Free High Midnight: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Six) by Stuart M. Kaminsky

one I was looking for.
    There was no traffic on the small street, so I had no trouble spotting Marco and Costello in the Packard behind me. I drove back to my old neighborhood in Hollywood, where Costello and Marco waited outside while I went into Ralph’s and bought two pounds of Washington Delicious apples for 14 cents. There was a phone at the exit of the grocery, and I had a dime in my change. I put down my small package, found a number in my phone book and called Ann Peters, to whom I had been married for five painful years.
    “TWA, Miss Peters, can I help you?”
    “Mitzenmacher,” I corrected. “Your name is Mitzenmacher. I got my name back when we were divorced.”
    “Toby, are you drunk?”
    “No, and you can keep on using my name. It’s the only worthwhile thing I gave you.”
    “Toby,” she said, whispering so someone on her end couldn’t hear. “I’m busy.” I imagined her long dark hair and full figure in a well-tailored suit.
    “I’m at Ralph’s buying groceries, and I thought about your boyfriend Ralph, and then I thought about you,” I said.
    “Very romantic,” she said. “I’m hanging up and going home. Don’t call again.”
    “Wait,” I shouted and a lady going past me gave me a dirty look. “I’m sorry. How about dinner tonight? Ozzie Nelson’s at the Florentine Gardens.”
    “I thought you weren’t going to bother me anymore.”
    “I don’t know where you got that idea,” I said. “Tonight, just to talk over good times?”
    “There were no good times,” she whispered. “Now I’m hanging up.”
    “I’ll just call back. I’ve got a lot of dimes.”
    “Toby, please …”
    “If you don’t see me, you’ll drive me into the arms of a boozy singer.”
    “I’m going to marry Ralph,” she said. “In March.”
    I said nothing.
    “Toby? Are you still there?”
    “Yeah,” I said.
    “I’m going to hang up. Don’t call back.”
    “I won’t,” I said, and she hung up while I gagged on something gracious to say.
    I went out into the parking lot and took my package to Costello and Marco’s car. “You guys want an apple?”
    Marco took one. Costello declined.
    “Women,” I said, taking an apple for myself. “Never marry them.”
    “My old man never took nuptials,” said Marco sympathetically.
    “I’m going home for dinner,” I said. “If you guys want to take a break, I’ll be there for a few hours at least, maybe for the night.”
    I was feeling sorry for myself and conjuring disaster and death for Ann’s Ralph. I had seen Ralph once in the hall of her apartment in Culver City. He was everything I wasn’t: prosperous, tall, handsome, a great head of distinguished gray hair, tan. Maybe a TWA plane would run over him before March. He was too old to be drafted.
    The hell with it. I told the car not to do it, but it was possessed. I gave it its own head like Tony in a Tom Mix picture from when I was a kid. My faithful Buick took me to Culver City.
    The game had turned more serious with each assault on the stronghold of Ann Mitzenmacher Peters. Weeping, lies, tears, pain, reminders of the bad old days and rolls in the bed which she had rudely forgotten or pretended to forget, had all failed. Threats had made her laugh. The worst part about it, I thought as I went into the small, clean lobby of the long, recently built white building was that Ann seemed to be beyond the point of even getting angry with me. What is the worth of a man when he can’t even draw blood or anger, let alone passion or sympathy?
    I rang the bell and dashed up to the second floor when she responded with a ring. Ann stood in the hall, one hand on a hip, her hair long and dark, her figure full at forty. In the last few years I had seen her nowhere but in this hall or apartment, and I didn’t much care for the apartment.
    “I can’t stay. I’m going,” I said before she could speak. I hurried up to her, looking at my watch.
    “That watch doesn’t work, Toby,” she said, “and