Tomorrow Is Another day

Chapter 7

Traffic bustled on Wilshire beyond the open window of Captain Philip Pevsner's office. I sat in the chair opposite Phil's desk and watched him sharpen a pair of pencils, lay out a pad of paper, and rearrange the photographs of his wife, Ruth, my two nephews, Nate and Dave, and my niece, Lucy.

There are some who say my brother and I look alike. And there are others who have better vision or tell the truth. Phil is five years older than I am, a bear with short white hair, hair that had been white since Phil returned from the Great War twenty-five years earlier. We're the same height but bis eyes are pale gray and mine are dark brown. He looked like a filled-out version of our father, who had died a few years after Phil came back from France. I looked like the photographs of our mother, who had died when I was bom, a fact that Jeremy Butler thought accounted for the lifetime of love-hate, war-peace between us. Phil's tie was open. His eyes were blank and his lips pursed.

"Ruth is doing fine," he said, rolling one of his nice sharp pencils between his palms and looking at me.

I nodded. My sister-in-law, all ninety pounds of her, had come close to dying about a month earlier. The prospect of being alone with three kids all under the age of thirteen must have scared even Phil, and the prospect of being without Ruth, who seemed to understand him, was probably more than he could have handled.

Phil had lived the life of a cop on the verge of a breakdown for two decades. Phil hated criminals, personally. He had been promoted twice, demoted twice; each time, up or down, because he had lost his temper and a suspect had lost teeth or bones. I knew that temper. It was responsible for my flat nose and my looking like a retired and slightly overweight middleweight.

"Kids?" I asked.

"Boys are fine. Lucy's learning to swim."

"Great," I said. "Where's Steve?"

Steve was the thin ghost of a partner my brother haunted the streets of Los Angeles with.

"Vacation," Phil said.

"Where?"

"Seattle, with his sister and mother."

"Great," I said.

"What happened to you?" he asked.

"Happened?"

Phil pointed at my head and hands. There was a Band-aid on my forehead and another on my left palm. The one on my palm wouldn't stick,

"Cut myself on some broken window glass," I said.

Phil nodded, sat back, looked at the sharp point of the pencil in his hand, and took a deep breath.

"We through with crap and Shinola?" he asked.

I shrugged.

"I'm going to say this calmly, Tobias," he said. "I'm going to say this calmly for three reasons. You want to hear my three reasons?"

"Very much," I said, giving him my full attention.

"First, my blood pressure is up. Like dad's. Remember how he used to get so excited when he argued with Hal Graham? They could argue about whether cranberries were fruits or vegetables. Dad's veins used to pop out on his forehead. His cheeks went red. Sound like someone you know?"

It sounded like Phil Pevsner.

"It killed Dad," said Phil. "It would be a bad joke by the devil if I fell down dead when Ruth was recovering. You know how old Dad was when he died?"

"About…" I started, but Phil overlapped me.

"Just the age I am now."

I wasn't sure, but I nodded knowingly.

"Second, I lose perspective when I get excited. I get more interested hi smashing than listening. And, I'll admit, sometimes I miss important things."

I was attentive.

Third, I owe you. When Ruth was in the hospital and you got Bette Davis to see her, Ruth started to get better, to fight her way back. So, you've got my reasons. Now, answer some questions."

"Right," I said.

"Lane Price says you claimed Sheldon Minck hired you to collect an overdue bill from a guy who was murdered in Glendale last night. Lane, as we both know, is a lazy slob, a politician, but he's not deaf. He wants you."

"He was ready to rehire me and make me his right hand yesterday," I said.

"That was before you lied about Minck," said Phil. "Talk. Keep me calm, Tobias. I've got things on my mind. My wife, my family, my job. And I've been wondering where the hell President Roosevelt is. Hasn't been a word hi the papers or on the news about him in a week."

"I don't know, Phil," I said.

"But there are some questions you can answer. This is the easiest question I'm going to ask you. The-next few are really tough. See if you can answer the question without my asking it."

A hom squawked on Wilshire. Somebody laughed. A car went by playing a song I couldn't quite make out.

"I was protecting my client. He thought Ramone was hi danger. A guy named Charles Larkin was killed last week. My client thought the killer might go after Ramone."

"Why?" asked Phil, reasonably.

"They were both extras hi Gone With the Wind," I explained. "So was Gouda."

"The one in the lamp store," Phil said. "An extra?"

"The one in the lamp store. An extra. And there's another one, Lionel Varney, another extra. I gave you his name when I called and…"

"Someone plans to kill every extra in Gone With the Wind?" Phil asked.

"Not every extra," I said. "Just the ones who were around the campfire when a fellow thespian got killed."

"That's good. By the time he got done with every extra, the body count would be bigger than Bataan. And this Karen Gilmore you sent me running out to check on. She was in Gone With the Wind too?"

"Right," I said.

"But why did you pick her?"

"Initials," I explained. "K.G. The killer said he was going to get K.G. next."

The killer?"

"Spelling," I said. "The killer is spelling."

And then it hit me. It didn't hit Phil. The killer was Spelling.

"What?" Phil asked.

"What?" I said.

"You just had an idea," said Phil, putting down the pencil.

"No," I said. "Just remembered something I forgot to do. Did you find Varney?"

"There's a Lionel Varney registered at the Carolina Hotel on Sunset. An actor. Been in town for a few days. How would you describe my attitude, Tobias? Right now. Calm?"

"Remarkably calm," I agreed.

There was a knock at the door behind me. The door opened.

"Captain," came a voice.

Something sailed past my head and crashed into the door as it closed.

"I told you to leave me alone till I came out," Phil shouted. Then he turned to me.

"Phil," I said calmly.

"I'm fine," he said, pointing a pencil at me. "Stopped drinking coffee. I'm eating cucumber-and-tomato sandwiches for lunch. Who's your client?"

"Phil, how many times do we have to go over this? I can't tell you my client's name without his or her permission."

"Where does it say that in any law book, any city, county, or state statute?" Phil said, placing his hands fiat on his desk.

"I think your blood pressure is going up, Phil," I said softly, wondering if I should make a break for the door.

"Where does it say it, Toby?" he said evenly.

"Law of the Jungle. Code of the West. A Man's Gotta Do. Come on, Phil. What have I got to sell but a hard head and a closed mouth? My client didn't kill anybody. You know I didn't kill anybody."

"The chief of police of Glendale wants you on a possible homicide or withholding evidence," said Phil, standing up and turning his back on me.

Phil's hands were knotted behind his back.

"Between you and me, strictly off the record?" I asked.

"I can't do that," Phil said, with a distinct pause between each word.

"You can, Phil. You just don't want to."

He turned suddenly like a wild bear, face red, teeth clenched. I jumped out of my chair and moved back toward the door. Phil closed his eyes, took a deep breath. His face returned to its normal color.

"Off the record," Phil said.

"Clark Gable."

I was standing behind the chair now.

"Clark Gable?"

"Yes."

"Gable's in England," said Phil, loosening his tie even more and glaring at me.

"No, he's back for a few days. No one knows. He's at his house in Encino. Jeremy Butler's with him. I've got the number. I think someone may want to kill him. Spelling, the guy who shot Gouda."

"Why?" Phil asked. "Why does this guy Spelling want to kill Clark Gable?"

"I don't know," I said. "Give me a few days and maybe I'll find out."

"And maybe more people will be murdered."

"Can you protect everyone who worked on Gone With the WindT' "Friday," said Phil, sitting at his desk. "You got till Friday."

"Thanks, Phil," I said.

His eyes were closed now.

"Phil?"

"I'm meditating," he said.

"Medi-?"

"Just close the goddamn door and get the hell out of here. Friday you come with answers or I find you, manacle you, and personally drag you to Glendale."

I didn't say thanks. I didn't say anything. I opened the door and left. I took a cab back to Gouda's lamp store. A crew of men and women in overalls were sweeping up glass and boarding up windows.

Tools Nathanson was standing in front on the sidewalk, a blank look on his face, a hammer in his hand, watching the crew sweep away his partner's passion.

I got in my Crosley and headed for the Farraday Building.