High Midnight: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Six) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B
Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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what’s on your mind?”
I told him in detail about Bowie, Gelhorn, Lola and the death of Costello. I told him about the man who had pounded me on the street and about Lombardi.
“I don’t want to do the picture,” said Cooper, downing a coffee. “ High Midnight’s not a bad script. There’d have to be changes. I couldn’t play the older sheriff—he’s a killer—and the new sheriff’s part isn’t big enough. I can’t break my contract, and I don’t want to work with Gelhorn. But most of all,” he said, tapping his finger on the table, “I don’t want to be told what to do. I don’t want to get you killed, and I don’t want to get me killed, but …”
“There are some things a man can’t walk away from,” I finished.
Cooper grinned and said, “Something like that. What’s your next move?”
“I think I have to go back to Lombardi,” I said without joy.
Cooper looked around the room and sucked in his lower lip. He was wearing what looked like a brand new tweed jacket and striped tie with a gold stickpin.
“I’m supposed to go on a hunting trip with a friend up in Utah this afternoon, but I’ve got a few hours now. I’ll go with you.” He waved for the waiter.
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“I don’t want to,” Cooper said, signing the check, “but I see my father up there over my shoulder.” He pointed up to his right shoulder. “And the Judge is telling me to go with you.”
Cooper got up, and I joined him. Heads turned to look at him as we left, and the sky greeted him outside by showing a touch of sun. By the time we got to my car, the sun had gone and the chill was back.
Lombardi’s new sausage factory was on Washington Avenue, not far from Fourth. On a clear, quiet day I was sure you could hear the noise of Ocean Park a few miles away. The Coney Island of the West was quiet today.
Cooper and I parked in the same lot I had been driven to by the now-departed Costello and his word-logged brother-in-law. Construction workers were finishing off a wall outside and machines were being assembled inside when we went through the double doors. One of the guys installing a white slicing machine spotted Cooper and nudged his co-worker, who looked over at us. I moved deeper into the place with Cooper at my side, taking one long step for every two of mine.
In the storefront with its long counter, scale and display cases, we found Lombardi with his two helpers in white, making the place kosher-style. The one called Steve was the first to spot us. He nudged Lombardi, who turned around. I didn’t like the look of anger that touched his face. I liked the smile that replaced it even less. He smoothed his hair with his left hand and offered his right to Cooper. Cooper took it.
“An honor to meet you,” said Lombardi. Cooper said nothing. He had put on a steel look from some role in the past. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Cooper is not going to do High Midnight ,” I said.
“I see,” said Lombardi. “That’s too bad. Too bad for maybe you and Mr. Cooper. There are certain influential people involved in this movie who will be very unhappy to hear that, very unhappy.”
Lombardi looked at me for the first time. His smile grew on his marked face. “And you—you know that big mouth of yours is going to get you into a lot of trouble. I can think of lots of things to do with tongues that wag.”
“Pickle them and sell them for thirty cents a pound sliced?” I tried.
“Something like that,” he said. Then he turned to Cooper. “You know we have a mutual friend, Lola Farmer.”
Now it was Cooper’s turn to smile. “I’ve talked to Miss Farmer. If you’re planning to let the newspapers know what happened back in 1933, go ahead. They’ve torn me up about Clara Bow and Lupe Velez and the Countess DeFrasso. You’re talking about a long time ago.”
“I understand there are other things besides our mutual friend that might make you consider this offer,” Lombardi
I told him in detail about Bowie, Gelhorn, Lola and the death of Costello. I told him about the man who had pounded me on the street and about Lombardi.
“I don’t want to do the picture,” said Cooper, downing a coffee. “ High Midnight’s not a bad script. There’d have to be changes. I couldn’t play the older sheriff—he’s a killer—and the new sheriff’s part isn’t big enough. I can’t break my contract, and I don’t want to work with Gelhorn. But most of all,” he said, tapping his finger on the table, “I don’t want to be told what to do. I don’t want to get you killed, and I don’t want to get me killed, but …”
“There are some things a man can’t walk away from,” I finished.
Cooper grinned and said, “Something like that. What’s your next move?”
“I think I have to go back to Lombardi,” I said without joy.
Cooper looked around the room and sucked in his lower lip. He was wearing what looked like a brand new tweed jacket and striped tie with a gold stickpin.
“I’m supposed to go on a hunting trip with a friend up in Utah this afternoon, but I’ve got a few hours now. I’ll go with you.” He waved for the waiter.
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“I don’t want to,” Cooper said, signing the check, “but I see my father up there over my shoulder.” He pointed up to his right shoulder. “And the Judge is telling me to go with you.”
Cooper got up, and I joined him. Heads turned to look at him as we left, and the sky greeted him outside by showing a touch of sun. By the time we got to my car, the sun had gone and the chill was back.
Lombardi’s new sausage factory was on Washington Avenue, not far from Fourth. On a clear, quiet day I was sure you could hear the noise of Ocean Park a few miles away. The Coney Island of the West was quiet today.
Cooper and I parked in the same lot I had been driven to by the now-departed Costello and his word-logged brother-in-law. Construction workers were finishing off a wall outside and machines were being assembled inside when we went through the double doors. One of the guys installing a white slicing machine spotted Cooper and nudged his co-worker, who looked over at us. I moved deeper into the place with Cooper at my side, taking one long step for every two of mine.
In the storefront with its long counter, scale and display cases, we found Lombardi with his two helpers in white, making the place kosher-style. The one called Steve was the first to spot us. He nudged Lombardi, who turned around. I didn’t like the look of anger that touched his face. I liked the smile that replaced it even less. He smoothed his hair with his left hand and offered his right to Cooper. Cooper took it.
“An honor to meet you,” said Lombardi. Cooper said nothing. He had put on a steel look from some role in the past. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Cooper is not going to do High Midnight ,” I said.
“I see,” said Lombardi. “That’s too bad. Too bad for maybe you and Mr. Cooper. There are certain influential people involved in this movie who will be very unhappy to hear that, very unhappy.”
Lombardi looked at me for the first time. His smile grew on his marked face. “And you—you know that big mouth of yours is going to get you into a lot of trouble. I can think of lots of things to do with tongues that wag.”
“Pickle them and sell them for thirty cents a pound sliced?” I tried.
“Something like that,” he said. Then he turned to Cooper. “You know we have a mutual friend, Lola Farmer.”
Now it was Cooper’s turn to smile. “I’ve talked to Miss Farmer. If you’re planning to let the newspapers know what happened back in 1933, go ahead. They’ve torn me up about Clara Bow and Lupe Velez and the Countess DeFrasso. You’re talking about a long time ago.”
“I understand there are other things besides our mutual friend that might make you consider this offer,” Lombardi
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