A Fatal Glass of Beer by Stuart M. Kaminsky

down. No one else came in while I waited. The radio was on and the waitress was listening to “Mary Noble, Backstage Wife.” From what I could tell, Mary, with great determination and dignity, was warning a young actress to stay away from Mary’s husband.
    The waitress returned in a few minutes with the chicken pie and dumplings.
    “You from New York?” she said, standing next to me as I started to eat.
    “Los Angeles,” I said.
    “Can I ask you something?”
    “Sure,” I said.
    “Are you a policeman or a gangster?”
    “Somewhere in between,” I said.
    The chicken pie and dumplings smelled terrific. I felt better immediately and held back visions of apple pie and ice cream. She stood, wanting to say more.
    “Married?” she asked.
    “No,” I said.
    “Me neither. Gonna be in town long?”
    “Just overnight,” I said.
    “I could close down at nine,” she said.
    I looked up at her. Cute. Maybe twenty-three. Bored. Someone looking dangerous comes in for the chicken and dumplings and she decides to take a chance.
    “I’m old enough to be your father,” I said. “Easy. Probably older than your father.”
    “So’s Harold Winch,” she said. “I go out with him. He stutters. Not many young men in town with the war and all.”
    “Look,” I said, zipping my jacket down partway and showing my gun and holster to her. “I’m the bodyguard for a movie star. We just checked in for the night. I’m not going to be getting any sleep. I’ll be sitting up all night with this in my lap. There’s a guy following us, thinks my client owes him money. You’re one cute kid but …”
    “I understand,” she said with a sigh. “You got a girl back in Los Angeles?”
    “A woman,” I amended as I continued to eat. “She’s a waitress too.”
    She nodded. “Want some more?”
    I grinned and said sure. She took my plate and came back with another helping.
    “If I went to Los Angeles and looked you up,” she said, “could you maybe get me into movies? I mean, this guy you’re protecting. He must have connections.”
    “We can try,” I said. “My name’s Toby Peters. I’m in the phone book. I’m telling you not to try, to take my word, but it won’t do any good and, who knows, you’ve got the energy, looks, figure, teeth, and nerve. Look me up in L.A.”
    “I’ll get your pie,” she said.
    She moved across the empty room behind the counter and someone appeared in the door of the restaurant. It was the Chimp. He spotted me right away. I held up my .38 in my right hand and worked on a dumpling with my left.
    He glared at me for a moment, took a step toward me, changed his mind, and disappeared. I dropped four dollars and some change on the table as the waitress returned.
    “I think I’ll eat this in my room,” I said. “Got to get back to work.”
    She shrugged, gave me a disappointed look, and handed me Fields’s tuna sandwich, neatly wrapped in wax paper.
    I put the sandwich in my pocket and, one hand holding the pie and ice cream and the other my .38, went into the lobby. Empty. I went up the stairs to Fields’s room, gave him the knock, and waited while he opened the door. He was in his underwear and still wearing his hat.
    “I saw the Chimp downstairs,” I said, handing him the sandwich. “He saw me. Keep your door locked. I’ll listen for anyone coming.”
    “Called my secretary,” Fields said. “The Chimp is Albert Woloski. Forty-four years of age. Two prison terms, plus an overnight misdemeanor for purse snatching. Two felonies. Armed robbery. Did eight years with the Carnes Circus—roustabout, cook, tumbler, catcher for a trapeze act. Can’t say he’s the least savory character I’ve encountered in my travels, but the others weren’t trying to steal all my money and kill me.”
    “Keep your door locked,” I said. “And put a chair under the knob.”
    “Up at six,” he answered.
    I nodded and he closed the door.
    I went to my room. Gunther was dressed. I told him about the