Free A Fatal Glass of Beer by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

ironed pajamas. He ate his meal and went right to bed, reminding me that he had just driven across a continent, and that I had had a long day.
    It was still early. I wanted to call Anita or go see a movie, but I did neither. I took a bath to ease my back, shaved and washed so I’d be ready in the morning.
    I must have been more tired than I thought. I usually sleep in nothing. I wore clean underwear tonight and took the .38 out of my suitcase and placed it on the table next to my bed before I turned off the light.
    I’m not much of a shot, and the few times I’d had to shoot I had done more bad than good and usually hit something or someone I wasn’t aiming for. But a bullet or two certainly gets a person’s attention, and if they were close enough, it might also get them shot.
    I turned off the light and lay on the bed on top of the blanket rumpled on the mattress. I planned to lie there working out a plan. Gunther was asleep, breathing lightly. Before I could get a grip on the first step of a plan I was asleep.
    The dreams came. Most of them I can’t remember, except for bits and pieces. All of them were about Koko the Clown. I always had Koko the Clown nightmares. Sometimes Betty Boop was in them, but not often. This time Koko and I were running across a field and a giant head was floating after us, singing, “I’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead, You Rascal You.” The head was Louis Armstrong and he smiled as he sang. Koko and I were suddenly in a hotel room. He motioned for me to follow him. We jumped into a drawer and he closed it behind us. We lay in the dark. Koko giggled. Outside the room came the sound of a door opening and heavy footsteps thumping around the room, opening doors, searching. I could hear a drawer above us open. I put my hand over Koko’s mouth to keep him from giggling. A second drawer opened. And then our drawer opened and we looked up at Louis Armstrong, who grinned and said, “Gotcha.”
    I remember clinging to Koko, who shouted, “Scat.”
    Louis Armstrong disappeared. I looked at my hand as we climbed out of the drawer. It was covered in red greasepaint from putting it over Koko’s painted mouth to stop him from giggling. The greasepaint looked like blood.
    Koko without some of his makeup looked like someone else, someone I recognized but couldn’t place.
    “You’re … you’re …” I said and then felt myself being shaken.
    “Toby,” said Gunther. “It’s time to get up.”
    I sat up. He was already dressed. Casually for Gunther. Pressed slacks, shirt and tie, and a tweed sports jacket.
    My back felt a little better. I took two pills, used the washroom, brushed my teeth, checked to see if I needed a fresh shave. I did, but I didn’t stop to take one. I was still waking up and I didn’t want to take the time to patch any razor cuts from my not-yet-steady hand.
    When I was dressed and ready, it was eight-thirty. We were both packed. I knocked four times on Fields’s door. He opened it, neatly dressed, bags ready. I glanced at the table next to the chair. Some of the chicken salad had been eaten. He was wearing his disguise mustache. I didn’t bother to try to talk him out of it then, when we checked out, when we got in the car, or as Gunther started to drive. I needed coffee and at least a sinker. Gunther agreed.
    “Long as we’re at the bank before nine,” said Fields. “I’ll guide you there. It’s not far, as I recall.”
    We stopped at the same restaurant I had been to the night before, got two carry-out coffees, and we were on our way.
    “It’s the Chimp,” said Fields as we drove. “Figured it out last night. Couldn’t be anyone else.”
    “Is he Hipnoodle or the guy who’s trying to stop us?” I asked, not looking at his face or his ridiculous mustache.
    “Perhaps both,” said Fields triumphantly. “Perhaps the accomplice of Hipnoodle, who is his twin brother or a fiendish cousin. No doubt about it. It’s the Chimp, my traitorous driver. Evidence