He Done Her Wrong: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Eight) (Toby Peters Mysteries) by Stuart M. Kaminsky

accident.”
    “Toby, are you all right?”
    “I’m O.K. Can you come and get me? I’ll tell you where I am. What did Mrs. Plaut mean about the cops looking for me?”
    “You are, it seems wanted for interrogation concerning the murder of a Mr. Grayson. I heard through the door. As you know I am not fond of the Los Angeles police.” He paused politely and waited for my next question.
    “Was my brother one of the cops who came?”
    “That is correct,” he said.
    I gave him directions and spent the next hour and ten minutes playing poker with Dot, who took me for four bucks and informed me that he would use the money to go into town and see Veronica Lake in This Gun for Hire .
    “She gets kissed by Robert Preston,” he said, his eyes glazing over with the look he reserved for Sergeant York and Veronica Lake.
    “I’ll have to catch it,” I said.
    When Gunther arrived, I picked up my package, thanked Dot, petted Thomas, and got into the car next to Gunther. Gunther’s Olds was equipped with built-up pedals so he could reach them.
    “Little fella,” said Dot, pointing at Gunther with his pipe.
    “I hadn’t noticed,” I said, and we pulled into the night heading back to L.A.

CHAPTER 5

     
    The next morning I got up early, had some coffee and the Wheaties, and put on my last suit, a brown wool that looked reasonably good if you didn’t get too close. Since it was Sunday, I couldn’t get my milk-smelling suit cleaned and the button sewed on, and I couldn’t contact Arnie to try to make a deal on the ’38 Ford before the price went up again. Dot had remembered to take the license plates off the old Buick and drop them in the box with the other goodies.
    A call to the Wilshire District Police Station told me that Phil was in and working. Crime doesn’t stop on Sunday. In fact, Saturday night is usually enough to make Sunday a cop’s daymare.
    No backache. No major bruises. I decided to walk the three miles and take in the California sea air, but by the time f hit Fairfax, the rain had started. I ducked into a doorway and looked for a cab. The streets were not quite empty, but Sunday mornings are not carnival time in Los Angeles. Everybody always seems to be someplace else. Too much land too spread out to absorb us all, but the war was helping make up for it by sending thousands in every day. Common sense would have had it the other way. The coast was the most vulnerable part of the States to Japanese attack. The Japanese were warning us every few days that they were coming. Maybe the bombing of Tokyo last week would give them something else to think about, maybe it wouldn’t.
    What brought people were the jobs. Soldiers, sailors, and marines shipped out from the coast. The fleet was always coming to San Diego. The big money was in the armed forces, and the jobs were where the big money was.
    California was having a love affair with men in uniform. They could drink, shout, maim, and abuse, usually one another, and they’d be forgiven like cute three-year-olds. Civilian guilt paved the way until their time ran out and they had to get on those ships and sail to hell island.
    The men in uniform who weren’t having a great time in L.A. were the cops. By the time I caught a cab and got to the station, the rain was slowing down. A quartet of uniformed cops stood at the top of the stone steps trying to decide if they should go out into the streets, dampen their uniforms and spirits, and look for the bad guys, who were too damned easy to find.
    I went in and nodded at the desk sergeant, an old-timer named Coronet, who nodded back. A sailor was sleeping on the wooden bench against the wall.
    “Got rolled,” said Coronet, nodding at the kid. “Swears it was two guys and Jean Harlow. I told him Harlow’s dead. And if she weren’t, why would she roll a sailor?”
    “Could have been someone who looked like Harlow?” I said.
    Coronet shook his shaggy white head wisely and offered me a stick of Dentyne. I stuck it