Free He Done Her Wrong: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Eight) (Toby Peters Mysteries) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

me.
    “Thanks,” I answered sitting up.
    “Car’s dead though,” he said, handing me a bottle of Pepsi, which was just what I needed. I sat up, sipped it, and wondered what I had broken this time, but nothing hurt very much. In fact, my back felt better than it had before the crash.
    I looked at the flannel shirt and torn pants Dot had put on me and said, “Thanks.”
    “Trade,” Dot said, filling a pipe that appeared magically from his fist. “Those duds, the Pepsi, a meal, and a phone call for the wreck.”
    I gurgled the Pepsi and thought about it.
    “You can keep the Wheaties, the gun, and the statue of Alcatraz,” he said.
    “A deal,” I agreed, toasting him with the Pepsi.
    The deal completed, Dot lit his pipe, patted the mongrel, who panted appreciatively, and went to the hot plate in the corner, where something was cooking. He came over with a bowl of chili and some Wonder Bread. I spooned down the chili, sopped up what was left with the bread, and downed the last of my Pepsi before trying to stand. I did a pretty good job and found that I was thinking again.
    “My suit,” I said. “And your phone.”
    “Suit’s in a box by the front door with the gun, Alcatraz, and Wheaties. Suit’s not dry. Needs some cleaning, though Thomas licked some of the milk from it when I pulled you out.”
    “Thanks,” I said, going for the phone.
    He waved his pipe at me and said, “Used to know Sergeant York, Alvin York back in the last war.”
    “That a fact?” I said, trying to raise the operator.
    “Fact,” he said with satisfaction as he took the empty chili bowl away.
    Shelly had left the office. No answer. I could have called him at home, but that would have meant the possibility of talking to his wife, Mildred, who, when we were at our best, refused to speak to or about me. I was definitely a bad influence on Shelly. Jeremy owned no car. I could have called Phil, but that would mean driving all the way back to Hollywood with him. I didn’t think I could take my brother for that long, and I knew from experience that he couldn’t take me.
    So I called Mrs. Plaut’s boardinghouse and prayed that Mrs. Plaut would not answer. She did.
    “Mrs. Plaut,” I shouted. “This is Toby, Toby Peters. Is Mr. Wherthman there. Gunther Wherthman.”
    “Plaut’s Boardinghouse,” she said patiently. It was a subject of intense debate at the boardinghouse. Since Mrs. Plaut could hear practically nothing, we wondered why she insisted on answering the phone and, in fact, fought off anyone who tried to take it from her. We also wondered how she heard it ringing. Perhaps it was the vibrations or a sixth sense given only to the ancient and feisty.
    “Gunther Wherthman,” I shouted, loud enough to wake Thomas, who had dozed off on the cot where I had been lying.
    “Mr. Wherthman,” she gasped. “Why are you calling? I just saw you into your room.”
    “Oh shit,” I sighed softly.
    “You needn’t blaspheme,” retorted Mrs. Plaut. “Even in your native tongue.”
    Dot looked at me without curiosity, puffed on his pipe, and dreamed of Sergeant York.
    “Peters, Peters, Toby PETERS,” I shouted. The veins on my forehead ached.
    “Mr. Peelers?” she said after a pause.
    “Yes,” I gasped.
    “He is not here and the police are looking for him again,” she explained.
    “The police …”
    “I’ll let you talk to Mr. Wherthman,” she said, and I heard the phone clink against the wall in the hall.
    “Used to work in the estuary down near San Luis,” Dot told no one in particular as he took his pipe out and looked into the bowl before returning it to the corner of his mouth.
    There is no end to the eccentricity of this world, I observed silently waiting for Gunther, who finally came on after a scraping of the chair in the hall on which he always stood to cope with the phone.
    “This is Gunther Wherthman here,” he said with his usual accent and dignity.
    “This is Toby, Gunther. I’ve had a slight