driver just kept on driving and pretended he hadn’t been attacked by the Minotaur of Crete.

We followed Bass across the street, let him go through the door ahead of us, and entered the Midlothian Theater. The small lobby behind the ticket booth smelled like stale popcorn. Posters hung on the wall inside framed glass scratched by the nails of maybe a million Saturday matinee kids. One poster promised a future with Olivia de Havilland, who wore an off-the-shoulder gown and looked toward the candy stand as if she was waiting for a seltzer delivery that was very late. Behind her, Dennis Morgan smelled her hair for remnants of eau de Milk Duds.

My foot caught in a strand of frayed, once-red lobby carpet, but I pulled it out before I fell, and followed Jeremy into the theater. There were about fifty people in a place that could have easily held three hundred or more, and they were scattered all over, only a few in front. Lyle was on the stage and the house lights were up. He had no microphone, but he did have a portable metal podium, the kind violinists use for solos. If he had leaned on the damned thing, his political career would have ended.

Jeremy and I found seats on the right about ten rows from the back. I moved inside. Jeremy took the aisle, which allowed him to put his feet out. Across from us a gray-faced man was eating a sandwich he had taken out of a brown paper bag. Something yellow dribbled out of the sandwich. I turned my attention to Lyle, who was getting the whispered message from Bass that I still existed. Lyle looked around, found me, eyed Jeremy, and nodded to Bass.

“Get started,” shouted the sandwich man across the aisle.

“We will begin,” Lyle said softly and cleared his throat. Behind him, pinned to the curtain, were big posters of McArthur, Patton, and Eisenhower, all in full uniform. The right top corner of the Ike poster had come loose but Lyle had his back to it and never noticed.

“We will begin,” Lyle said louder this time.

I found Academy Dolmitz about fifteen rows in front of us, hunched down. My eyes must have burned through his collar because he let out a big sigh, turned, looked at me and gave a massive “What am I gonna do?” shrug.

“Will you all move up,” Lyle said. “It will be easier to talk and will leave space for those who come in late.”

No one except the man with the sandwich across the aisle from us moved. He struck his brown bag under his arm and, still holding his sandwich-from which an unidentified vegetable now dropped-tromped forward to answer Lyle’s call.

“See the celebrities better,” the sandwich-eater explained to those in his vicinity as he moved down to sit in front of Lyle, who did not have the talent to hide his distaste. Two well-dressed women seemed to have had enough even before the festivities started. They were in the far aisle from us and headed for the door. Bass hurried to head them off. They saw him coming and scurried back to their seats.

“The enemies of the Whig Party,” Lyle began, looking down at his notes on the unsteady music stand, “have for more than a hundred years done their best to silence our voice of reason. They murdered us when we earned the highest office in the land.”

“Murdered?” came a woman’s voice from the back.

Bass, who now stood, arms folded, in front of the stage, shot a glare of cold fury toward the voice.

“Yes,” said Lyle looking up. “Murdered. They murdered Harrison They murdered Taylor and they would have murdered Winfield Scott if he had been elected. And, most recently, just a day ago right in this city, they murdered the Dr. Roy Olson who, with me, had devoted his life to the revitilization of the Whig Party. And knowing them”-and with this he looked at Jeremy and me-“I am not at all surprised that they have sent the very murderers to our meeting today. Well, I tell them and I tell you they will not silence us.”

He clearly wanted to thunder his fist down for emphasis but there was nothing to thunder on but the wire music stand, or Bass’s head. Lyle settled for shaking his fist and waiting for applause. There was none Someone did cough up front.

“Who’s this ‘they’ he’s going on about?” said another woman, not aware that her voice would carry in the little, nearly empty theater.

“I’m glad you asked that, madam”, Lyle said, aiming his words in the general direction of the comment “They are the government, the Roosevelts, the Democrats, the Republicans. They are the ones who want to take away your right to be you, to be Americans, to take what you can take within the rightful limits of the law, to expand your horizons, to use the full power of God you were born with. They want to make you all alike, all weak, all dependent, all little wind-up dolls operated by them. They pretend to be against each other, but they hold each others’ hands. And the others, the Socialists, the Communists, they’re just waiting till the Megalops kill each other off so they can put you and your children and me in their prisons and make peace with the Nazis and the Japanese. We don’t need crippled socialists standing in front of us as if we were children. We need strong leaders who stand up to enemies but maintain our borders. Don’t tread on me. Leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone. Responsible for my debts only. We need a Patton, a MacArthur, an Eisenhower.”

“A General Marshall,” came a voice that might have been touched as much with Petri wine as enthusiasm.

“Not a Marshall,” said Lyle, shaking his head sadly but glad to have some response “I’m afraid he is one of them. We must choose carefully, find the powerful and the incorruptible to lead us. We must make our platform clear, begin with the dedicated few, and become the powerful many. At this point, are there any questions?”

The sandwich man now sitting directly in front of Lyle shot up a hand, and since there were no other questions, Lyle had to acknowledge him. The man got up brushing crumbs from his coat and said, “Where are the celebrities?”

The man solemnly sat down and Lyle said, “I’m glad you asked that. Our ranks right now are, admittedly, small, but among our numbers are the famous and the influential. Some of our strongest supporters are names you would recognize instantly but, because of the pressure of the great them who have opposed and suppressed us, unfortunately many of these famous people in entertainment, sports, and even politics and the military service must remain unknown till they need no longer fear for their lives.”

“You said there would be celebrities,” came a woman’s cracking voice.

“We have celebrities,” Lyle said, with a deep sigh; he didn’t give in to despair. “I’ll ask them to stand up and, perhaps, say a few words. Mr. Don Solval, famous radio personality.”

A man, white-haired, lots of pretend teeth, stood up, turned around, and waved at the crowd. The wino in the back applauded alone.

“Who is that?” Jeremy asked me.

“Never heard of him,” I whispered.

“Martin Lyle is a man of honor and integrity,” Solval said in a deep bass voice that reeked of radio. I didn’t recognize the voice. “In the years I have worked for him and his family in Maine, I have come to not only accept his political beliefs but to become a strong advocate of them.”

He showed his teeth, waved again, and sat down. This time only Lyle applauded.

“Thank you, Don.”

“That was no goddamn celebrity,” said the sandwich man in the front row. Bass took two steps toward the man, leaned over, whispered something, and the man went white and silent. Bass returned to his position below Lyle and looked around the audience for more trouble, his eyes stopping significantly at Jeremy and me.

“We have other celebrities,” Lyle said, placating the now resdess little crowd with his upturned hands. “Mr. Robert Benchley.”

“I heard of him,” said the wino in back, clapping. There was a round of polite clapping as Lyle smiled and everyone looked around to find Benchley. Eventually a man who had been slouched over a few rows in front of Academy Dolmitz stood up and turned to the audience with a small, embarrassed grin. His face was round and his little mustache gave a twitch.

“Um,” Benchley began, rubbing his hands together. “Urn,” he repeated and then let out a small laugh as if he had been caught eating the last cookie in the jar. “There seems to be some slight mistake here. I wasn’t aware that this was a political rally.” He laughed again. “I was told by my agent, or maybe I should say former agent or soon-to-be former agent, that this was a war-bond promotion. I’m not even a registered voter in this state. Thank you.”

Benchley gathered up his coat and ambled down the aisle past us with a small, constipated grin as Lyle applauded furiously and a few others joined him.

“Thank you, Robert Benchley,” Lyle said, applauding.

“Wait a minute,” came the wino’s voice. “He ain’t even on your side.”

“We promised celebrities,” Lyle said patiently. “We never said they would support us. We begin by having them present and then the truth of our cause convinces them and you. Now that we have heard from our celebrities-”

“Hold it,” called the wino standing. “You mean that’s it? No more celebrities? No free coffee, nothing?”

“Just truth,” said Lyle, almost giving in to exasperation.

Bass was moving up the aisle now in search of the troublesome wino. While his back was turned, four women, probably a bridge club, escaped out of a side emergency exit. Bass found the wino and carried him at arm’s length out of the theater.

“I want a refund,” screamed the wino.

“You paid nothing and got much,” shouted Lyle. “You got the truth and the truth will work on your conscience.” The crowd was mumbling and considering following the valiant bridge club. One woman actually stood, but she had waited too long to make up her mind, and Bass, now returning, fixed his eyes on her coldly, and she sat.

“We have one more speaker,” Lyle said clearly, sensing that he could hold the group no longer without a real celebrity or refreshments or, possibly, a good idea or two. “With the assassination of Dr. Olson I have had to go through the difficult task of assessing the qualities of the many qualified members of our party to select a successor as party organizer. I’ve agonized over this decision, consulted our leadership in Washington, New York, and Dallas, and come up with the name of a member of your own community, Mr. Morris Dolmitz.”

Five rows ahead of us, Academy Dolmitz sank deeper in his seat and failed to hold back a gurgled “Shit.”

Lyle applauded, and the crowd paused with minimal curiosity, looking for the one in their midst who had been selected by Lyle to make a fool of himself.

“Mr. Dolmitz is a prominent businessman in Los Angeles,” Lyle said. “A man of great political knowledge who has much to say. Mr. Dolmitz. a few words please.”

Bass applauded and grinned like a kid and Lyle beamed, waving for Academy to get up and speak.

“Go on. Academy, I called. “Your new career awaits.”

“Blow it out the wrong way,” Academy spat out through his clenched teeth loud enough for everyone to hear, but he was trapped. He shuffled into the aisle cursing that he was ever born, brushed his mane of white hair back, and went to the steps leading up to the low, small stage. Bass, clearly protective, hovered behind him to help in case his former boss and inspiration fell. Clearly uncomfortable, Dolmitz stood next to Lyle, who held out his hand. Dolmitz shook the offered hand and looked over at Jeremy and me apologetically as if to say, “See the things you have to go through to turn a dishonest buck?”

Academy stepped in front of the music stand, glared out at the uneasy audience, and said, “I’ve got nothing to say.”

He turned and Lyle whispered to him urgently while someone in the audience started coughing and a voice, female, said, “Dorothy, are you all right? You want a glass of water or something?” But Dorothy stopped and Academy bit his lower lip, trying to think of something to say.

“I didn’t expect this … honor,” he finally said. “Did you know Robert Benchley won an Oscar in 1935, best short subject?”

“How to Sleep,” I said. “MGM”

Academy nodded his head, one-upped by me again.

“I’ve met Oscar winners before,” Academy went on, warming to his favorite subject outside of making money. “Lyle Wheeler, the art director who won the award for Gone With the Wind,” Academy said quickly so I wouldn’t get a chance to identify Wheeler from the audience, though I wouldn’t have been able to do it “Wheeler came into my bookshop one day and bought a couple of books by French writers, Flaubert, Zola, Balzac, that crowd. Wheeler was a nice guy. I tried to get him to put down a few bucks on a sure thing I had going out of Santa Anita, a two-year-old named Sidewalk, but Wheeler didn’t go for it. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

Bass applauded furiously again as Academy climbed down from the stage and Lyle stepped forward as his political world seemed to be crumbling around him, but he had been through it before.

“Mr. Dolmitz has assured me that he fully supports the aims of the Whig Party,” Lyle said as feet shuffled and Dorothy attempted to control her returning cough.

“No more states in the Union…. God meant us to have forty-eight adjacent states that we can protect and can protect each other. Peace with our enemies in Europe, peace with honor or we crush them. No quarter for the Japanese. The elimination of sales taxes. Establishment of a new cabinet position. Secretary of Women’s Affairs.”

“Right, right,” said Academy, sinking back into his chair and trying to hide.

“My secretary will be in the lobby as you leave with written information on the New Whig Party, membership applications, and answers to questions you may have. Now, if you will put your heads down, we will have a full minute of silent non-denominational prayer.”

Lyle looked at everyone in the auditorium as he clapped his hands and heads went down, even mine, Jeremy’s, Dolmitz’s, and the cowered sandwich man’s in the first row a few feet from Bass.

Head down, eyes closed, I whispered to Jeremy, “You going to join the Whigs?”

“The line between dedication and madness is as thin as the space between two thoughts,” said Jeremy. “The madman who bears away our faith is labeled a saint and the saint who fails to gather our faith is labeled mad.”

“And?” I said, eyes still down, listening beyond Jeremy’s voice to shuffling feet and clearing thoughts.

“And,” he said, “you had best open your eyes and see where your moment of feigned faith has brought you.”

I opened my eyes and looked up at nothing The stage was empty. Lyle and Bass were gone. Jeremy was already in the aisle. I joined him noisily and eyes opened around us. When others saw that Lyle and Bass were gone they headed for the exit. I almost collided with the sandwich man, since I was going in the opposite direction.

Jeremy leaped on the stage. I was a beat behind him. He went for the curtain, pulled it open and disappeared behind it. I followed, finding myself in the darkness feeling my way across the movie screen on which Olivia de Havilland would soon be pining away. I followed the sound of Jeremy’s feet going to the right and, at the right side of the screen, found a small door and stepped through.

Jeremy was ahead of me, standing on the cement floor in a room behind the screen. Light was coming in through a dirty window. The room was a storage area: tables, old theater seats, boxes of light bulbs and electrical equipment, sacks of popping corn, a pile of movie posters, and a box of lobby cards. A few of the cards in sickly colors, with Lash Larue and Fuzzy St. John looking up at me, were on the floor. All very interesting, but not nearly as interesting as the wire cage in the corner, the door of which stood open. There was a small bowl of water in the cage and a general faint smell of dog.

I found the door to the outside before Jeremy. It was behind a painted Chinese screen with a gold dragon. It was a double door and I pushed it open with Jeremy at my side. We were in the back of the theater. The gravel parking lot was to our right. We ran the few steps and turned the corner in time to see Lyle’s Chrysler shooting little rocks from its rear tires as it hit the driveway, almost hit a woman and a small boy, and barely make it into traffic in front of a delivery truck.

Jeremy and I ran for my car and lost additional time as Jeremy slid across the driver’s seat and I followed him. By the time we pulled into traffic on Reseda a few seconds later, Lyle and Bass were out of sight.

“You got a suggestion?” I asked Jeremy, who sat placidly, eyes forward, thinking about a poem or another world, or a rematch with Bass.

“Intuition,” he said. “Let your hands tell you. Let your mind go.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You have a better plan?” He smiled.

I smiled back. “I’m taking a chance that he likes the same big streets and doesn’t know we followed him to the theater,” I said. “I’ll cut ahead of him on Sepulveda.”

Five minutes later I was cruising south on Sepulveda when Jeremy said softly, “Ahead, about two blocks.”

I didn’t see anything, but I trusted his eyes and kept going. Before we hit the hills, I spotted the Chrysler, slowed down, and kept my distance, trying not to think about how much gas I had left. Fifteen minutes later, we hit downtown Los Angeles. I reached over to turn on the radio but I changed my mind. Jeremy was not a radio fan.

Lyle and Bass drove down Broadway to Central, took Ninth across to Long Beach Road, and then went down Long Beach to Slauson Avenue. They pulled into a dirt driveway next to something that looked like an old warehouse just off Holmes Avenue across from the Santa Fe Railroad tracks. I parked half a block ahead and looked back to see them getting out of the Chrysler. The clouds had rolled in and were rumbling as Bass and Lyle moved to the trunk of their car, opened it, and removed a wooden crate that Bass hoisted to his shoulder.

They took the crate into the warehouse and just as I was deciding to follow them, they reappeared without it and got back into the car.

“Jeremy,” I said, getting out of the car. “Stay with them. I’m going to find out if they just delivered what I think they delivered.”

Jeremy nodded and, with great difficulty, squeezed himself behind the wheel.

“I’ll make my own way back to the office,” I shouted as he made a U-turn and darted off after the Chrysler, which was now a good block away.

The sky broke and the rain began to come down. I ran across Slauson ahead of a truck and found the door Bass and Lyle had gone through. Behind and above me, a tidal wave fell, sending up a wet dusty smell that lasted only a second or two.

The building was a gigantic warehouse. Beyond a pile of ceiling-high shelves filled with wooden crates I could hear voices. People were arguing. Murder seemed to be in progress. I moved slowly along the shelves toward the sound and turned a corner.

A pretty young woman with too much make-up and a ribbon in her hair and a man with a thin mustache and sagging jaw each had an end of rope that was tied around the neck of a man who looked slightly bewildered. They pulled and shouted and the man in the middle gulped, the center knot of a strange, deadly tug of war.

Then a voice called out, “Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut. Damn it, cut.”

That was when I saw, beyond the bright lights blasting down on the trio of actors, a camera and a small group of people.

The man who had shouted “Cut” had a light mustache, a receding hairline, and wore no shirt. A towel was draped around his neck.

“What’s wrong, Jules?” asked the man who had been holding one end of the rope.

“The noise,” said Jules, pointing over his shoulder to the ceiling. “It’s raining. We can’t do sound in here with that.” Jules put his hands on his hips and shook his head.

“Let’s shoot the scene silent,” said the man who was being strangled, the rope still around his neck. “Cut to a close-up of me and we can add rattling sounds later. You know, like my brains are getting scrambled. Then we do a point of view shot and I can see them moving their mouths, but the rope is so tight around my neck that it’s cutting off my hearing.”

Jules turned, thought about it, shrugged and said, “It’ll do, Buster.”

Buster Keaton, who had made the suggestion, put the rope ends back in the hands of the two actors and began supervising his own mock strangulation. He put his tiny hat on the side of his head and said, “Let’s move the camera in and get going.”

The camera operator said something I couldn’t make out, and Jules called to the actors. “Don’s having some problem with the camera. Let’s take a lunch break.”

Keaton took off his hat, removed the rope, shook himself off, and started to walk toward a door in the corner. A lighting man turned off the lights and I moved across the set, apparently a living room, and followed Keaton.

“Mr. Keaton,” I called, catching up to him as he turned. There was no expression on his face as I stepped up. There wasn’t any through our whole conversation. I was a few inches taller than he was and he was a few years older than I had fixed him in my mind. The dead-pan look I remembered from his silent movies was there, but the smooth face had turned to leather, covered by unconvincing light makeup.

“It’s lunch,” he said.

“I heard,” I said. “Can I talk to you for a second or two? Won’t take long.”

“Can’t take long,” he said, waving at me to follow him. “We’ll go to my dressing room.”

I followed him to his makeshift dressing room, which was normally an office complete with desk, file cabinets, In and Out boxes with dusty paper. He opened the file cabinet, pulled out a bottle and a sandwich. The bottle was bourbon.

“Drink?” he said, turning to me.

“No thanks,” I said.

“Good.” He tossed me the sandwich. “You take the liverwurst. I’ll take the bourbon, and I’ll be in Forest Lawn before you.”

I caught the sandwich as he opened the bottle, poured himself an unhealthy glassful, and sat in the wooden, creaking swivel chair, his little hat still on his head. He took a drink and looked at me.

“Let me guess,” he said “I owe somebody money and you’ve been sent to collect it?”

“No,” I said, opening the wrapping of the sandwich, leaning against the wall and taking a bite.

“If you’re looking for a job,” he went on, “you’ve come to the wrong studio.” He looked around the dusty office. “This production is so cheap we have to finish shooting a two-reeler by four o’clock so we don’t have to buy coffee and sinkers for the six-man cast and crew.”

“I’m not looking for a job,” I said. “This sandwich is pretty good.”

“I’ll tell the chef,” Keaton said, toasting me and taking another drink. “I’m out of guesses.”

“What did those two men bring in here? The ones who just left?”

Keaton rubbed his nose and considered another drink. The question the bottle had asked him was more important than mine.

“You want to hear a confession and a declaration?” he said. “This”- his eyes went around the room and looked beyond the door toward the set-“is the bottom. From this, it can only get better. You’re not a reporter, are you? No, you’re not a reporter. You are …”

“A man who wants to know what two men just brought in here in a wooden crate,” I said, my mouth full of liverwurst.

“You’re a cop,” Keaton said, his eyelids drooping slightly.

“Private investigator,” I said. “Name is Peters.”

“And they’re dognappers,” he said. “I’ve played a detective once or twice, done a lot of crime movies, mostly two-reelers for Educational.”

“I’ve seen some of them,’’ I said. “Why did you say they were dog-nappers?”

Keaton took off his hat and balanced it on end on the tip of his finger.

“Some of those shorts weren’t half bad,” he said. His lower lip came up over his upper as he concentrated on balancing the hat.

“Dogs,” I reminded him.

“Not all of them,” he whispered.

“I didn’t mean the movies,” I said.

“I know it,” he answered. “A joke. Those two guys sold me a dog. Now I suppose I’ll have to give it back. My own money too. There’s not enough in the budget to hire a dog, and I’ve got a humdinger of a gag.

“Little dog comes running in, in the last scene, little black Scottie, and the camera moves over to show me, with little glasses and a cigarette holder, a Roosevelt gag. I play Roosevelt and Elmer, my character. We’re in the same shot. Most expensive thing in the movie. Can’t carry it off without special effects and a dog, and you want the dog back.”

“I think he might be the real thing,” I said.

“I wouldn’t buy a fake dog,” said Keaton, flipping the hat in the air. It turned over three times and landed neatly on his head.

“I mean it might really be Roosevelt’s dog,” I explained, pushing away from the wall. “I’ve got reason to believe the guys who sold it to you took the dog. Now things are getting hot and they have to get rid of him.”

Keaton didn’t say anything, just looked at me blankly, but even in that whithered blankness I could see that he was considering whether I was a special movie nut or a general all-around nut who happened to be sleeping one off in the corner of the warehouse when the movie woke me up.

“That’s Fala?” he said.

“I think it could be,” I replied.

“I was going to call him Fella,” said Keaton. “Why would someone take the president’s dog and then sell it?”

“That’s what I’m working on,” I said. “Can I see the dog?”

From beyond the door a woman’s voice called out, “We’ve got it working, Buster. Ready to go again.”

“Coming,” said Keaton, getting out of the swivel chair. He stepped over to me, almost nose to nose, and looked into my eyes. Then he shrugged and waved for me to follow him again. We moved back out the door and to the right, away from the set, down a dark row of shelves to a caged room that looked like a tool storage space. The dog was sitting in the middle of the room, looking up at us and wagging his tail.

“I’ll have to take him,” I said.

“That’s fifty bucks and a good gag ruined,” he said. “And how do I know you’re who you say you are?”

“I’ve got a number you can call. Ask for Eleanor Roosevelt. Tell her who you are and ask her if she knows who I am,” I said, reaching for the cage.

“I’ll trust you,” sighed Keaton.

“Buster,” came the woman’s voice from across the warehouse.

“Coming,” said Keaton, opening the cage door.

The dog came running to us wagging his tail and leaped up in Keaton’s arms. The dog stuck his tongue out and licked the actor’s face.

“Likes the taste of makeup,” Keaton said.

“Looks that way,” I said, holding out my arms.

He shrugged and handed me the dog, which was heavier than I thought-which surprised me-but smelled like a dog, which didn’t surprise me. The dog didn’t like me as much as he did Buster and let out a whining sound.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Keaton said, petting the dog. “Think you can get my fifty back from those two guys?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

We had reached the front door through which I had come. The rain was still coming down hard and Keaton reached over to pet the dog once more. “I’ll need a cab,” I said, remembering that Jeremy had taken the car.

“Wait here,” Keaton said, “I’ll have April call one for you.”

Before he could turn, I glanced out the window in the door and got what was probably the shock of my not-young life. The rain soaked hulk of Bass shot up from below the window, blotting out the outside light and glaring at me. I almost dropped the dog, which let out a yelp, and Keaton turned to see Bass stepping through the door.

Bass, a dripping monster, hulked into the warehouse accompanied by thunder and the sound of dark pouring rain. I backed away clutching the whimpering dog and bumped into Keaton.

“The dog,” Bass said. His hands were out reaching for the dog.

“You owe me fifty bucks,” Keaton said solemnly.

“Let’s let that drop for now,” I said, backing away as Bass, his yellow hair dripping down in front of his eyes, reached out an arm to swat Keaton away.

Keaton dropped to a squat so quickly that Bass’s swinging arm cracked into a metal shelf. Bass’s face showed no sign of pain or feeling.

“The dog,” he repeated.

“Why does Lyle want the dog back?” I asked reasonably. “He just sold it, got rid of it.”

“The dog,” Bass repeated as I backed into a stack of crates and felt the rough wood against my back.

“Excuse me, Keaton interrupted, tapping Bass on the shoulder. “I paid fifty bucks for the dog. I say Peters takes it and you give back my fifty.”

Bass turned his head to the little actor, who barely came up to his chest. Keaton’s jaw jutted out the way it did in Spite Marriage and almost collided with Bass’s chest.

“He’s a killer,” I warned.

“Don’t worry,” said Keaton. “I won’t hurt him.”

Bass was surprisingly fast for a big man, but Jeremy had told me he was. But that was fast for a wrestler. He had never met a Keaton. Bass reached for Keaton’s scrawny throat, but the actor dropped to the floor, rolled over once and came up on Bass’s rear. The dripping killer had a moment of confusion and then turned suddenly as Keaton ducked under his arm. Bass’s hand took the little hat, crushed it, and threw it at the actor, who caught it expertly.

Bass was now clearly distracted and challenged by this elusive gnat who he obviously didn’t recognize. My impulse was to try to help, but to do that I’d have to put the dog down, which might lead to losing him. Besides, Keaton was doing fine without my help. There wasn’t much room in the small lobby area, but it was too much for Bass to get his hands on Keaton. It was no match. Bass kept trying to cut off the space like a good clobbering puncher in the ring, but Keaton kept ducking right, left, or under his arms.

After two or three minutes, Bass was panting and damned mad and a voice behind me said, with exasperation, “Come on Buster, you can play with your friends later. We’ve got a crew waiting.”

The man called Jules stepped into the space, towel around his neck, and watched for a few seconds before turning to me to whisper, “Big guy’s not bad. Kind of scary. We could use him in the picture.”

“I don’t think he’s got the calling,” I said as Bass bellowed and took a massive plunge at Keaton, who seemed about to run into the front door, but made a sudden, impossible stop, pushed off the wall with his right foot and barely cleared Bass’s outstretched arm. Bass crashed heavily, headfirst into the wall, sagging apparently unconscious to the floor.

“Christ, Buster,” Jules grunted. “If you’ve hurt that guy, we can’t even pay the doctor bills.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Just lock him in the cage back there and feed him once a week.”

Keaton brushed himself off and moved to my side to pat the panting dog once more. He wasn’t even breathing heavily.

“I’ll have April get the cab for you, and we’ll call the cops to take our friend away,” said Keaton.

Our backs were to Bass and Jules had shouted, “Let’s get back to work.”

Something hit me hard and low and Keaton bounced away from a whirring arm. I spun into a corner and found my hands reaching for something to keep me from falling, which was why I knew I was no longer holding the dog.

When I did hit the wall and slumped down, I could see Bass in the doorway holding the barking dog. Keaton took a step toward him, but Bass had had enough. He opened the door and disappeared into the rain.

“I’ll get him,” Keaton said.

“No,” I groaned. “He’s my responsibility.”

I did a poor imitation of a man running and followed Bass into the rain, but he was out of sight by the time I hit the street. A car, big and dark but not Lyle’s Chrysler, was kicking up mud from the parking lot. I ran toward it but it made a right and shot off along the railroad tracks.

Keaton was still in the warehouse lobby when I sogged back in.

“No luck,” he said.

“I’ll get your fifty,” I promised.

“I’d rather have the dog,” he said.

Keaton went back to the set and I waited, watching the rain and trying to reach back to rub the spot over my kidney where Bass had heaved me into the cartons. The rain was doing my back no good either, but I ignored it reasonably well by wondering what Bass had been doing there, where Lyle was, and where Jeremy was.

A Red Top cab pulled up in about ten minutes-which, considering the rain, was pretty good service. The woman driver reached back to open the back door and I made a dash for it. The rain was letting up a little as I filled the cab with water.

The cabbie wasn’t a talker, which suited me just fine. I watched the rain while she drove me back to Hollywood. By the time we got to Mrs. Plaut’s boarding house, the rain had stopped and I owed the cabbie a buck twenty.

“Pretty soon, there maybe ain’t gonna be no cabs,” she said, accepting a quarter tip. “No gas. No rubber. No parts. No cabs.”

“You have a good day,” I said, getting out and walking slowly to the porch.

I had been walking with my head down. My back hurt less that way, so I didn’t see Jeremy sitting in the swing till I actually took the first of three wooden steps.

“I lost them,” he said.

“That’s all right, Jeremy,” I said, making it up the last step.

“I managed to get close enough once to see that Bass wasn’t in the car,” he went on. “I don’t know where he went. I think they spotted me following them.”

“They did,” I said, reaching for the front door. “Bass came back for the dog Lyle probably figured it would be safe to hide the dog by selling it to Keaton.”

“Keaton.”

“Buster Keaton,” I explained. “They could always steal it again when they needed it. They spotted you and decided the plan wouldn’t work.

“I’m sorry, Toby,” he said, getting off the porch swing.

“For what? I’ll invite you to the next party I throw for Bass.”

“A shriek ran thro Eternity:

And a paralytic stroke;

At the birth of the human shadow.”

“I think William Blake knew our friend Bass.”

With that Jeremy declined my offer of a ride and I declined his offer to help me upstairs. With hands plunged into oversized windbreaker pockets, he went down the stairs, and I watched the muscle folds on the rear of his neck as he moved down the walk.

I was an easy target for Mrs. Plaut, a slow-moving target, but she wasn’t in the house. It took me a long time to get up the stairs, but I wasn’t in a hurry. It took me even longer to get to my room and get my clothes off, but I had stopped to turn on the hot water in the bathtub and I knew there was no hurry.

I soaked in the warm tub for half an hour after taking one of the pills Shelly had given me for pain resulting from a series of encounters over the years. The pills were designed for sore teeth but they did a hell of a temporary job on an aching back.

A new tenant in the boarding house, a Mr. Waltrup, knocked at the door in the middle of my bath to announce the urgent need for a toilet. I bid him enter, which he did with apologies, and we carried on a brief discussion about Mr. Waltrup’s profession, tree trimming.

I learned all I wanted to know about tree trimming in the next five or six minutes.

“There really isn’t much privacy here is there?” Waltrup said, buttoning himself. He was a solid young man with a nice blue eye and a false brown one that didn’t match.

“Not much,” I agreed, sinking back into the water and turning the hot tap on with my toes.

Shriveled and soaked, I felt much better and made my way back to my room with a towel around my waist. Mrs. Plaut’s head was peeking up at the top of the stairs.

“This isn’t a good time, is it Mr. Peelers?” she said.

“Not a good time at all,” I said.

She turned and went back down the stairs and I entered my room, groaned my way into a pair of undershorts, managed to down a partly used bottle of Pepsi in the refrigerator, and then eased myself onto the mattress on the floor. I clutched the extra pillow and found it impossible to imagine getting up and making another run at finding the dog and Doc Olson’s killer.

I didn’t sleep. I just lay there for an hour watching the Beech-Nut clock and trying to put something together to tell Eleanor Roosevelt. Nothing came by three in the afternoon but a knock at the door.

I sat up in my shorts and watched Eleanor Roosevelt enter my room. She stopped for a beat, looked down at me without embarrassment, and said, “I’ll give you a few moments to dress.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I have sons and have seen a male body before,” she said, with a little smile and a lot of teeth. “I’ll wait in the hallway.”

Struggling to my feet wasn’t half as bad as knowing that I really didn’t have much to get dressed in. I put on some wrinkled trousers and a pull-over shirt and looked at my room through different eyes. It wasn’t much. I pushed the mattress back on the bed, threw the handmade spread over it, gathered my sopping suit, threw it in the closet, and went to the door to let her in.

“Sorry about the place,” I said, stepping back. “But this is how the other two-thirds live.”

She was wearing a thin, black coat and carrying a black oversized purse.

“Mr. Peters,” she said. “I have seen squalor in New York that you can imagine only faintly. You live on a safe street, in a clean home. There is nothing to be ashamed of in that.”

I offered her a cup of coffee, which she accepted. She sat at my little table. Me and the wife of the president of the United States. I should have had Mrs. Plaut come upstairs with her little camera and take my picture to prove it was true.

“I had the dog,” I said, looking down at my coffee cup. “And I lost him.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said, sipping her coffee. “I had a message by phone less than an hour ago. I have been informed that I can have Franklin’s dog back for fifty thousand dollars.”

A knock at the door gave me a second to take in the new information. I wasn’t sure what it meant.

“Come in,” I said, knowing from the light rapping that it was Gunther.

Gunther, his suit gray and well pressed, entered clutching a sheet of paper, glanced at my visitor, and went pale. He said something to himself in German and Mrs. Roosevelt answered him, also in German. They went on, with Gunther regaining some of his usual composure, until I said, “Let’s try it in English.”

“I’m so sorry, Toby,” Gunther said, without removing his eyes from Eleanor Roosevelt, who smiled and drank some more coffee. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

“I’m pleased that you did drop in, Mr …?”

“Wherthman,” Gunther said with a slight bow. “Gunther Wherthman. I’m-”

“Swiss,” Mrs. Roosevelt finished for him. Gunther was beaming.

“Most people make the mistake of thinking me German,” Gunther said. “That inaccuracy can, in these times, be an unnecessary embarrassment.”

“I do not see how anyone with more than a superficial knowledge of language and culture could make such an error,” she said, looking at both of us.

I nodded in complete agreement, trying to forget that I had been sure Gunther was German when I first met him.

Gunther began to say something, but it quickly turned to German and Mrs. Roosevelt answered him in his own language while I put cups away, avoided scratching my stomach, and gave Mrs. Roosevelt some more coffee. After about three or four minutes of this, Gunther was lost in conversation, but he must have caught something in my overly patient attitude and said, in English, “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to your business. It has been a great, great honor.”

“The honor has been mine,” said Eleanor Roosevelt.

Gunther backed out beaming, having forgotten what his original mission had been, and closed the door.

“That,” she said to me,” is a gentleman.”