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

the town pinned down. The easygoing present sheriff tries everything he can think of to get the old sheriff down. He sends an Indian killer, mounts a charge and when the town begins to talk about getting rid of him, the new sheriff offers to meet the old sheriff in a shoot-out, though the old sheriff is a former gunfighter and the present one an inexperienced novice. Before the shoot-out takes place, the old sheriff accuses the new one of having been one of those his wife had taken up with. The new sheriff says yes, but adds that he was just one of many. In the shoot-out the old sheriff, who has been suffering from a wound from one of the attacks on him, misses and is killed though he wounds the new sheriff, who in a final speech says the old boy was wrong but he stuck by his principles. The new sheriff then throws down his badge because the town has not supported him and rides wounded out of town.
    I wasn’t sure whether Cooper was going to be the old or the new sheriff. It was a cinch Tall Mickey Fargo would be a joke in either role, and the only thing for Lola was the part of the wife, who gets killed at the beginning of the picture but who appears in some flashbacks.
    Withered and dry, I went to my room, pulled the mattress from my bed, lay on my back and fell asleep. I dreamed, as I frequently do, of Cincinnati, where I have never been. Nothing much ever happens to me in Cincinnati. I wander empty neighborhoods and feel lonely. Gradually I feel scared and wonder where the people are. Then a crane with a demolition ball comes down the street, and I hide in an empty building. It isn’t a pleasant dream. My pleasant dreams are about Koko the Clown, but Koko won’t come when bidden. He reserves his dream appearance for times of crisis.
    When I woke up, the room was dark. I sat up, staggered to the lamp, turned it on and checked my watch. The hour hand hung limp. The minute hand said it was fifteen minutes to something. My Beech-nut clock said nine-fifty and my Arvin radio picked up the tail end of Bob Burns on KNX, so I knew it was almost ten. Putting on my suit and a clean but frayed shirt with a tie which my nephews had given me for my birthday, I sneaked down the stairs, trying to avoid Mrs. Plaut. I failed. She caught me at the door.
    “Mr. Peelers, Mr. Peelers,” she cried, hurrying to me with short little steps and her hands up. “You had a call. Carole Lombard called and said to tell you to remember to tell Cary Grant to be reasonable.”
    “Thank you, Mrs. Plaut,” I said.
    “I will,” she said with a smile, turning back into her parlor.
    My decoding of the message was that Lombardi had called or had someone call to remind me to be sure Cooper agreed to make the picture. He was certainly determined.
    It was almost eleven when I parked in front of the Big Bear Bar in Burbank. The street was quiet. A few lights were on in the nearby houses, and the lawns were creaking with crickets. Three cars were parked in front of or near the bar, and I thought I recognized one of them. When I got to the door, I could hear Lola Farmer belting “Rosie the Riveter.” She should have stuck to ballads. I waited till she was finished before stepping in.
    There was a bartender with the face of an orangutan serving a customer with the body of a chimp. At one of the tables a couple sat arguing in low voices. At another table sat someone I wasn’t looking for, the squat man with the high voice who had laid me out in front of Mrs. Plaut’s. At the table next to him sat the person I wanted, Shelly Minck. His back was to me, but I couldn’t mistake that shape, that bald head and the cigar smoke. Lola was clinking the keys to think up another song. She looked about the same as she had in the afternoon, which was fine with me.
    “Requests?” she asked.
    “ The Man I Love ,” I said, and she looked up and gave me a smile of agony.
    Shelly turned as quickly as he could at hearing my voice. He started to rise, but I got to him