Read Online Mildred Pierced by Stuart M. Kaminsky - Free Book Online
Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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born.”
“I see,” I said.
“How can you, Mr. Peelers?” she asked. “You haven’t read it yet.”
I had long ago given up any attempt to convince Mrs. Plaut that I was neither an exterminator nor a book editor. I had some theories about how she had come to this conclusion, all of them connected to being almost deaf, unswervingly determined, and able to reconcile almost any contradiction that came her way.
She had been better since Gunther and I had given her a hearing aid, a Zenith Radionic, forty dollars, complete with radionic tubes, crystal microphones, and batteries. She had been better when she chose to wear it, which was seldom. Mrs. Plaut was somewhere over eighty years old and sometimes mentally over the rainbow. A broom handle of a little woman, she was strong, tireless and impossible to resist.
“Snuggle in and read it tonight,” she said. “After dinner. Dinner is at six twenty-seven. Please inform Mr. Gunther.”
I looked at Jamaica Red in his cage. He was busy pecking at his little glass bowl of seeds.
I had gone upstairs, bypassed my own room, and gone straight to Gunther’s, where I now sat.
“Dinner’s at six twenty-seven,” I said.
Gunther nodded in acceptance, and I held up the dart.
“Know what this is?”
Gunther put on his glasses, got down from his chair, and approached. I handed him the dart, saying, “Be careful. There may be poison on the tip.”
He took it carefully.
“Blowgun,” he said. “I have seen darts like this before. Pietro Guilermo, the knife thrower in the Romero Circus, had a blow-gun. He was a very versatile performer. The circus was small. When he threw knives, he wore a gypsy costume and earrings. When he used the blowgun to pop balloons, he covered himself with black makeup and became Zumbugo of New Guinea.”
“He ever use a crossbow?”
“No.” Gunther turned over the dart.
“Ever have a live target?”
“Yes. Me. Remember, the Romero Circus was small. I was primarily an acrobatic clown, but I helped with the other acts.”
“What can you tell me about blowguns and crossbows?”
“Very little, I’m sorry to say. But I know someone who can tell you anything you want to know, August Blake at the Southwest Museum. He is an expert on ancient weapons. If you like, I’ll call him.”
I told Gunther that I’d like to talk to August Blake as soon as possible. Gunther reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, came up with a leather address book and found the number he was looking for.
“I will be back in a moment.”
There was a small stool near the phone on the landing. Gunther stood on that when he used the wall-mounted pay phone. I stayed in the chair. Gunther was back in about five minutes.
“August Blake is on the phone. He can see us at eight at the museum. Would that be acceptable?”
“Eight is perfect,” I said.
This time Gunther was back in less than a minute.
“The museum is open till five,” Gunther said. “But August is working late tonight on a recently unearthed Mayan discovery, a double-edged ax never before considered a Mayan weapon or tool.”
I thanked Gunther, went to my room and clicked on the floor lamp. The room hadn’t changed. Next to the closet on my left was my bed, neatly made up with the little pillow Mrs. Plaut had given me, which bore the words “God Bless Our Happy Home.” Because of my unreliable back—the gift of a large Negro gentleman who had once given me a bear hug—I always pulled the mattress to the floor when I slept. I had to sleep on my back on something reasonably firm.
The large man who had done the damage to my back had wanted to talk to Mickey Rooney at an Andy Hardy premiere. I had been hired for the night to protect the star.
Each morning Mrs. Plaut woke me, looked at my position on the floor, closed her eyes, and shook her head at what she considered my eccentricity.
“I assume,” she had said the first time she discovered me that way, “that this is part and parcel
“I see,” I said.
“How can you, Mr. Peelers?” she asked. “You haven’t read it yet.”
I had long ago given up any attempt to convince Mrs. Plaut that I was neither an exterminator nor a book editor. I had some theories about how she had come to this conclusion, all of them connected to being almost deaf, unswervingly determined, and able to reconcile almost any contradiction that came her way.
She had been better since Gunther and I had given her a hearing aid, a Zenith Radionic, forty dollars, complete with radionic tubes, crystal microphones, and batteries. She had been better when she chose to wear it, which was seldom. Mrs. Plaut was somewhere over eighty years old and sometimes mentally over the rainbow. A broom handle of a little woman, she was strong, tireless and impossible to resist.
“Snuggle in and read it tonight,” she said. “After dinner. Dinner is at six twenty-seven. Please inform Mr. Gunther.”
I looked at Jamaica Red in his cage. He was busy pecking at his little glass bowl of seeds.
I had gone upstairs, bypassed my own room, and gone straight to Gunther’s, where I now sat.
“Dinner’s at six twenty-seven,” I said.
Gunther nodded in acceptance, and I held up the dart.
“Know what this is?”
Gunther put on his glasses, got down from his chair, and approached. I handed him the dart, saying, “Be careful. There may be poison on the tip.”
He took it carefully.
“Blowgun,” he said. “I have seen darts like this before. Pietro Guilermo, the knife thrower in the Romero Circus, had a blow-gun. He was a very versatile performer. The circus was small. When he threw knives, he wore a gypsy costume and earrings. When he used the blowgun to pop balloons, he covered himself with black makeup and became Zumbugo of New Guinea.”
“He ever use a crossbow?”
“No.” Gunther turned over the dart.
“Ever have a live target?”
“Yes. Me. Remember, the Romero Circus was small. I was primarily an acrobatic clown, but I helped with the other acts.”
“What can you tell me about blowguns and crossbows?”
“Very little, I’m sorry to say. But I know someone who can tell you anything you want to know, August Blake at the Southwest Museum. He is an expert on ancient weapons. If you like, I’ll call him.”
I told Gunther that I’d like to talk to August Blake as soon as possible. Gunther reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, came up with a leather address book and found the number he was looking for.
“I will be back in a moment.”
There was a small stool near the phone on the landing. Gunther stood on that when he used the wall-mounted pay phone. I stayed in the chair. Gunther was back in about five minutes.
“August Blake is on the phone. He can see us at eight at the museum. Would that be acceptable?”
“Eight is perfect,” I said.
This time Gunther was back in less than a minute.
“The museum is open till five,” Gunther said. “But August is working late tonight on a recently unearthed Mayan discovery, a double-edged ax never before considered a Mayan weapon or tool.”
I thanked Gunther, went to my room and clicked on the floor lamp. The room hadn’t changed. Next to the closet on my left was my bed, neatly made up with the little pillow Mrs. Plaut had given me, which bore the words “God Bless Our Happy Home.” Because of my unreliable back—the gift of a large Negro gentleman who had once given me a bear hug—I always pulled the mattress to the floor when I slept. I had to sleep on my back on something reasonably firm.
The large man who had done the damage to my back had wanted to talk to Mickey Rooney at an Andy Hardy premiere. I had been hired for the night to protect the star.
Each morning Mrs. Plaut woke me, looked at my position on the floor, closed her eyes, and shook her head at what she considered my eccentricity.
“I assume,” she had said the first time she discovered me that way, “that this is part and parcel
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