You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) by Stuart M. Kaminsky

extras like that in free.”
    Chico took the phone.
    “Don’t mind him,” he said. “He thinks you’re one of my friends pulling a gag.”
    “Well tell him it’s no gag. I’ve got to find Gino. You just stay where you are. I may have to ask you to come to Chicago when I find him. Maybe if he’s in the same room with you he’ll realize he’s got the wrong man.”
    “And what if he lies and says I’m the right man?” asked Chico.
    “Then we break him down, talk a mean streak, or run like hell.” I coughed. “I’ve got no other ideas right now.”
    “Take care of that cold,” said Chico. “Where you staying?”
    “The LaSalle,” I coughed.
    “Harpo says you should gargle with Listerine.”
    “Tell him thanks, and please stay there till you hear from me.” I hung up. Through the window of the phone booth I could see that Narducy had wandered into the drug store. His scarf was off his face. It was a very young face. He waved at me, and I waved back as I got the operator and gave her the number of MGM in Culver City. I told the MGM operator who I was and asked for Louis B. Mayer. She checked and said he was busy, but that Mr. Hoff was to take any calls from me. They put me through.
    “Hello, Toby,” came the voice I recognized. He was a minor vice president at MGM who I had recently helped keep his job—a job he hated.
    “Warren,” I said, “why is God ducking me?”
    “Chico Marx is in the hospital,” he said. “Mr. Mayer thinks it may be because you didn’t do what you were paid to do.”
    “Chico Marx is in a Las Vegas hospital with a fake heart attack,” I said truthfully. Then I added not so truthfully, “I told him to go there until I straightened this out. I’m protecting MGM’s investment.” Post nasal drip got me and I began to cough about ten cents’ worth of time.
    “Where are you, Toby?”
    “Chicago. What’s the weather like in L.A.? Wait—don’t tell me. Just send me three hundred bucks at the LaSalle Hotel in Chicago and do it fast. I’ll itemize it.”
    “I know,” said Warren. “I’ll call our district manager in Chicago and have him send the money over in cash. And Toby, the Marxes are talking about quitting the movie business. If they do before you wrap this up, I can give you odds that Mr. Mayer is going to fire you with a penny postcard. He’s not going to pay to protect an actor who doesn’t work for him.”
    “I guess it makes sense,” I coughed.
    “Why don’t you take some Bromo cold tablets for that cold?” Warren volunteered.
    I thanked him for the advice, the money, and the support, and hung up. I marked the cost of the calls in my little book and joined Narducy at the lunch counter.
    “I’ll buy you lunch, kid,” I said with a sneeze. “I’m on top of the world.”
    “Man on pinnacle has nowhere to step but off,” replied Narducy in the most embarrassingly loud Charlie Chan imitation I had ever heard. It was even more embarrassing since we were sitting in a drug store in Chicago’s Chinatown and everyone in the place was Chinese but us.

4
     
    Narducy kept telling the plump Chinese waitress in a yellow uniform that his three burgers were terrific. He asked if they were made with soy sauce. She thought he was funny. I was sick. I drank a bowl of the special soup of the day, tomato, right out of the Heinz can. I also had a large glass of orange juice.
    While Narducy considered a fourth burger, I went to the Chinese pharmacist and told him part of my tale—the part about having a bad cold. I hoped he’d come up with an ancient recipe that would cure me. He suggested Bromo Quinine cold tablets. I bought a box of Kleenex instead and gathered up Narducy who, so help me, was amusing the waitress with his Charlie Chan imitation.
    “Where to?” he said happily, back in the cab.
    “What time’s your friend start working at that place you mentioned?”
    “Four to midnight. We’ve got a couple of hours to kill. You want me to spend part of