invest a little of her money in the ads, I’m sure it will pay back in a matter of weeks.”
The chances of Mildred Minck dipping into the money she had inherited from her Uncle Abel were about equal to those of MacArthur calling it a day and giving up on the Pacific.
“I’m hanging up, Shelly,” and I did.
A chunky balding man in a suit and carrying a briefcase bounced impatiently on his heels waiting for the phone.
“It’s a boy,” I said, dropping my second nickel into the phone. The businessman was not touched.
Information didn’t have a phone number for John Wayne. That didn’t surprise me but it had been worth a try. There were other ways of reaching him, but they would take a little time. I dropped my last nickel into the phone and didn’t turn to explain to the bouncing businessman behind me. I let my voice rise when I said, “Wilshire Station? I’d like to speak to Captain Pevsner.”
“Wait,” came the raspy man’s voice on the other end. I waited, imagining my gun being used in a series of murders, robberies, and assorted displays of public mayhem.
“Busy,” came the male voice in a few seconds.
“How about Lieutenant Seidman?” I asked.
“Vacation.”
“I’m coming in to see Captain Pevsner. Tell him his brother’s on the way.”
“Brother,” said the voice on the other end.
“Get it?” I tried.
“Got it,” he answered.
“Good,” I said, happy to have gotten more than a one-word answer. I hung up and made way for the businessman.
I turned on the car radio and found that Jinx Falkenburg wanted me to try Royal Crown Cola. I decided to try it once for Jinx, though I didn’t think I could be disloyal to Pepsi. I daydreamed my way onto Pico and took in the fact that the Pico Theater was showing Hitchcock’s Suspicion. If I could wrap this up quickly I would try to persuade Carmen, the cashier at Levy’s on Spring, to join me for a taco or two and a movie. I would have liked to call my ex-wife, Anne, recently widowed from husband two, and push her for a cup of coffee, some conversation, and a further crack in our thawing relationship, but she was not back from her trip East to visit her parents and get away from the messy demise of Ralph.
For some reason I started to sing “Mississippi Mud” like Bing Crosby and the Rhythm Boys, while tapping time on the steering wheel, and just managed to avoid a collision with a beer truck. At ten-fifteen “Vic and Sade” came on and I shut up while Sade recounted the tale of the mailman with different color eyes who was drawing the attention of the neighborhood spinsters.
It took the sight of the Wilshire Station to erase the sweet smile from my face, but though clientless, I felt that things were going my way in spite of the missing gun, missing body, and missing killer. Almost anything was better than wearing a uniform and guarding the Goleta gate house.
I parked a block away. There were spaces right in front of the station but I didn’t know how this session was going to go and I didn’t want people who were less than pals, including my brother the cop, taking things out on my helpless vehicle. A good portion of my meager income over the past decade had gone to replacing cars and paying for parking tickets that were all too often gifts of police wanting to teach me a much-needed lesson in civic responsibility.
The sky was clear and the wind gentle as I climbed the stone steps and entered the grayness of the reception area. The area was empty except for the overage police sergeant who sat at a desk behind the low railing.
“Veldu,” I said.
“Peters,” he responded. “Hell of a world.”
“Hell of a world,” I agreed, walking past him to the wooden stairway.
“He’s not in a good mood,” Veldu called after me.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said. His laugh echoed up the stairs and mixed with the stale smells coming down from above.
In an effort to conserve energy, the janitors in all the Los
The chances of Mildred Minck dipping into the money she had inherited from her Uncle Abel were about equal to those of MacArthur calling it a day and giving up on the Pacific.
“I’m hanging up, Shelly,” and I did.
A chunky balding man in a suit and carrying a briefcase bounced impatiently on his heels waiting for the phone.
“It’s a boy,” I said, dropping my second nickel into the phone. The businessman was not touched.
Information didn’t have a phone number for John Wayne. That didn’t surprise me but it had been worth a try. There were other ways of reaching him, but they would take a little time. I dropped my last nickel into the phone and didn’t turn to explain to the bouncing businessman behind me. I let my voice rise when I said, “Wilshire Station? I’d like to speak to Captain Pevsner.”
“Wait,” came the raspy man’s voice on the other end. I waited, imagining my gun being used in a series of murders, robberies, and assorted displays of public mayhem.
“Busy,” came the male voice in a few seconds.
“How about Lieutenant Seidman?” I asked.
“Vacation.”
“I’m coming in to see Captain Pevsner. Tell him his brother’s on the way.”
“Brother,” said the voice on the other end.
“Get it?” I tried.
“Got it,” he answered.
“Good,” I said, happy to have gotten more than a one-word answer. I hung up and made way for the businessman.
I turned on the car radio and found that Jinx Falkenburg wanted me to try Royal Crown Cola. I decided to try it once for Jinx, though I didn’t think I could be disloyal to Pepsi. I daydreamed my way onto Pico and took in the fact that the Pico Theater was showing Hitchcock’s Suspicion. If I could wrap this up quickly I would try to persuade Carmen, the cashier at Levy’s on Spring, to join me for a taco or two and a movie. I would have liked to call my ex-wife, Anne, recently widowed from husband two, and push her for a cup of coffee, some conversation, and a further crack in our thawing relationship, but she was not back from her trip East to visit her parents and get away from the messy demise of Ralph.
For some reason I started to sing “Mississippi Mud” like Bing Crosby and the Rhythm Boys, while tapping time on the steering wheel, and just managed to avoid a collision with a beer truck. At ten-fifteen “Vic and Sade” came on and I shut up while Sade recounted the tale of the mailman with different color eyes who was drawing the attention of the neighborhood spinsters.
It took the sight of the Wilshire Station to erase the sweet smile from my face, but though clientless, I felt that things were going my way in spite of the missing gun, missing body, and missing killer. Almost anything was better than wearing a uniform and guarding the Goleta gate house.
I parked a block away. There were spaces right in front of the station but I didn’t know how this session was going to go and I didn’t want people who were less than pals, including my brother the cop, taking things out on my helpless vehicle. A good portion of my meager income over the past decade had gone to replacing cars and paying for parking tickets that were all too often gifts of police wanting to teach me a much-needed lesson in civic responsibility.
The sky was clear and the wind gentle as I climbed the stone steps and entered the grayness of the reception area. The area was empty except for the overage police sergeant who sat at a desk behind the low railing.
“Veldu,” I said.
“Peters,” he responded. “Hell of a world.”
“Hell of a world,” I agreed, walking past him to the wooden stairway.
“He’s not in a good mood,” Veldu called after me.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said. His laugh echoed up the stairs and mixed with the stale smells coming down from above.
In an effort to conserve energy, the janitors in all the Los
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