Free Down for the Count: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Ten) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

next to me in the rear.
    “Where’s your car?” Phil said, looking out the window.
    I told him, and Seidman headed for Anne’s house.
    “Thanks, Phil, I—” I began.
    “I wasn’t there for you,” he said. “I always liked Anne. I thought she might have a chance at turning you into a human being.”
    “She tried,” I admitted.
    “You know she still sends the boys birthday presents, and the baby. She still calls … I did it for Anne. Besides, I hate Meara’s putrid guts.”
    We didn’t say anything for about five minutes. Phil kept looking out of the window, and I urged my senses to come back. The scrape on my cheek had stopped bleeding and screaming. The pain was down to a mild throb. I began wondering if I could make my appointment with Parkman at seven.
    “Now,” Phil said. “You tell me what’s going on. You tell me everything. I’m not in a good mood. I have a shitload of cases on my desk and a duty roster I can’t figure out. I hate that goddamn duty roster. You talk. You talk straight, or what Meara was planning for you will be party time compared to what I’ll do. And you can trust me on that.”
    I trusted him on it. My experience told me to trust Phil when it came to violence. If my brain weren’t still rattling I probably would have come up with a dangerous barb, but a wheel was loose, I was late for an appointment, and I owed him one. I talked and Phil and Steve listened. I told about Joe Louis, the guys he had seen on the beach, Parkman, everything. We were pulling into Anne’s driveway when I finished.
    “And that’s all?” Phil said, turning to look at me. I looked at his face closely for the first time. Promotion didn’t look good on him. He looked worried. The shadow of the duty roster fell over his beefy face. He had put on a few pounds he couldn’t afford.
    “That’s it, Phil,” I said.
    “Get out. The case’s Meara’s. Stay out of his way. If something turns up, I’ll reach you.”
    Seidman had hit the gas before I could say thanks or return his bloody handkerchief, but I knew Phil didn’t want thanks and Seidman probably didn’t want the handkerchief either. Phil wanted to be home with his wife and three kids, or choking an ax murderer till he confessed. What he didn’t want was to go back to his office and prepare a duty roster.
    I told Anne I was all right when she shuddered after getting a good look at my face. I thanked her for calling Phil, took my copy of Ralph’s notebook back, and refused her offer to help me clean my face. She kissed my good cheek, and I wanted to stay when I smelled her. I had the feeling that she might let me, too, but Parkman was waiting.
    I got the right time, adjusted my father’s watch for no good reason, and got in the car. While I drove I listened to six student nurses beat out six members of the Des Moines Kiwanis Club on “True or False.” I had just changed the station to catch a few minutes of Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray in “Ball of Fire” on the Lux Radio Theater when I found a parking space in front of Reed’s Soldier’s Gym. It wasn’t quite dark yet and the evening was getting a little chilly.
    I tried the door of Reed’s, found it open, and started up the dark stairs. China Rogers wasn’t on his stool and there were no sounds. The lights were out, but there was still enough of the waning sunlight coming through the windows to see there was no one in the gym.
    “Parkman,” I called. An echo answered.
    There was a hallway at the end of the gym near the ring where Jerry and the kid had simulated battle. A dim light came from the hallway, and I went for it.
    “Parkman,” I called again. No answer. I came to the hall, which turned out to be a small alcove with a single door. On the frosted window of the door, stenciled in black, was PARKMAN. I knocked and Parkman’s voice, scared and small, answered, “Who?”
    “Me,” I said.
    “Who?” he repeated.
    “Peters, Toby Peters.”
    “I don’t want any.