A Fatal Glass of Beer by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

“We’ll pay for it.”
    Somewhere below a baby began to cry.
    “Bill,” she said. “I’ve got to get back to him. I’m calling Sandy Milch.”
    I pulled on a pair of pants. Gunther did the same. I put my gun down just long enough to slip on the shirt I had worn the day before. I didn’t button it. I didn’t stop to pick up my shoes. Gunther buttoned his shirt as I moved to the door.
    “Kidnapped?” Gunther asked.
    “I don’t know,” I said, leading the way.
    I ran down the stairs to the lobby. The night-lights were on and baby Bill was whimpering somewhere in a room behind the counter. We looked around. The restaurant was dark, locked.
    It was Gunther who noticed the door of the barbershop across the lobby, slightly ajar. He pointed to it and tugged my sleeve. We moved to the door and I pushed it open. In the dim light of the lobby, we could make out a figure in the single chair. A low growling sound came from the figure. I trained my gun on the chair and Gunther scurried in search of a light switch. He found one.
    Fields, wrapped in his robe with the sash neatly tied, lay back in the chair, mouth open, snoring. There were no bullet holes in him.
    I moved to the chair and shook him gently. He grunted but remained asleep and snoring. I shook harder and said, “Bill.” Gunther tried. He was firmer about it than I and nearly shouted, “Mr. Fields, we have an emergency. You must awaken.”
    Suddenly Fields, his eyes open, sat upright in the chair and shouted, “Two crates of raspberries and one of oranges. You have my solemn word I’ll have them delivered in the morning. Besides, I didn’t know she was married.”
    He sat there blinking for a few seconds, rubbed his eyes, and then looked around the small barbershop, first at me and then at Gunther.
    “First decent sleep I’ve had in a week,” Fields grumbled, sitting forward. “And you have to wake me to play hide and seek.”
    “How did you get in here?” I asked.
    “My maiden aunt Calliope could open this door with a paper clip,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep. Came down here. Opened the door and got into the barber chair. A good specimen. About the same vintage as the one I have at home.”
    There was some activity in the lobby. I didn’t turn around to look. Gunther was doing that for me.
    “You didn’t hear the shots?” I said.
    “Shots?” Fields said, rising.
    “Someone tried to shoot you in bed,” I said. “Shot a couple of holes in your blanket and pillow. Gunther and I ran into your room. Woloski was there, with a gun. He got away. Dived through a second-story window and ran away.”
    “Second floor, eh? Once the show-business training is in your blood, you never forget,” sighed Fields, now standing, if not firmly. “I told you he was in cahoots with Hipnoodle.”
    “You did,” I said.
    Gunther touched my arm. Two men in brown uniforms with guns in their hands stood in the open door of the barbershop.
    “Put the gun down gentle,” said the older man, who had a belly almost as big as Fields’s. “Right on the barber chair’ll be just fine.”
    I did as I was told.
    “Despite the events of the past half hour or less I was blissfully ensconced in the arms of Morpheus, officers,” said Fields. “You are too late to help and too dangerous to be pointing loaded weapons at innocent people. If either of you is adept at needlepoint or sewing, you might go up to my room and try to repair the damage I understand has resulted in the puncturing of the bedding in my boudoir.”
    The older cop with the gut looked puzzled. “We’ll get to all that,” said the skinny younger cop. He looked like he was draft age, though he didn’t weigh in at more than a hundred and twenty. He took a step forward, deciding to take command from his older partner, and I could see it was probably the limp that had earned him a 4F.
    “You’re coming with us,” said the young skinny cop.
    “We’re coming with you,” I agreed. “Can we go get