A Few Minutes Past Midnight Read Online Free PDF Page B

days.”
    “I’ll take ’em,” I said. “I’ll call Chaplin and tell him you’re on the way. Thanks, Jeremy.”
    “I’m going to write the Edgar Lee Masters poem,” he said. “Thank you for the idea.”
    “You’re welcome,” I said, and gave him Chaplin’s address.
    He hung up.
    “Chaplin has little teeth,” said Shelly. “Makes them look bigger when he smiles and shows gum, but they’re little. I could do a lot with Chaplin’s teeth.”
    “I’m sure you could,” I said, picking up the phone and dialing the number Chaplin had given me.
    I let it ring twelve times. A woman answered. I asked her to tell Chaplin that a Mr. Jeremy Butler was on the way from Mr. Peters.
    She repeated the message and I hung up.
    Shelly showed no signs of moving.
    “My stocks are up,” he said. “DuPont’s at forty-two and a half. GE is at thirty-seven and an eighth and Woolworth has thirty-six and a quarter. Mildred doesn’t know about the stock.”
    “I’m happy for you, Shelly.”
    “I feel guilty,” he said, removing the cigar from his mouth. “Maybe I should tell her.”
    “Maybe you should,” I said. “It’ll bring her running back to you.”
    “You really think so?” he said.
    “No. You tell her and she’ll get it and give it to …”
    “I don’t want to hear about Donaldo,” he said, rising.
    “Who’s Donaldo?” I asked.
    “I don’t want to talk about him,” Sheldon said, backing to the door, his hand out behind him reaching for the knob. “She wants to be with a … a priest, it’s her … I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “A priest?”
    “Well, a reverend, minister. Holy Church of Divine Sublimation in the valley.”
    “Near your apartment,” I said.
    “As it happens, coincidentally,” he said, opening the door.
    “I’d stay with DuPont and Woolworth,” I said. “Stay away from Mildred and the ukulele.”
    He was gone.
    I tried the third F. Sullivan in the directory. This time I got an answer. The man said he was Fahid Sullivan. I asked him if he was related to or knew a Fiona Sullivan.
    “My real name is Fahid Suliman,” he answered in a heavy Turkish accent. “I use the name Sullivan only for my business.”
    “Which is?”
    “I paint signs, store window signs, apartment for rent, dog for sale, and things of that nature. I know no Sullivans.”
    He asked me if I needed a sign.
    One good one from heaven would be nice, I thought, but I said no thanks and hung up. I cleaned stray pieces of taco meat and flour off my desk into the wastebasket, turned off the fan, and headed for the door.
    The phone rang. I went back for it.
    “Tobias,” came Anita’s voice. “Potatoes.”
    “How can I resist?” I asked. “How late will you be there?”
    “Seven,” she said.
    “I’ll be there before seven.”
    “The Roxy’s showing The Fallen Sparrow ,” she said.
    “I’ve got a job,” I said. “How about Tuesday?”
    “You’re turning down me and Maureen O’Hara?” she said.
    “And John Garfield,” I reminded her. “You can’t forget John Garfield.”
    “You’re right. I can’t,” she said with a laugh. “See you later.”
    I had taken Anita Maloney to our high school prom in Glendale. I hadn’t seen or really thought about her in thirty years until a few months earlier. I had run into her where she worked, behind the grill counter at Mack’s Pharmacy on Melrose. She had a bad marriage behind her. I had a marriage behind me. We had been listening to each other’s stories for a few months.
    Working at Mack’s, Anita had access to food without the need of ration stamps. When she had more than she needed of something extra for the grill—tomatoes, potatoes, cheese, or hot dogs—she gave me a call so that I could pick it up and bring in tribute to Mrs. Plaut along with my own food stamps. In exchange, she gave me her gas ration coupons.
    Shelly was plunking away at his ukulele, his legs crossed, trying to sound like Gene Austin singing “Lady Play Your