Tomorrow Is Another Day Read online

  No point in going back to Jeremy’s model apartment. I headed for Mrs. Plaut’s and made it there in about an hour. There was no waiting landlady. The house was quiet. I took off my shoes and tiptoed up the stairs slowly. In my room, I turned on the lights and put my bag on the sofa.

  Dash sat on the table. He didn’t purr. He didn’t scold or make noise. He waited for food. I gave him some and then I kicked off my pants and threw my shirt on the chair. I was too tired to wash, too tired to shave, too tired to think, and my back was starting to complain again. I turned off the lights, plopped on my mattress, and hugged my third pillow.

  My fingers touched something, paper. I groaned and sat up, crawling to the light with the paper in my hand. I found the switch and looked at the envelope, a Selznick International envelope complete with the drawing of the Selznick office building in the corner. My name was on it. I opened it. Single sheet. Simple message.

  “Tomorrow has finally come.”

  I hit the light switch, lay back, and closed my eyes.

  When I opened them, I discovered that Spelling or whoever he was was right. Tomorrow had come. The sun was coming through the window and my back hurt. A lesser man or a greater one would have been discouraged. There were three things to do. First, I lifted Dash off of my stomach. His claws tickled my skin and his weight threatened my lower back. Second, I pulled myself up by the couch and balanced, clutching the pink-and-blue pillow Mrs. Plaut had given me, with “God Bless Us Every One” stitched in pink on blue. I staggered slowly to the refrigerator, pulled out the nearly empty bottle of milk and an almost-full box of Hydrox vanilla cookies with the cream centers.

  I made it to the table, kicked the chair a few inches from the table, and sat. There was a reasonably clean coffee cup on the table. I filled it with milk and began dunking cookies. After six cookies I was feeling decidedly better, not yet human or able to walk, but with something to live for. After six more cookies, I was confident that life had meaning, but what that meaning might be was nowhere near my understanding.

  I was considering whether to finish the last three cookies and the rest of the milk when the door opened.

  “Toby,” said Gunther, dressed, pressed, and ready for the day in a three-piece suit and perfectly matched striped tie. “What is wrong?”

  “Wrong?” I said with a grin. “Nothing. My brother’s about to lose his job and it’s my fault. My ex-wife, who, by the way, I still love, is seeing my lawyer. My back is out. I am nearly broke and I’ve got an actor to protect and a killer to catch who makes no sense.”

  “That, if I may say so, does not seem that unusual for you,” said Gunther with concern.

  “I’m running out of cookies,” I tried.

  “That,” he said, “can be remedied. It is the look of protective madness in your eyes that concerns me.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I assured him.

  “You have a phone call,” he said.

  I nodded wisely and stood up, with effort.

  “Some focused meditation would help your back,” he said.

  I grunted and used the furniture and the walls to make it past Gunther and inch my way along the wall toward the phone.

  “I suggest you lean against me,” he said.

  I grunted again and leaned against Gunther, which made my back hurt even more but I didn’t have the heart to turn down his offer of help. Gunther was sensitive about his size.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “You got my note?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I didn’t sign it, but you know my name. Spelling.”

  “Nope. Try again. Spelling had no relatives,” I said.

  “Not officially.”

  “Not unofficially either,” I said. “I just read the autopsy report. Lots of stuff I didn’t understand, but I did understand this—he couldn’t have children. Born that way.”

  No sound on the other end at my less-than-brilliant but apparently effective lie. I was feeling better already.

  “Let’s hear a poem,” I suggested. “The day is young.”

  “The actor dies tonight,” he said, probably between clenched teeth. “And then you.”

  “Good-bye,” I said and hung up.

  I was feeling much, much better, though I didn’t know why. Gunther stayed with me while I called Shelly at the office. Violet Gonsenelli answered, all businesslike, “Dr. Minck’s office.”

  “Dr. Minck and Private Investigator Peters,” I corrected.

  “Dr. Minck told me …”

  “Minck and Peters, like The Spirit and Ebony, Plastic Man and Woozy Winks, Captain Midnight and Ichabod Mudd,” I said.

  “I don’t understand,” Violet said.

  “Is this the first call you’ve taken?”

  “Yes.”

  “It gets more confusing,” I said. “Let me talk to Shelly.”

  I talked to Shelly, fast, few words, and to the point. And then I turned to find myself facing the new boarder.

  Her sudden appearance didn’t dampen my senseless glee. I couldn’t remember her name, but I’ll never forget the look she gave me as Gunther and I said good morning and she hurried down the stairs.

  “I don’t think she cares for you, Gunther,” I said.

  “I suggest it is your countenance which disturbed her, Toby,” he said.

  I was dressed only in a pair of undershorts of doubtful cleanliness and protection. I needed a shave, a shower, a comb, and the impression that I could stand without the support of a wall and a very little person.

  “What’s your day like, Gunther?” I asked.

  “Well, it is in fact a rather complex one, Toby,” he said, helping me back to my room and to the chair at the table. “I have a luncheon engagement with Miss Stoltz, and Gwen is in the city and has asked if I could possibly meet with her at some point. I was thinking of tea or, perhaps … did you need my services before tonight?”

  “No,” I said. “Just so you’re in your tux and ready by six.”

  “I will be,” Gunther said. “If you have need of my help before eleven twenty-two, simply knock on the wall. I will be working.”

  And Gunther departed.

  Ten minutes later I made my way to the bathroom down the hall, carrying a pair of pants and a shirt from the closet. My pants from the night before were still on the floor. I could think of no way of picking them up and then coming to anything like a standing position without massive military assistance.

  I managed to shower, shave, shampoo, clean my ears with Q-tips, brush my teeth, and look myself in the face in the mirror.

  I wasn’t perfect, but I was better and better. I sat on the sofa, clutched Mrs. Plaut’s pillow, looked down at Dash who was washing himself, and fell asleep.

  Koko the Clown came in the room. He had a big orange drum with the words “University of Illinois” printed on it in blue letters. He was banging the drum and singing, “Cincinnati, Cincinnati,” over and over again in a voice I recognized but couldn’t place.

  “No,” I muttered.

  “Yes,” said Koko, banging the drum so hard that it split. Little penguins began to leap out of the drum. They looked around the room, looked at me, and went for the refrigerator. One stood on another and then another and another till they could reach the handle. I tried to say no again but I couldn’t move and Koko was banging on my stomach.

  He was whispering something. I hoped it wasn’t Cincinnati.

  “When are the unborn born? When are the dead not dead?” he said. It was Spelling’s voice.

  “How the hell should I know?” I said, or thought I said. “Riddle me no damn riddles and get those damn penquins back in the drum and away from my last three Hydrox cookies.”

  Koko was a foot tall and standing on the floor looking up at me with hands on his hips. The little white ball of yarn on the peak of his pointed cap was rippling from a sourceless wind.

  “Penguin,” he said.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Yo
u said penquin,” Koko corrected. “How can you catch me if you don’t catch the little mistakes.”

  The penguins turned. I don’t know how many of them. Each one had a Hydrox cookie in its beak. They were moving toward me and growing bigger. I tried to back away, scream, but I couldn’t. Then I opened my eyes.

  Shelly, Jeremy, and Gunther stood before me wearing tuxedos. Shelly’s neck was pinched and his face was red. He held out his hand, palm-up, and handed me three white pills. I took them and put them in my mouth. He handed me a glass of water. I drank it and handed the glass back.

  “No penquins in Cincinnati,” I said.

  Jeremy lifted me under the arms and turned me around. I was still clutching Mrs. Plaut’s pillow and I was facing the wall. Jeremy said something and then I felt a sudden whaap just above my rear end. Jeremy sat me down again and I handed him the pillow. He gave it to Gunther.

  “Sit quietly a minute or two,” Jeremy said.

  I blinked and sat quietly. Shelly handed me the glass of water again. I finished it. It was warm.

  “I’m okay now,” I said.

  “See if you can stand,” Jeremy said.

  I was slow, careful, but I could stand and the pain was gone. I’d had results like this before from Shelly’s pills and Jeremy’s knee and arms. It might last for days or weeks. Then again, my back might be worse than before in a few hours.

  “Time?” I asked, trying to focus on the Beech-Nut clock.

  “A few minutes after six,” Gunther said, looking at his big pocket watch.

  “Got to get into my tux,” I said.

  “We put it on you,” Shelly said, trying to breathe.

  I looked down.

  “How do I look?”

  “Functional,” said Jeremy.

  “Then,” I said, blowing out the bad air and brushing my hair back with my palms. “Let’s go to a party.”

  Chapter 13

  Mame Stoltz was waiting for us in front of the Ambassador Hotel where the Academy and its guests were arriving. She was wearing a black lacy gown with pearls around her neck. When she saw us, she dropped the cigarette she had been working on, ground it out with the sole of her black high-heeled pump, and said, “You’re late.”

  “Parking was difficult and Toby has been a bit beneath the weather,” said Gunther, taking her hand. “You look lovely.”

  I give it to Mame. She didn’t look around to see how the gathering crowd was reacting to the tender moment between the little man and the not-little woman.

  “Gunther’s right. You look awful, Toby,” she said.

  “You should have seen him twenty minutes ago,” said Shelly, looking around for celebrities.

  Mame led us past a Movietone crew interviewing Bing Crosby, who gave nods and waves to the fans gathering, calling, cheering. Photographers were taking pictures of everyone, including us.

  Lieutenant Van Heflin, wearing his dress army uniform, walked in ahead of us with a dark serious woman on his arm.

  “I tell you that’s Billy Barty,” a woman said.

  “The other one,” someone squealed. “That’s Sydney Greenstreet. I didn’t know he wore such thick glasses.”

  “That one. That one,” came another female voice. “I’ll bet that’s Van Heflin’s father.”

  I turned as we kept moving. The woman was pointing at me. Mame nodded and the two uniformed doormen backed by two uniformed security guards parted and we marched in. Shelly picked up the rear. He was grinning and waving to the crowd, who waved back.

  “I could have been an actor,” Shelly said as we followed Mame through the crowded lobby.

  Many of the men were in uniform. In fact, the Academy had claimed that 27,677 members of the industry were in the military. A fact that accounted for Lionel Varney’s triumphant return to Hollywood. I was looking for Lionel as we walked. I saw Tyrone Power in his marine private’s dress uniform talking to Alan Ladd in his air-corps private’s uniform. Power was about my height. Ladd barely reached his shoulders, but his eyes met mine and I was the one who turned away.

  A young woman in a maid’s uniform came past us with a tray of what looked like whipped eggs on Ritz crackers. Shelly grabbed three of them, almost knocking the woman over.

  “Through here,” Mame said over her shoulder.

  “Why’s the skinny guy here?” Shelly asked, nodding at a man in a corner talking to a tall, thin blonde with the reddest lips and whitest teeth I’d ever seen.

  “That’s Irving Berlin,” Mame said. “Stop gawking and get in here.”

  Mame closed the door when we had all piled into a room with a white wooden conference table surrounded by white matching chairs with gold trim. The table was clean and clear except for four pairs of white gloves.

  “Gable said to tell you that he was going to Georgia for a little while but then he’d be heading home to wait for your report on what happens.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Through that door is the kitchen,” Mame said, fishing a fresh cigarette from a pack in her purse.

  Gunther reached up to light it for her with a match which had magically appeared in his small hand.

  “Beyond the kitchen is the Coconut Grove,” she said. “The Universal table is to the left of the door beyond the kitchen. Three tables over. When the program starts, you can go into the Grove. Miguel, the assistant head waiter, will give you something to carry and tell you where to put it down. Then you just stand against a wall with your hands folded in front of you trying to look above the whole damn thing. Here.”

  She handed each of us a pair of the white gloves. Mine fit fine, which made me think that Shelly’s and Jeremy’s would be too tight and Gunther’s would be too large. Wrong. Everyone had the right-size gloves. Mame had been in the business for more than two decades. She could gauge a glove size with a glance.

  “Backstage,” I said. “One of us has to go backstage. Our friend Spelling, or whoever he is, may want to put on a little show. You know, jump out on the stage, shove Bob Hope aside, and take a few shots at Varney or Maureen O’Hara.”

  “There isn’t much of a backstage area,” said Mame. “Presenters come up from their tables and the receivers do the same, but …” She shrugged, taking a deep drag. “If that’s what it takes. Who goes backstage?”

  There was only one reasonable choice. I didn’t look at him but Gunther and Shelly did. Jeremy nodded.

  “Okay,” said Mame. “Come with me.”

  Mame patted Gunther’s cheek and they smiled at each other. Then she went back into the lobby with Jeremy behind her.

  “I look nothing like Billy Barty,” Gunther said with a sigh when they were gone. “Nothing? Am I correct?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “You’re both short,” said Shelly, stuffing the last of the whipped-egg canapés in his mouth. A spot of yellow stuck to his nose.

  “Yes, of course,” Gunther said with uncharacteristic sarcasm. “How could I have failed to notice that?”

  “It’s better than being Van Heflin’s father,” I said.

  “I have never seen Van Heflin’s father,” said Gunther.

  We went on like this for about five minutes till Mame returned. “Hurry,” she said and pushed open the door that led to the Coconut Grove kitchen.

  The kitchen was full of cooks, waitresses, and busboys, bustling busily as quietly as they could. Beyond the door across the room a woman was singing “The Star Spangled Banner.”

  “Lena Home,” Shelly said, as Mame clicked through the kitchen giving whispered greetings to the staff, who all seemed to recognize her.

  There was a small window in the door to the Grove dining room. Mame looked through it, checked her watch, and stepped away, pointing to the left of the window. I moved to the window. A small band was playing and Jeanette MacDonald was standing on a low platform at the far end of the room singing, her mouth wide and trembling. I looked to the left. It took me a few seconds to find Lionel Varney standing next to Turhan Bey. Lionel lo
oked great in the tux. Bey looked even better.

  The people in uniform were saluting. The men and women out of uniform had their hands to their hearts.

  I looked around for someone who might be Spelling, but it was tough to see much till they all sat down. I did see Jimmy Cagney biting his lower lip and smiling, his eyes fixed on MacDonald. He’d failed as best actor a few years ago in Angels with Dirty Faces. Variety and the Hollywood Reporter had him neck and neck this year with Ronald Colman. Yankee Doodle Dandy was the sentimental favorite, but the Academy was usually in M-G-M’s pocket, and Random Harvest looked good for Colman.

  “Lemme see,” said Shelly, putting his face next to mine and nudging me away.

  Gunther, who was about three feet short of the window, with no dignified way to look through, stood looking at the kitchen crew scurrying around.

  “She’s …” Shelly said. “Can you believe she’s so skinny? I mean she looks like a piece of spaghetti next to Nelson Eddy, but in real life she’s worse.”

  When the anthem was almost done, a dark man in a tux and gloves like ours pushed a silver cart next to us. The man had a receding hairline and a full mustache. Mame introduced him as Miguel and then she clicked away back through the kitchen.

  “Pitchers of water,” Miguel said. “One for table five.” He pointed at me. “One for seven.” He pointed at Shelly. “And one for table twelve.” He pointed at Gunther. “Directly to the left of the nearest gentleman to the kitchen at each table. Space has been set aside.”

  “Then,” he continued. “You find a place against the wall near the exit to the left,” the accented man said to Gunther. “And you stay against the wall and out of the way. If one of the guests should ask you for anything, nod, get the attention of a real waiter by raising your right hand no higher than your shoulder. A waiter will come and you will tell him quietly without bending your head to him what the guest wishes. Understood?”

  “Understood,” I agreed.

  “Good,” said the man, looking through the window. “Other pitchers of water are now being placed on the tables. It is time.”