He Done Her Wrong: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Eight) (Toby Peters Mysteries) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

to trample people who try to make it worse. It’s raining here. I lost my car. I’ve got no money and I’m damn mad, lady. You want to go down with your old man, it’s your bingo card to play.”
    “I’ll think about it,” she said, breaking slightly.
    “Think fast,” I said. “If I get him before I hear from you, it’s too late.” I gave her my phone number and hung up.
    There wasn’t much else I could do to stall. I kept a Gillette razor in the bottom drawer. I’d already shaved in the morning, but I wanted to be sure. I took it out to Shelly’s sink along with a frayed toothbrush. There was plenty of sample toothpaste and powder around the office. I picked up a blue and white tin of Doctor Lyon’s.
    The sink was still piled high with dishes, and a spider was busily setting up house. I murdered him and set aside the razor and brush. I took off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves, and went to work. Using tooth powder for soap, I had the dishes shiny in ten minutes. I considered doing the whole office, looked at my watch, which told me nothing, and decided that I couldn’t stall anymore if I was going to make it.
    I shaved, dried myself with a reasonably clean towel, brushed my teeth, and got the caked paste out of the brush with hot water. At that point, someone knocked at the outer office door. I yelled “Come in” and he did. He was about six feet tall, short sandy hair, glasses, a nice suit and a little briefcase under his arm. He looked like an up-and-coming young movie star, the kind of actor you’d expect to see standing next to Robert Taylor as they defended the Pacific.
    “Mr. Peters?” he asked stepping in.
    I told him he was right, walked into my office, and pointed to the chair on the other side of the desk. He sat, adjusted his glasses and tie, and looked at me.
    “I know what you’re thinking,” he said.
    I had been thinking that if he was a client desperate enough to look me up on a Sunday I would do my best to get a reasonable advance out of him and put him aside for a few days.
    “You were wondering why I’m not in the services,” he said. “I have an ulcer in my colon.”
    “Sorry to hear that, Mr.—”
    “Gartley,” he finished reaching into his portfolio and pulling out some papers.
    “What can I do for you, Mr. Gartley?” I asked folding my hands on the desk and giving him my most professional look.
    “Though I’m not in the services”—Gartley went on finding the right papers—“I am doing work essential to the war effort. What does a war require?”
    “Men, guns, an enemy,” I answered.
    “Money, Mr. Peters,” he said shaking some of his papers at me. “Money. And I help to get it.”
    “You’re raising money, selling bonds?” I guessed.
    He shook his head no.
    “We have written to you several times but you haven’t responded,” he said the way you talk to a kid who hasn’t eaten all of his peas.
    “We?” I tried.
    “Bureau of Internal Revenue,” he said sadly. “You owe your government some money. Your income tax forms were, at best, a mess.”
    “I never got your letters,” I said looking for something to play with. I found a mechanical Eversharp pencil that hadn’t worked for years.
    “Possibly, but unlikely. According to our records you made only one thousand eight hundred sixty-seven dollars in 1941. Is that true?”
    “True.”
    “Forgive me, Mr. Peters, but that is a bit difficult to believe.”
    “I forgive you. I also agree with you. It’s difficult to believe. Look around. I have a luxury office in a select location, drive the latest in modern transportation, have a standing reserved table at Ciro’s and Chasen’s, and reside among the stars. Drop by my house later. I’ll have the servants prepare a picnic on the patio.”
    “You are being sarcastic,” Gartley said without smiling.
    “I’m trying,” I agreed. “Now where do we go?”
    “You give us a detailed listing of all your property and a more complete set of data on