Murder on the Yellow Brick Road by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

fine most of the time.
    The hillbilly couple were still arguing when I left, but they weren’t breaking anything so I ignored them and got into my Buick. When I was a kid, my father and brother and I always named our cars. Since my dad’s car was always a heap, we needed a new one every year or so. I remember one was called Valentino, a Model A Ford. I’d thought about naming the Buick, but nothing seemed right for it. I decided to ask Butler. As a poet, he might have some ideas. I took Long Beach to Washington and went up Normandie heading for Wilshire.
    It was on a stretch of Normandie near some factories that the bullet missed my head. The street was pretty well deserted, but a car pulled up behind me and gave me the horn to get out of the way. I didn’t even look in the rear view mirror. As the car passed, my neck began to itch, and I started to turn. The bullet went through the driver’s side window near my nose and right out the opposite window. I hit the brakes, held the wheel and ducked down below the door. My tires hit something and the Buick spun around and stopped. I didn’t have my .38 with me. I crouched over, listened for a few seconds to be sure the other car had gone. When I sat up, the street was clear and the sun was still shining. The holes in both windows were small, but they sent out rays like the sun in a kid’s drawing. I rolled the windows open so no one would ask about the holes.
    Then, I headed back to my place and got my .38. It was getting late for my meeting with Victor Fleming, but I needed some solid reassurance. It could simply have been a nut. There are plenty of nuts in Los Angeles, especially kids who are looking for dangerous thrills. There is something about the monotony of L.A. that sometimes drives people mad. Maybe it’s coming to the ocean and finding there is no place further to take your life. It was also possible that an enemy had been laying for me. I had a few old enemies and some recent ones. It was also possible that it had something to do with the dead Munchkin. That seemed just as wild since I didn’t know anything the cops didn’t know. Or did I? I went over everything in my head as I drove, keeping my eyes open for another attack. I came up with one idea. Late or not, I had to check it out. I stopped at a gas station and called my office while a guy with a Brooklyn Dodgers cap and an old, grey sweater gave me half a buck’s worth.
    Shelly was still in the office. He wanted to talk about his root canal, but I didn’t have the time and he sounded a little hurt.
    â€œYou had a call Toby,” he said accepting temporary defeat. “A guy with a high voice. Said he wanted to hire you and had to get to you fast. So I gave him your address. Did he find you?”
    â€œHe found me Shelly, thanks.” I found out the caller had no accent and told Shelly I’d see him when I could.
    It didn’t make sense, at least not to me. I dropped it, after deciding to bill the cost of new car windows to M.G.M., and headed for the Brown Derby. It was almost seven when I got there. I found a space a few blocks away and jogged. The Derby was a greyish dome with a canopy in front and a single line of rectangular windows running around it. Perched on top of the dome and held up by a tangle of steel bars was the replica of a brown derby. The place looked something like an erupted boil wearing a little hat.
    I told the waiter that Fleming was expecting me and was led to a table in a corner. The room was jammed but the noise level was low.
    Fleming got up and shook hands when I introduced myself. He was a tall guy, about sixty, with well-groomed grey hair. His nose looked as if it had taken one in the past. He was wearing a tweed suit, a checkered tie and a brown sweater. He looked very English, but his voice was American.
    â€œHave a seat, Peters,” he said. There was another guy at the table and Fleming introduced him as Dr. Roloff,