Tomorrow Is Another day

Chapter 6

Sunset to Beverly Glen and west along 101 following the Los Angeles River into the wilderness of Encino. It took almost an hour and I got a headache from the hot wind blowing from the east through the open window and the bad news on the radio from Raymond Gram Swing. The Japanese Army was digging into the Pacific Islands, burrowing tunnels, making the troops pay with ten lives an acre for places called Rabaul, Mindanao, Leyte, and Guam, places we didn't want in the first place. We were winning land and the war and losing lives.

I found a gas station, Jimmy Kelly's Gas and Sundries, specializing in Sinclair products and customer disdain. I used up my ration stamps for the week and bought a Pepsi and a small bottle of Bayer aspirin. I threw a handful of aspirin in my mouth and washed it down with Pepsi while the kid attendant shook his head and avoided my eyes.

When I left the station, I wasn't sure if I was on my way to losing the headache or was so full of aspirin that the question wasn't relevant.

Gable's directions to the ranch were fine and I pulled up in front of the modest white-brick two-story house just before noon. I got out of the Crosley and rang the front door bell. No answer. Something hummed far away behind the house. I rang again and then knocked. Nothing.

I looked through the curtained downstairs windows but the sun didn't help the view. So, I walked behind the house and found myself on a stone patio, looking down a slope toward a copse of grapefruit trees on the left and a white wooden stable on the right. The stable looked empty and the trees looked heavy with overripe fruit.

There didn't seem to be a swimming pool.

I knocked at the back door. No answer.

The metallic rumble beyond the stable grew louder. I turned and watched as a motorcycle burst through the trees along a dirt path and shot toward me.

I stood motionless as it buzz-sawed forward at about sixty miles an hour, shot over a small ridge and took off into the air, hit the grass, and screeched to a halt about ten feet in front of me. Gable, dressed in dark slacks and a short-sleeved yellow pullover shirt, his hair wild, turned off the engine, kicked down the stand, got off the bike, and pulled a small rifle from the tooled-leather holster tied to the bike.

"Don't move," said Gable, cocking the rifle and aiming it at me.

"Look," I began, and took a step forward.

Gable raised his rifle and fired. The bullet whined past my left leg and I hopped away from it.

"Hey," I shouted. "It's me, Peters. I work for you, remember?"

Gable dropped the barrel of the rifle and smiled.

"That's one reason I want you alive," he said. "Look."

I looked where he was pointing, just behind me. On the stone patio, about three feet away, a headless rattlesnake was writhing.

"Hot weather brings 'em out," said Gable, rubbing his unruly hair back. "Sun themselves on the stone. You almost stepped on him."

"Thanks," I said.

"Let's go inside," he said, walking past me. "I'll get rid of our friend later."

He went to the back door, opened it with a key on a small ring, and went inside. I followed into a huge kitchen.

"Sandwiches hi the refrigerator. Made them this morn-big. Beer, whatever. Help yourself."

He pointed toward a steel door in the corner.

"Be right back," he said. "Set up whatever you find in the dining room, through that door."

I crossed the kitchen and opened the door to a walk-in refrigerator. I found a plate of sandwiches, cucumber, onion, ham with butter. White bread. There was plenty of beer. I went for a row of Pepsis at the rear of a shelf about eye level. I juggled the food past a kitchen table covered with a white oilcloth decorated with little red flowers, pushed through a double door, and placed the food on the dining-room table. I opened the Pepsi with an opener on my pocket knife and looked around.

The room was dark and big, with an open bar on one wall and a whitewashed brick fireplace on another. The walls were dark wood, as was the polished floor. There was an oval rug under the wooden table and another smaller rug under a round game table in the corner. The chairs were wood, no cushions. This was a man's room except for the built-in cabinets on the walls filled with pink plates. A chandelier over the large table was made of old oil lamps.

"Find what you need?" asked Gable, coming in with the rifle under one arm and a dark wooden box under the other.

I pointed at the food and he sat down across from me, laid down the rifle, and opened the box.

Over the sandwiches I told him what had happened the night before, after he had left the Mozambique. I also told him about Gunther and Mame.

"I know her," he said. "Skinny. Tough. Holds her own."

"That's Mame," I said. "We just wait here and…"

"I want you to tell the police that I hired you," he said, chewing on a mouthful of ham sandwich.

"If I have to," I said.

"You won't do me a hell of a lot of good in jail," Gable said.

"Thanks."

"So," he said, "we just sit here and wait till your friend and Mame find Cay-gee and Varney, if they do, and hope your poet pal figures out what the lunatic notes from a murderer might mean?"

"We can take a quick tour of the house," I said.

He cocked his head to one side and gave me a lopsided grin.

"You curious, or…"

"This is an easy house to get into," I said. "Maybe I'm a little curious."

"Suit yourself," Gable said, standing and picking up his rifle.

We moved to the south wall and he opened sliding doors and led me into the living room.

In contrast to the Irish-tavern feel of the dining room, the living room was warm and sunny, with wall-to-wall yellow-wool carpeting. Two big yellow sofas faced each other, with two green chairs flanking them, and a pair of identical upholstered red armchairs looking on. There were tables along the wall-wood, dark. The drapes were white and green with red flowers. Four large windows let in the light and looked out onto the front lawn. Across from the windows was an old cabinet, filled with a collection of china pitchers.

"This way," Gable said, moving past a high-mantled fireplace to a door he pushed open.

We stepped into Gable's gun room; one wall, maybe thirty feet long, was lined with rifles.

"Expecting an attack on Encino?" I asked.

"Not if I can help it," he said soberly, putting the rifle he had been holding into a rack.

There were lounge chairs and built-in couches in the room but no signs of unwelcome guests.

We marched through a powder room, a maid's room, and an office with yellow walls before making our way upstairs. Two bedrooms, no guest room.

"My suite," he said, pointing through an open door.

The carpet was clean and white.

The first room was brown and beige; the centerpiece was a double bed with a brown-leather headboard. The second room was a kind of study with a small bar and built-in bookcases.

"Desks against the wall," he said, pointing. "Antique, pine, a gift from Selznick, prop from Gone With the Wind."

The beige-marble bathroom was pretty fancy but it had no tub, just a shower in one corner.

We left the suite and when we stepped into the corridor, he pointed to a door and said with a sigh "Ma's suite."

He opened the door for me but didn't follow me inside Carole Lombard's bedroom. The room looked as if it had just been cleaned. It had the same carpeting as that in Gable's suite, but that's where the similarity ended. Her bed was a four-poster with a billowy cover. There were white throw rugs on the floor, and near the window stood a full-sized harp. The bathroom and mirrored dressing room were white marble with white fur on the floor and a crystal chandelier on the ceiling.

"House looks clean," I said, coming back into the corridor. Gable nodded and started down the stairs.

He led me back to the gun room, where he picked up the rifle he had recently fired, found some oil and rags and a cleaning box, and sat.

"Used to be rilled with life," he said. "Stray cats, dogs. People. You're sitting in Fred MacMurray's favorite chair. Man knew how to laugh. I wonder if he still does."

I kept my mouth shut.

"What now?" he said.

"We could listen to the radio," I suggested, nodding at a tabletop Philco.

He got up, turned it on, and we listened to "Big Sister" and "The Goldbergs." Solomon Goldberg was planning to join the army and Molly was taking the news with pathos and patriotism.

Gable didn't seem to listen. He was lost in getting the rifle as shiny as his spit-polished shoes.

"You married, Peters?" Gable asked finally as he closed his cleaning box.

"Not now," I said.

He nodded knowingly.

"Your fault? Hers? Nobody's?"

"Mine," I said. "Anne wanted me to grow up. I didn't want to."

"What happened to her?"

"Married again. Lost her husband. I keep trying to convince her that I can act my age, but she won't buy it."

"Should she?"

"No," I said.

"Had one happy year here, Peters," Gable said, looking around the gun room. "And then…"

The phone rang.

It was in the corner on an area table near the door. Gable walked over and picked it up on the third ring.

"Yes… who is this?… no, we haven't figured… how did you get this number?"

I was out of my chair and standing in front of Gable, whose eyes met mine.

"Him?" I mouthed.

Gable confirmed with a nod as he listened. I held out my hand for the phone. Gable handed it to me.

"… your idea that she fly, your idea that she go across the country selling stamps and bonds. You killed your own wife as surely as you killed… are you listening, hero?"

"I'm listening," I said.

"Peters. I want Gable back."

Gable stood, hands at his sides, serious eyes searching my face.

"Why?"

"Because I want him to suffer the way he made my father suffer before he died."

"I hate to repeat myself here but why do you want him to suffer? What do you think he did?"

"Killed my father," the man said. "Took away his only chance at recognition. He'll pay, Peters. And so will you and everyone who was there when…"

"When?…"

"What you want to know doesn't mean crap to me, Peters. Since you're out in Encino, I guess you haven't figured out my directions to the next victim."

"I'm working on it," I said.

"I'm going to hang up now, and go kill K.G. You aren't too bright, Peters."

"No," I admitted. "But I don't give up. I never give up. So, hang up, don't hang up, call again, or keep your mouth shut. Sometime I'll tap you on the shoulder and make a hole in your face when you turn around."

"Good-bye, Peters," he said and broke the connection.

I handed the phone to Gable, who hung it up.

"You know what I think," said Gable, folding his arms. "I think he's a fan of my dead wife, that he blames me for her death and…"

"He said you killed his father," I interrupted.

"His father? Who the hell is his father?"

I shrugged and the phone rang again. This time I picked it up.

"Yes," I said.

"Toby," said Gunther. "There are seven people with the initials K.G. who worked on Gone With the Wind in some capacity. Miss Stoltz has been very helpful in tracking them down quickly. Two of the people are now in the armed services, stationed in the South Pacific. Three are definitely out of the state of California. One is working in a play now in Cleveland. Another is in New York City. The fifth is a Negro woman named Kate Greenway who seems to be impossible to find, though word has it that she has returned to her family in Mississippi. This leaves Karen Gilmore, an extra, and Karl Albert Gouda, also an extra."

"You know where these people are, Gilmore and Gouda?"

"I have addresses and phone numbers for both," Gunther said.

I pulled out my notebook and took the information.

"On the other question, I am afraid I have found little. Lionel Varney was on the payroll. No home address. Access to security files for Selznick International was made possible by Miss Stoltz. But there appears to be no record of the mishap in 1938. It seems there was a fire…"

"And security records were destroyed. Good work, Gun-ther," I said.

"Miss Stoltz is a remarkable woman," Gunther said.

"You can go home now, Gunther. Thanks."

"I made a complimentary remark concerning Miss Stoltz," Gunther said.

"I heard."

"I would like to take the liberty of inviting Miss Stoltz to dinner," he said.

"Invite away," I said as Gable grew clearly impatient.

"I have a sense, however, that she harbors certain feelings, expectations related to you," he said.

"Steal her from me, Gunther. With my blessing."

"You don't think it would be disloyal to Gwen if I simply…"

"No," I said. "I've got to try to prevent a murder, Gunther."

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

I said good-bye and hung up.

"Two possibles," I said to Gable, placing another call as I laid my open notebook in front of me on the table.

"I'll take one of them," Gable said, holding out his hand. "You can't be in two places at once."

I held up a finger as Alice PaJlis answered on the second ring.

'Toby," I said. "Is Jeremy there?"

"It's creation tune," Alice said seriously.

Creation time took place in the afternoon. Jeremy sat quietly for about two hours waiting to be kicked in the imagination by a muse. She showed up about once a week to torture him.

"Okay," I said. "When creation time is over, will you ask him to come to this address."

I gave her Gable's address hi Encino.

"And what does he do when he gets there?" Alice asked.

"He keeps Clark Gable from getting hurt," I said.

There was a long silence on Alice's end. In the background I could hear Natasha, her baby, cooing at something.

"He is not a young man, Toby. We've talked about this."

"Last tune, Alice. I promise."

"I don't believe you, Toby," she said. "But… it's really Clark Gable?"

I held out the phone for Gable.

"I don't need a bodyguard," he said. "I don't want a bodyguard. I won't have a bodyguard."

"The man needs a sense of self-worth," I said. "He's a fan. Humor me."

Gable shrugged and took the phone.

"Madame," he said. "This is Clark Gable. I would very much appreciate your husband's help for a brief period. I'm confident that there is no danger here."

Gable was silent for an instant and then closed his eyes.

"I love you Scarlett and by heaven you're going to learn to love me," he said and then listened to Alice for an instant before adding, "You're welcome. Good-bye."

He hung up the phone and looked at it for a beat or two before turning to me again.

"I hope you know what you're doing," he said.

'Trust me," I said, and then I called the Wilshire police station in Los Angeles and talked to Captain Phil Pevsner, my brother. After that I called Selznick International and asked for Wally Hospodar. Wally, I was told, had retired and lived in Calabasas. The man who took my call gave me Wally's phone number when I convinced him Wally and I were old friends. I hung up and tried Wally's number. A woman answered after five rings. I told her I was looking for Wally. She said she'd get the message to him if he called and he'd probably call back.

When I finished the call, Gable showed me the way out of the house. "I don't like just sitting here, Peters," he said, opening the front door for me.

"I'll call," I said. "I promise. Second I know anything. I'll call."

"Oh, the hell with it," he said with a sigh and closed the door on my back.

By breaking speed laws in Van Nuys and Beverly Hills, I got to the address I had for Karl Albert Gouda in thirty-two minutes. It was a store, a lamp store on Olympic, not far from the Santa Monica airport.

I was drenched in sweat when I found a parking spot almost half a block away and ran back. The door to the lamp shop was locked and a sign in the window read; "Away for a few minutes. Back soon."

I stood waiting, pulling my shirt from my skin, looking both ways down the street for a madman with a gun or spear. Soon was definitely not ten minutes. I have a reasonably good sense of the passage of time, no thanks to my watch. No business had been lost by Karl Albert Gouda in his absence. I was the only potential customer.

I knocked at the door. It rattled. No answer. Something or someone moved deep inside the cavern of a store. I knocked again. Through the window I watched a man hi a baggy suit stride from the shadows, past the lamps, and to the door. He was a squat man with bad skin. He had a head of white hair and a look of annoyance on his face.

"What you wan'?" he asked. "We're closed. Can't you read or something?'' "Karl Albert Gouda," I said loudly. "I've got to see him."

"Why?"

"YouGouda?"

"No," the squat man said. "Go away."

"Someone's going to try to kill nun in a minute or two."

This got his attention.

"What are you talkin'?"

"He was in Gone With the Wind," I tried.

"So?"

"So, someone is killing people who worked on Gone With the Wind."

"Get out of here," the squat man said, turning his back and starting to walk away.

"I'm telling the truth," I shouted, rattling the door again.

"Shut up," the squat man said, turning to me again. "You'll call attention. This is a business. What's the matter with you?"

"Let me in," I said.

The squat man held up a hand and said, "Wait One second. Okay?"

I waited while he disappeared hi the depths of the lamp shop. I watched the cars coming past till he returned and opened the door.

"Come on," he said wearily.

He closed the door behind me when I was inside and then hurried back into the depths of the shop without waiting to see if I could keep up with him. He made a strange clanging sound like the Tin Woodsman as he led the way to a door, opened it, and stepped back so I could enter in front of him.

The room was a warehouse, big, with crates and cardboard boxes piled to the ceiling.

"Wait here," the squat man said and left.

I was standing next to an old floor lamp with a green-glass shade. I pulled the chain and the light went on, illuminating the shade. Dark trees, leafless trees with branches like claws, were painted on the underside of the green glass. From a branch of one of the trees a man was dangling, a noose around his neck.

"You like it?" a voice came, waking me from a dream of Universal Studio monsters.

"Fascinating," I said, looking up at a husky man with a satisfied smile on his face.

The man was somewhere in his forties, good teeth, recently barbered straight brown hair. He wore a pair of brown slacks with dark suspenders over a white shirt and brown bow tie.

"Real art," he said. "Gal over in Burbank makes them. She's maybe eighty years old. Can you believe it? All her own inspiration. She did eighteen years hard time some place back east. Manslaughter. I think it was her brother. Something. Kansas. Ohio. Who knows? One of those places."

"Fascinating," I said.

"You said that already."

"Sorry."

His hands were folded in front of him just below his belly and he was rocking gently on his heels. Behind him the squat man with the white hair and bad complexion stood watching me.

"I don't make a dime on her stuff," the man in suspenders said. "Do I make a dime, Tools?"

"Not one dime, Karl," Tools said flatly.

"Do I care, Tools?"

"Not so's I ever noticed," said Tools.

Karl Gouda took a step toward me and whispered, "I got a passion for art, you see. It's been said my taste runs a little to the morbid. But, I say, who gives a shit? You take it where it goes. You Mormon or something?"

"I'm something, but not a Mormon," I said, looking at the duo facing me.

"If you were, I'd apologize for saying 'shit,' but since you're not, I don't see any need to apologize. You see a need to apologize?"

"No," I said.

"So, what's this shit about someone wanting to kill me?" Gouda said, a look of distaste on his face.

"Charles Larkin, Al Ramone, both extras in Gone With the Wind, were murdered in the last three days," I said. "The killer sent a note saying that the next victim would be K.G. and then Lionel Varney. K.G. Your initials."

"And half the county of Los Angeles," Gouda said impatiently.

"But only a few people who worked on Gone With the Wind." 1 pulled the photograph of Ramone and the soldiers saying hi to Vivien Leigh from my pocket and handed it to him. Gouda looked at the picture.

"Ramone's the one circled in red," I said. "You're all on this nut's list."

"That's me," Gouda said with a sigh, pointing to the photograph.

"And Varney?"

"Don't remember any names," he said. "We were together maybe eight, ten hours. I remember the guy who fell on the sword. This one."

He handed the photograph to me, tapping one of the stubble-covered faces.

"I think we should talk," I said.

"Come with me," Gouda said, reaching over to put a heavy hand on my shoulder.

I moved forward and he guided me toward the back of the store. Tools trailed us, shuffling past rows of lamps. Occasionally, for no reason and with no pattern I could see, Gouda paused to turn a lamp on or off. He talked softly as we walked.

"As you can see, Tiffany is my obsession," he said. "Real Tiffany or really creative stained glass, any period. Delicate, soulful."

He paused to touch the purple-glass shade of a nearby lamp and I staggered to a halt.

"Touch it," he said.

I reached out and touched it.

"Texture," he said intimately. "That's the secret of fine glass, texture."

"Gone With the Wind," I reminded him.

"Not if they're properly cared for," he said.

We were moving again, toward the shadows and a partially open door.

"You're an actor," I said.

"I'm what you call an entrepreneur," he countered. "Right, Tools?"

"Hundred percent," came Tools's voice.

We went through the open door. We were in a familiar room, an old room.

"You recognize it?" Gouda asked as Tools closed the door behind us. "Furniture, drapes?"

"I don't…"

"Study," he said. "Old O'Hara's study in Gone With the Wind. Tara. Not copies. The real stuff. The McCoy. Saturday there's going to be a reunion of some of the cast and crew of the movie. Right on the Selznick lot, in front of the Tara exterior. I understand there are still some pieces left, furniture, paintings. We get first crack at buying it. You working for DeGeorgio or Baumholtz, trying to scare me off of being there to pick up what's left, tell them I'll see them on Saturday. You know what I'm saying here?"

He let go of my shoulder and moved to the wooden chair at the ancient-looking desk and motioned toward an embroidered, rickety-legged armchair. I looked at the door behind me. Tools was leaning against it.

"I'm not gonna ask you why anyone would want to kill me," Gouda said, running an open palm over the surface of the desk. "Truth is, I confess, there are guys who are not well inclined toward me. Women too. A couple or so. Business rivals, DeGeorgio, Baumholtz, and such like. I've got various holdings and interests, right, Tools?"

"A wide variety of interests," Tools agreed.

"Diversification," Gouda said, watching me. "Sit down."

I sat.

"Now," Gouda said. "I'm saying what I'm gonna say because (a) it's true, and (b) I want you impressed. I used to be engaged in contract work for legitimate businesses, corporations, even a union here and there in Detroit, Cleveland, Akron. When they needed people to be reasonable, I used to talk to them, me and Tools and some part-time help. I would talk and they would be reasonable. But I'm more interested in art now, Gothic art. I mention that I have a passion for beauty?"

"Something like that," I said.

"I say it, Tools?"

"Absolutely," Tools agreed.!

"And do I have a certain sensitivity for character?"

"Absolutely," Tools agreed. "Very sensitive."

"Could you and me have made it so long through life if I couldn't read through a man or woman who came to me and said the moon is made of shit painted white?"

"Never," said Tools emphatically.

"You," said Gouda, pointing at me, "are telling me shit is white."

"Someone plans to kill you or a woman named Gilmore," I said.

"You said." Gouda sighed. "Who the hell are you?"

"Toby Peters," I said, moving my head to be sure Tools was still leaning against the door.

"You a crackpot?" asked Gouda.

"No," I said.

"You a crackpot?" Tools repeated.

"I'm a private investigator," I said.

"You know anybody named Markowitz, Gamble, With-erspoon," Gouda said, picking up a small porcelain doll.

"Lerner, Romano, Hansen, Arango," Tools went on.

"Any of them send you here with this load of crap?" asked Gouda. "Not that I expect an easy answer."

"Karl," I said with my best smile.

"Mr. Gouda," Tools corrected.

"Mr. Gouda," I amended. "I'm just…"

"And some have said I am unjust," he chimed hi with a satisfied smile aimed at me and Tools. I couldn't see Tools's reaction. If it wasn't an old favorite of Gouda's, I was sure it went a few miles over Tools.

"Fine," I said, standing up. "I come here maybe to save your life and you play Little Caesar. You're on your own."

Tools was still leaning against the door. I took a step toward him.

"I don't like a guy coming here and telling me someone wants me dead," Gouda said. "It offends me. It makes me think something is going on."

I kept moving toward the door.

"Question, Peters," Gouda said behind me. "How do you think Mr. Nathanson got his nickname?"

I didn't answer.

"Answer," said Gouda and Tools opened his baggy jacket to reveal a holster.

I stopped.

The holster had four pockets. I could see a claw hammer hi one pocket and something metal in the other three. Tools was well armed for minor house repairs but I didn't think he could stop me unless he came up with something that fired bulle'ts. He was older than me, a roly-poly barrel.

"Out of the way, Mr. Nathanson," I said.

"Tools sparred with Joe Louis," said Gouda. "When Louis was tuning up for Tony Galento. Tools was a better fighter than Galento. Nothing hurts Tools. That right, Tools?"

"Nothing hurts Tools," Tools agreed, removing an oversized pair of pliers from his holster. "But…"

He didn't have to finish.

"No one sent me," I said, turning back to Gouda.

"I'll believe it when Tools has chatted with you a while," he said. "I didn't get to be the most sensitive dealer in Tiffany lamps this side of St. Louis by being incautious."

A buzz. From under Gouda's desk.

"I get it?" asked Tools.

"I get it," said Gouda, rising from the desk and adjusting his tie. "You have a little talk with Mr. Peters and see if maybe he remembers Lerner, DeGeorgio, or Arango."

Gouda moved past me toward the door.

"Where you going?" I asked.

"Customer," he said.

Tools moved away from the door toward me.

"Don't go," I said. "It might be…"

Gouda waved his hand at me and went through the door, closing it behind him.

"Tools," I said. "Your boss…"

"Karl's not my boss," Tools said, clicking the pliers together like castanets. "We're partners. He's got a passion for lamps with scary stuff, and I got a passion for tools and confession. I was a Catholic when I was a kid."

I backed away toward the desk, looking for a tool of my own.

"What are you now?"

"Bored," he said. "I was happier back east."

There was no way out but through Tools Nathanson. He could see me thinking. Tools shook his head no. I didn't have a choice even if I did have a rotating ball in my stomach that told me the man in front of me was too confident to be bluffing.

I was saved by the gun.

Karl Albert Gouda wasn't.

The shots were close together. Two of them. Tools blinked and turned. He had the door open and was running into the shop before I had taken my first step after him. The fat little son of a gun could move like a welterweight.

By the time I got to the front of the store where Tools was leaning over Karl Gouda near the open front door, I knew I had another victim for the list. I jumped over Gouda and went out the door. A car was going by. Cars were at the curb. A few people were walking across the street. No one was running. I went back inside. Tools was touching Gouda's cheek.

"Karl?" Tools whispered. "You okay? You dead?"

Tools looked up at me. I looked down at Gouda. His chest was covered in blood.

"He's dead," I said. "I warned him. I warned you."

"Like so much shit I'm dead," Gouda said, opening his eyes. His voice was hollow and weak, but he wasn't dead.

Tools was smiling and crying. Gouda tried to sit up.

"Goddamn kid," Gouda said with a cough as Tools, holster clanging, helped him to a sitting position. "Walked in, took two shots. One, two."

And then panic came into his face. He looked around the shop frantically.

"Take it easy, Karl," Tools soothed.

"The lamps," Gouda said. "He get my lamps. I'll rip his heart out."

"I don't think he got any lamps," I said.

"Thank God," said Gouda with a grimace of pain as Tools helped him take off his bloody suspenders, tie, and shirt.

A metal plate gleamed against the fallen man's chest. Tools removed it carefully and Gouda bit his lower lip to keep from screaming.

"Two holes," said Tools. "One made it all the way through. Other looks like it just broke the skin, maybe a rib. What you think, Karl?"

"A rib, definitely a rib," Gouda agreed. Then he looked up at me. 'Tools made this. I told you. Some people don't appreciate the work we did in Detroit"

"… and Kansas City," said Tools. "You want I should get the bullet out, Karl? It's sticking out."

Gouda nodded, looking up at me.

Tools pulled his pliers from his holster and went for the bullet sticking out of Gouda's chest.

"He'll give you blood poisoning," I said.

"My tools are sterile," Tools said, turning on me angrily.

"Sorry," I said.

Tools moved quickly, clamped down on the protruding bullet, looked at Gouda who nodded, and then pulled. Gouda gasped and the bullet flew into the air, crashing into the green-glass lamp with the hanging tree. Gouda closed his eyes and Tools's mouth opened in horror.

I moved to the lamp.

"A little crack," I said.

"I'll find him," said Gouda softly. "I'll find the little shit and…"

"What did he look like?" I asked, moving to help Tools get his partner to his feet.

"Like a dead shit," Gouda said. "Why'd you say he was tryin' to kill me?"

"Something to do with Gone With the Wind," I said, helping Gouda to a chair near the wall.

Someone came through the door. I turned my head, ready for bullets.

"You have table lamps?" a well-dressed woman said, looking at us curiously.

"I have a bullet in my chest," said Gouda.

The woman looked at me and then at Tools. I don't think she liked what she saw. She turned and left.

"I'll get something to fix you up, Karl," said Tools, touching his partner's shoulder.

"Yeah," said Gouda.

Tools clanked back toward the O'Hara office and I asked again, "What did he look like?"

"A man with no goddamn sensitivity," he said through gritting teeth. "Maybe thirty, not heavy. Losing his hair in front. Dark eyes. Jacket, wearing a jacket with something written on the pocket. I won't forget him."

"Can you take a suggestion?" I asked.

He looked up at me without answering.

"Stay dead for a while. Go on vacation. I'll find the guy. You come back."

"We don't work mat way, Peters," he said. "Word gets out Karl Gouda runs and I might as well put a 'shoot me' ad in the LA. Times."

Tools was clanking back like a belled cat. He was carrying a cardboard box. I walked over to the door and closed it. Tools opened the box, pulled out bandages and bottles, removed shears from his belt, and started ministering to his fallen partner.

"I'm going," I said.

"Go," said Gouda, holding up his arms so Tools could wrap the bandage around him. "But we know your name. We can find you."

"We can find you," Tools agreed.

I was about to answer when the plate-glass window shattered a few feet from my head. Lamps and shades exploded as bullets tore through the shop. I hit the floor and cut my chin on broken green glass. Gouda groaned. I lifted my head and saw Tools trying to protect his partner with his own body, but it was too late. There was a hole in Gouda's face.

"He looks more like Swiss than Gouda," came a voice from the sidewalk.

I rolled over, and through the smashed window my eyes met those of the man on the sidewalk. I had seen him about an hour earlier, sitting hi Shelly Minck's dental chair. He aimed his pistol at me and was about to pull the trigger when an animal yowled across the street and Tools, clanking and crushing glass underfoot, charged past me.

I got to my feet, cutting my palms on broken glass, as the young man hi the jacket took off down the street and Tools Nathanson took off after him. The man with the gun was at least twenty years younger and wasn't carrying fifteen or twenty pounds of tools.

When I got to the sidewalk, people were starting to move cautiously toward the shop. Not many of them yet. I looked down the street and saw Tools collapsed on his knees about a block away. The killer was nowhere in sight.

I looked back at Gouda. This time he was definitely dead.