High Midnight: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Six) (3 page)

“Ah, Toby,” he said with reserved enthusiasm. “I have a query for you.”

“Join me in my room for an early dinner,” I said. “Cold cuts.” I showed him the bag.

“Yes,” he said. “Let me clean up first.”

Gunther dirty was more clean than I would be after going through a car wash without a car. I went to my room. I had learned to appreciate the room, which was nothing like me. There was one old sofa with doilies on the arms, which I was afraid to touch, a table with three chairs, a hot plate in the corner, a sink, a small refrigerator, a few dishes and a bed with a purple blanket on which “God Bless Us Every One” had been stitched in pink by Mrs. Plaut, a painting of Abraham Lincoln and a Beech-nut gum clock on my wall received in payment from a pawnshop owner for finding his runaway grandmother. Every night I took the mattress from the bed and put it on the floor. I slept there because of a delicate back crunched in 1938 by a gentleman of the Negro persuasion, who took exception to my trying to keep him away from Mickey Rooney when I was picking up a few dollars as a guard at a premiere at Grauman’s Chinese.

I took off my jacket, shoes and tie and dumped the cold cuts into a bowl. I pulled out some leftover hard rolls and a bottle of ketchup and was trying to get a dark spot off of one of my plates when Gunther came in carrying a bottle of Cresta Blanca wine and two glasses.

He put the wine on the table, examined the cold cuts, trying to hide a critical look, and made a sandwich. We drank wine and ate.

I told Gunther my adventure and asked what he thought of the food.

“While I appreciate your hospitality, Toby, I think Mr. Lombardi’s cuisine could be improved.”

We ate for a while longer—at least I did. Gunther finished only half a sandwich and then told me his own problem.

“I am translating what I take to be a humorous American story for an overseas broadcast. And in that story is a comic demolition company named Edifice Wrecks. I assume that is a waggish reference to Oedipus Rex. However, the joke does not translate well into Polish, and I am not adept at humor.”

I could confirm that. Gunther had sat in polite amusement on several nights while I giggled at Al Pearce or Burns and Allen. I couldn’t help Gunther with his problem, and he couldn’t help me with mine.

“It’s Gary Cooper,” I said, finishing my third sandwich and downing the last of the small bottle of wine. “I know it. Something … Hold it. About a month ago I had a message to call Gary Cooper. Then the next day a call came canceling the message. I thought it was a joke. What if …”

“Someone got to Cooper saying he was you and then called telling you to cancel your call,” Gunther finished.

“Right,” I said. “Someone beat me out of the job.”

“There could be many other explanations,” said Gunther reasonably.

“Sure, but remember it’s a doggie dog world out there,” I said.

Gunther looked puzzled.

“I think I’ll get on it right away.”

Gunther volunteered to clean up. I had learned to let him. He didn’t like the way I cleaned up. I didn’t either.

If someone was playing Toby Peters, he had started something that could lose me a right hand. I had to deal myself in or sit around waiting for Lombardi to come and deal me out.

The first step was to find Cooper. I pulled some nickels out of my pocket and went to the pay phone in the hall. Below me I could hear Mrs. Plaut singing “I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good.” She had all the words screwed up, but the melody was close.

A guy I know, a writer at
Variety
who used to do publicity at Warner Brothers, told me that Cooper was making a baseball picture for Goldwyn. He didn’t know how far they were on shooting. He also said in passing that Cooper was a shoo-in for the Academy Award for
Sergeant York.
I hadn’t asked him. After saying good-bye to Gunther, using the washroom down the hall and readjusting my tie, I went out in search of Gary Cooper.

CHAPTER TWO

F
inding Cooper wasn’t hard. Getting to him was the problem. I went to Goldwyn Studios, where I had no contacts. After I said I had an appointment with Cooper, I was told that he was on location. The guy at the gate made a phone call to the location, gave my name and after five minutes got the go-ahead from Cooper for me to come. The gate guard gave me an address in Los Angeles, and I headed for it.

Kate Smith had gotten through “Rose O’Day” on the radio when I turned the corner and parked next to an old ball park. I remembered going to a boxing match in the place when I was a kid. My old man, who never punched anyone in his life, dearly loved watching grown men go after each other in a fifteen-foot square.

I could hear voices inside the park; not the voices of crowds, but the tired voices of men at the end of a workday. A guard at the gate asked who I was and let me through. The sun was about to give up and call it a day after elbowing at the clouds without much success. The rain had stopped, but the air had a cold bite.

I walked into the stadium and saw two men out on the baseball field near first base. One was tall and lanky; the other looked chunky and older. Both of them wore baseball uniforms. I took a step toward them from behind the backstop, and a figure blocked my way.

“Where you headin’, son?” came a voice I recognized but couldn’t place.

“I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Cooper,” I explained, looking up at the man before me. For a second I had the feeling that I was dreaming. I had to be. Dressed in full Yankee uniform and barring my way was Babe Ruth. The face was a little weathered and sagging, the belly a little lower than in the newsreels, the legs a bit thinner, but Babe Ruth. My mouth must have flapped open.

It stayed open when three more Yankees appeared behind Ruth. I recognized Bill Dickey by his face and Bob Meusel and Mark Koenig by their numbers.

“Why do you want to see Coop?” Dickey asked.

“I’m working for him,” I explained.

Ruth nodded, and Koenig walked toward the lanky and squat guys on first base.

“Have a seat,” Ruth commanded, and I sat in the first row of wooden benches. Ruth eased himself next to me, and Dickey sat on the other side. Meusel stood back a few feet, looking at me.

The question must have been on my face.

“We’re making a movie,” Ruth explained. “The life of Lou Gehrig. Coop is Gehrig. Lot of people been trying to get in here. They find out, pester, you know.” I nodded, showing that I knew. “Some of them get unpleasant. You’re not going to get unpleasant?”

“I’m not planning to be unpleasant,” I said. Koenig was about fifty feet off, talking to Cooper and pointing in my direction.

“We’re not shooting anything today, just getting some publicity shots and helping Lefty teach Coop how to throw a baseball,” explained Dickey.

“How to throw a baseball?” I asked.

“He can’t throw,” said Ruth. “Arm’s been busted up from falls when he was a stunt man. Never played ball when he was a kid anyway.” Ruth looked around the park and down at me. His broad face and pushed-back nose were tired reminders of what he had been.

“A few years ago after a day in the ball park I’d go out and lay one on,” Ruth sighed. “Chicago, Boston, they have the best joints, even better than New York. Remember, Bill?”

“That was your game, Babe,” Dickey said with a smile. His round, strong face and short blond hair under his Yankee cap made him look ready to run out on the field.

“Stomach,” explained Ruth, pointing to his sagging paunch under the Yankee stripes. “Gone bad on me after all I did for it, all the good times I gave it, all the gals who admired it. Is that fair, I ask you?” Ruth winked at Dickey, who smiled politely. Koenig meanwhile was walking slowly back to us. He moved past Meusel and stood over me. I tried to rise, but he put a hand on my shoulder.

“Coop says this isn’t Peters,” he said.

I was about to be murdered by Murderer’s Row.

“It’s a mistake,” I said, trying to stand again. Dickey caught my arm and pulled me down.

“Yours,” said Ruth, who gripped my arm, but there was nothing much in the grip. “You think we can throw him over the fence? Can’t be more than fifteen feet high. Hell, five years back I could have done it on my own.”

“A mistake,” I croaked as the quartet lifted me up.

They carried me toward the entrance, and I shouted over my shoulder toward Cooper. “Mr. Cooper—the threats—I know what’s going on.”

I didn’t know what was going on, but I wanted to make some contact with Cooper, to explain and get some answers. I dragged my feet, but the former Yankees had no trouble with me. Then, just as we hit the turnstyle, a voice behind us said, “Hold on a second.”

We stopped, and I planted my feet and turned around to face Cooper and the squat man. Cooper was as big as I expected, but the touch of youthful enthusiasm he had on the screen was absent from the man. He definitely looked too old to be wearing the uniform.

“You say you were Peters or
from
Peters?” Cooper asked, pointing a long finger at me. His light eyes were unblinking.

“You’ve been conned, Mr. Cooper,” I said rapidly. “I’m the real Peters, and I can prove it. Someone has been pretending to be me, but I know about the case. Give me a minute to prove it.”

Cooper looked at me uncertainly and bit his lower lip. He looked at the Yankees for advice, but they had none to give. Ruth’s stomach grumbled next to me, and everyone waited for Cooper to decide.

“Let him go, fellas, I’ll give him a minute.”

They let me go, and Ruth said, “You sure? You want us to stick around?”

“No,” grinned Cooper, “Lefty and I can handle things here, can’t we?”

“Right,” said Lefty sourly.

“Keep what’s left of your nose clean,” Ruth told me.

“Hold it a second,” I told him.

Ruth stopped, surprised.

“Can I get autographs?” I pulled a pencil and my ratty notebook out of my pocket and thrust it at him.

Ruth took them and laughed.

“You got a nerve, kid,” he said and passed around the notebook for the other Yankees. I got the notebook back, and Ruth touched his cap in farewell to Cooper. I watched the four Yankees disappear under the stands, Ruth walking a little slower than the rest.

“Now talk, mister, and make it quick,” said Cooper.

What I wanted to do was ask Cooper why the letters and number on his Yankee uniform were backward, but what I did was talk fast.

“Some time, maybe three weeks, four weeks ago, you called my office, asked me to call you back. I got a message the next day telling me to forget it. I’d guess someone got in touch with you, said he was Peters and took the case.”

“What case?” grumbled Lefty.

“It’s okay,” said Cooper. “Give me a few minutes with this man, Lefty, and I’ll be right back with you.”

Lefty shrugged and walked back toward first base.

“From what I can piece together,” I said, “someone is trying to blackmail you or threaten you into working on a film for a producer you don’t want to deal with. Right so far?”

Cooper’s face twisted into a pained grin, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of my remarks or indigestion.

“This morning I was taken by two goons from Chicago for a ride to see a guy named Lombardi, who told me to help convince you to take the movie job.”

The name Lombardi struck something in Cooper’s sad eyes. He had been giving me part of his attention. Now I had all of it.

“Lombardi found the real Toby Peters—me. Threatened the real one.”

“I see,” said Cooper, removing his baseball cap and rubbing his sweating brow with his sleeve. With the cap off his face, he showed every one of his forty years. He looked like a man in agony.

“Then who is the man who posed as you?” Cooper asked reasonably.

“Describe him,” I said.

“Maybe fifty, roly-poly sweaty fella, bald head, smokes cheap cigars …”

“… and wears thick glasses that keep creeping down his nose,” I finished.

“You know him,” said Cooper.

“I know him and he’s no private detective. He’s a dentist.”

“A dentist?” gulped Cooper. “I’ve got to admit I wasn’t impressed with him, but you came recommended by a fella I know at Paramount and … okay. What now?”

“I’ll take care of the detective-dentist,” I said. “How much have you paid him?”

“Let’s see, about three hundred,” Cooper said, raising his forehead.

“You have a few minutes to answer some questions and tell me what’s happening, and I’ll take over the case.”

Cooper looked puzzled, which seemed perfectly reasonable to me. He looked into my brown eyes and saw no answers. He looked into the first-baseman’s glove in his left hand and saw no answers. He looked over at Lefty, who was kicking dirt behind first base, and saw no answers.

“Okay, give me a few minutes to change clothes,” he finally said and then shouted at Lefty, “Let’s call it a day.”

Lefty waved back and walked in our direction as Cooper disappeared under the stands, walking slowly. Lefty shook his head for the entire distance from first base to my side.