Free Catch a Falling Clown: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Seven) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

alcohol.
    “Got a complete sheet on you, Peters,” Nelson said, tapping something before him. “Like to know your life story, straight from the Los Angeles PD? I’ve had it here ever since our last little social encounter.”
    I said nothing. He sipped and read aloud. “Toby Peters, born Tobias Leo Pevsner. I can see why you might not like the name you were born with, too sort of Jew-sounding. Let’s see, now, born Glendale, California, November 14, 1897. Mother died when you were just a baby. Father owned a grocery store. Older brother is an L.A. police lieutenant. You went about a year and a half to junior college and then joined the Glendale police in 1917. Father died in 1932. Your brother was in the first big war, wounded while you stayed back.”
    “You in the war, Nelson?”
    “I was unable to serve,” he said. “Let us get back to you. You have been known to consort with known criminals.”
    “I try to catch them sometimes. It’s difficult to catch them unless you get near them. You might ask a real cop sometime.”
    “Your wife left you,” Nelson went on. “You a violent man with women, Peters?”
    “I am a pussycat with everyone,” I said. “I’ve been thinking seriously of joining a seminary, Little Brothers of the Meek. I deplore violence, shudder at the sight of blood, and confess to any and all crimes when tight-assed sheriffs frighten me.”
    Nelson’s grimace wouldn’t move into a grin. “We shall just see about what frightens you, Peters.”
    “You know, Nelson, you sound like Richard Loo in a cheap war movie. You’ll never get the role. You’re too small, too silly-looking, too smug, too transparent, too …”
    “That’s it,” shouted Nelson, slamming his coffee cup on the table. “Alex, I think you should take our Mr. Peters here into the back cell and use your powers of persuasion to convince him to confess. I, meanwhile, will see to the body of his unfortunate victim.”
    Alex didn’t reply, so Nelson went on. “You understand, Alex?”
    “Sure,” said Alex, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me up.
    “We will talk a bit later, Mr. Peters, when you have had a few contemplative hours to consider the cleansing nature of confession.”
    I winked at Nelson, whose teeth gritted together loudly enough to hear. Then he stamped out into the rain. Through the storefront window, Alex and I watched him get into the police car.
    “In back,” said Alex.
    “Hey, it’s Nelson you’re mad at, not me.” I moved ahead of him to the narrow walkway between the two cells. The whole damn jail was no bigger than my Hollywood rented room.
    “You’ll do,” Alex said evenly, pushing me into the second cell, the one furthest from where anyone could hear us.
    “I didn’t kill that woman, Alex,” I said.
    He was rolling his sleeves up slowly, apparently not hearing me.
    “I’m not going to confess to anything,” I said.
    “My cousin Lope Obregon,” said Alex, facing me. “In the bar.”
    “Hell, he was drunk and looking for trouble.” I backed against the wall, and Alex moved forward. I could feel the vibration of radio music from Hijo’s through the thin shared wall.
    “Maybe so,” agreed Alex. “But he’s my cousin.”
    My minimal study of fear has demonstrated to me that people under its spell are capable of amazing and frightening things. I did what neither Alex nor I expected me to do. Actually, my body did it without my bidding. In fact, given the chance to discuss it with myself, I wouldn’t have acted. I threw a hard right, my whole body behind it, in the general direction of Alex’s chin. He turned as it came, and I caught him in the Adam’s apple. He went backwards, clutching his throat and sucking for air.
    “Christ,” I shouted. “That’s not what I wanted.”
    Alex was on his knees, taking short breaths, trying not to die. I went for the cell door, slammed it shut behind me, gave it a pull to be sure it was locked, and went for the front of the