Free Buried Caesars by Stuart M. Kaminsky

slammed his now-empty drawers closed.
    I nodded, unable to speak, and sat in one of the two battered wooden chairs across from Phil’s desk.
    There was a knock at the door and a tall, thin man with a sad face stepped in carrying a large box in his arms. He looked at the mess on the floor, Phil’s red face, and me sitting and trying to breathe.
    “I thought you’d be moved out by now,” the sad man said.
    “A little accident, Captain,” Phil said. “My brother’s helping me clean it up.”
    “Can I just leave this here and come back later?” he asked.
    “Sure thing,” Phil said amiably.
    The tall man put the box on the second chair and had second thoughts. “Maybe I’ll just take it with me,” he said.
    “It’ll be safe here,” Phil said.
    I shook my head no. The new Captain looked uncertain, but he left the box and headed for the door.
    “I can’t tell you, Phil,” I panted. “I’ve got a client who … I just can’t tell you. You can throw boxes, throw me, have a heart attack, break my fingers … Wait, I’m not giving you any more ideas. I just can’t tell you.”
    Phil moved around the desk and opened his tie even more. The shirt under his open jacket was stained with sweat.
    “I want the son of a bitch who called me and said you did it,” he said.
    “Brotherly love,” I said, sitting up as well as I could. I didn’t think any ribs were broken.
    “The case isn’t mine,” he said. “It belongs to Pacific Palisades, but this … this …”
    “Very bad person,” I suggested.
    “Asshole,” Phil continued, rubbing his hands together, “wants you in it, me in it, wants to jerk me around. I don’t like being jerked around, Toby.”
    “That’s not new information for me, Phil,” I said, trying to get up.
    Phil reached over to help me.
    “I don’t like it when you jerk me around especially, Toby,” he said. “I’ve had half a century of it. You’re breathing funny. Did you break a rib?”
    “Did I break a rib?” I asked, letting him get me to my feet while I demonstrated a hell of a lot more pain than I felt. “You threw the box at me.”
    “Let’s not play with words,” Phil said.
    “You going to finish the job, throw me in the tank, invite me for dinner or let me go?” I asked.
    “How many days do you want before I come back at you?” he asked.
    “Four,” I said.
    “Three,” he countered. “Three and I get answers or you go in the tank.”
    “Three days,” I agreed. “I’ll give you a hand with this mess.”
    “Get out,” Phil said with a wave. “You ruined my mood. I’ll do it myself.”
    “I’ve got something to improve your disposition. You want a cat?” I asked from the door. “Kids love cats.”
    Phil was looking at the mess on the floor and leaning against his desk, his hands folded in front of him.
    “I ate cats when I was in the army, in the trenches,” he said. “I ate worse than cats. I can’t think of them as pets for kids. I can only think of them as stringy food.”
    “The good old days in the Rainbow Division,” I said.
    “Three days,” he said, and I was out the door and into the hall.
    “He’s in a good mood or you’d be in the tank or the hospital,” Seidman said, walking with me to the stairway.
    “Well, I know he charmed me,” I said. “You know where to find me.”
    “I know how to find you,” Seidman corrected.
    I arrived at Hammett’s hotel on Beverly almost an hour late. He was sitting in the lobby, small overnight case at his feet, cat in his lap. A girl, young, pretty, blonde, made up and no more than twenty, was leaning over Hammett and admiring the cat.
    “He’s cute,” she said.
    As I moved forward, I could see him looking at the girl’s breasts as she leaned forward. “How long are you staying at the hotel?” Hammett asked.
    “A few days. Till my mother comes up from San Diego to drive me back to school,” she said, taking me in as I stepped into the conversation.
    “Perhaps we could have dinner