A Fatal Glass of Beer Read Online Free PDF Page B

trouble consuming more than a few moderately sized gourds of the brew. That soothsayer could truly see the future, but only when he was completely soused. Man couldn’t hold his liquor.”
    His car was parked at the curb, a large Cadillac with a driver. We got in the back, closed the door, and Fields reached for the built-in bar as we drove away.
    The driver was big, his head covered in thick, darkly matted hair, his neck a cord of muscles.
    It wasn’t far to DeMille Drive, where Fields rented a large house across the street from Cecil B. DeMille, an early settler after whom the street was named. The house and street were on a hill and when we stepped out of the car and closed the door, Fields grunted, “Gonna fire that driver. The Chimp’s got a bad attitude. Good solid Christian, cross around his neck, the whole business. Disapproval in his eyes and an accent he claims doesn’t exist but I’m sure is German.”
    We walked up a tiled path with arched trellises covered with flowers. The path was about fifty feet long.
    “My Chinaman keeps the posies fresh,” he said. “She’s away visiting her sister for a few weeks. My hope is to conclude this business before her return.”
    “Chinaman?” I asked.
    “Carlotta, my companion, my loyal rock in the midst of a turbulent sea of human thievery, chicanery, and wars both personal and national. She wore a Chinese outfit one of the first times I saw her. Called her Chinaman ever since. She retaliates by calling me Woody. My friends call me Bill, and the world at large is expected to call me Mr. Fields. Home.”
    We were standing in front of a big dark wooden door. He was fumbling for his keys when it opened. A large man in a black suit stood within. His face and body were definite and unfortunate reminders of a long-necked bird.
    “How did you know I was here?” Fields demanded. “Spying again?”
    The man didn’t answer. He turned and disappeared into the house.
    “Can’t remember his real name,” Fields confided in a whisper that echoed through the house, “but I call him the Baltimore Oriole. I’ve fired him and hired him and the Chimp at least six times. They display none of the respect I demand of my servants. I won’t tolerate it, but it’s the one thing I admire about the creatures.”
    Fields placed his cane gently into a hollowed-out elephant’s leg and hung his straw hat next to about a dozen other hats on pegs in the front hall. We moved to the left. I expected a living room, and I think it was originally intended as one. Along one wall was a half-size bowling alley. In the center of the room was a pool table. There was a cue shelf on the near wall which included a variety of both straight and oddly twisted cues. The high chairs that are found along the walls of many pool halls lined the walls of the room. The ceiling above the pool table was definitely sagging. Fields caught me looking at it.
    “Fella I rent this place from says I should repair it,” he said. “I say it’s his responsibility. We’ll end it all with swords, pistols, or in court.”
    “What’s upstairs, over the table?” I asked.
    “Ping-Pong table,” he said. “Best money can buy.”
    He led me through a bizarre labyrinth of rooms on the way upstairs, including a workout room with weights and a steam box. Another bedroom had nothing in it but a barber’s chair.
    “Sleep in that sometimes,” he said, nodding at the chair. “Go out for haircuts. I’ve always had trouble sleeping, from the time I was a kid. I can usually sleep on a pool table or in a barber chair. Beds and I are in a constant state of combat.”
    Finally, we arrived at a far-flung chamber that Fields said was his office. He found a key, opened the door, and we stepped in. He closed the door behind us and moved to a battered roll-top desk. He rolled the top up. On the desk was a microphone, and next to it was a square speaker with a series of buttons.
    “Place is completely wired, even the pathway to the