Down for the Count: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Ten) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

windows, and when I saw searchlights aiming into the sky, I’d gone downstairs to join the other tenants of Mrs. Plaut’s boarding house. We stood and watched without knowing what was going on. Far away someone was pumping ack-ack rounds at the moon, and an air-raid warden came running down Heliotrope holding his metal pot on his head with one hand and telling us to go in and turn out the lights. It went on like that for two hours, till the sun came up. The next morning the L.A. Times told us foreign bombers had raided Southern California. There was even a report that a plane had been shot down near 185th and Vermont. It turned out that no planes had flown over California or been shot down, though there were casualties. Three people were killed in car crashes when they tried to get out of the city to avoid the oncoming Japanese. Two others had heart attacks. Air-raid wardens went down non-fatally all over the place after running into walls or civilians. The ack-ack had destroyed roofs, lawns, cars, and a Chinese restaurant.
    “Christ.” Lipparini went on pacing behind his desk. “If the Japs really came … You want coffee or something?”
    “No thanks,” I said. Curly and Larry didn’t say anything.
    “I’m trying to be a little friendly here,” Lipparini said. “You called me pushing and I’m trying to make it a little friendly.”
    “Coffee would be great,” I said.
    “Okay, that’s better.” He picked up one of the two phones on his desk, pushed a button, and said, “Mr. Peters would like a coffee.… I don’t know. Give him cream and sugar.” He hung up, still standing, gave the two standing men a disgruntled look, and turned his attention back to me.
    “I didn’t have Howard killed,” he said. “I didn’t even have him worked on. I was thinking about it, but I didn’t. And my boys didn’t do it on their own.”
    He looked at Curly and Larry, who didn’t look back.
    “If I found out they did, they’d be swimming for Japan.”
    “I thought you didn’t get rid of people,” I said.
    “I said,” he corrected, “I don’t get rid of people who owe me. If my people spin on me, they owe their skins, and the only way I can collect it is if I take it from their bodies.”
    It was a pleasant image but I didn’t want to dwell on it. I might owe my skin to Monty Lipparini some day. I considered not going on, saying good-bye, and searching for a new suspect. The light might not be as good on the street, but it would be a lot safer. There was a knock at the door and the bouncy blonde came in, smiling at all concerned, and handed me a cup of coffee. I took it, said thanks, and she left. Lipparini watched me. Curly and Larry watched me. I drank some coffee and smiled appreciatively. It was too sweet.
    “How you like it?” Lipparini asked, cocking his head as if my answer was very, very important.
    “Good coffee,” I said, taking another sip. The answer was right. It widened Lipparini’s grin and he pointed to the empty chair in front of his desk. I sat down.
    “I’m going into the coffee business,” he said. “Cars are too damn much trouble during a war. I’ll keep this place going but what the hell, you can’t get parts, tires, gas, cars. But coffee, that I can get. I’ve got a source in Cuba. What you’re drinking there is M. L. coffee. I got a couple of guys working on an ad for the radio. We’re going to be on the Milton Berle Show. M. L. coffee, one sip will make the war seem far away. How do you like it?”
    “Great,” I said.
    He was around the desk now, leaning close to me. It was hard to get the cup to my mouth. He looked at me for a few seconds and backed away. “What happened to your face?”
    “A cop shoved me,” I said.
    Lipparini nodded knowingly. He had been shoved by cops. “The way I figure it,” he said, “the only one who figured to gain from this Ralph Howard’s getting it is Howard’s widow. How about that?”
    “She didn’t do it,” I said, putting the