The next day started off chill and foggy. When I took off my hat after entering the small Bayside Diner at a few minutes after ten A.M., I noticed that it was damp with mist. The narrow restaurant appeared to be entirely empty, but then I heard a groaning noise coming from behind the counter.
Crossing the room, I went up on tiptoe to peer over.
Stretched out face down on the floor was a husky black man. Breathing heavily, he was doing pushups while counting to himself.
“Six … shit … seven … oh Jesus … eight … goddamn.”
“Enery?” I inquired.
Enery McBride, who ran the Bayside most weekday mornings, let out a sigh and stretched out flat. “I have to get back in shape quick,” he explained, not looking up. “That’s because my career’s taken a turn for the better.”
“Which profession are we talking about?” I asked, settling onto a stool. “Fry cook or actor?”
Slowly he rolled over onto his back and then, groaning some more, he sat up. “Acting, Frank.”
“Great. What?”
He scrambled up into a standing position. “I’m going to be playing royalty in a new movie that starts shooting over at Paragon come Monday.”
“Royalty, huh?”
Enery nodded. “I’m signed to be the king of the cannibals in the latest TyGor the Jungle Boy flicker,” he explained, grinning. “I think it’s an impressive step upward from playing the porter in Murder Express.”
“Oh, without a doubt.”
“If I keep on climbing at this rate, I’ll be doing Othello for MGM in—what?—another year tops.”
“Shouldn’t even take that long.” I glanced back at the door. “Anybody been by asking for me?”
“Not so far.” Enery brushed dust off his white apron. “Coffee while you’re waiting?”
“Might as well, sure.”
“What do you think about Norma Shearer opposite me as Desdemona?”
“No, too old.”
“Mae West?”
“Better.”
He poured coffee into a tan mug and set it down in front of me.
I rested an elbow on the counter, asking, “You ever run into Peg McMorrow?”
Enery looked down, sighing again. “Yeah, poor kid,” he answered. “It’s funny, too, Frank. Because I heard she was going to be playing the white goddess in this latest TyGor epic.”
“You sure?”
“Not a hundred percent, but the scuttlebutt was she was all set.” He poured himself a mug of coffee. “So she shouldn’t have been very unhappy, not like the papers said.”
The door opened and I glanced over my shoulder.
George Tomley, a large wide man in his middle thirties came in. His blue suit already had a full day’s worth of wrinkles and his polka dot tie was askew. He nodded at a rear booth without saying anything.
“Friend of yours?” asked Enery.
“A leftover from my reporter days, yeah.” I gathered up my cup and headed for the booth.
“Morning,” said Tomley in his raspy voice, settling into the seat.
Frowning, I sat down opposite him. “I don’t notice any folder, George,” I said. “Not even a memo.”
“You’re very perceptive.” He rested both big hands flat on the tabletop. “That’s a great asset for a crackerjack reporter.”
“Or a crackerjack police detective like you, George,” I said. “When I phoned you last night, you promised to sneak out the file on Peg McMorrow’s death.”
He hunched slightly, voice dropping lower. “The case is closed, Frank,” he told me. “Shut tight. Over and done. On top of which, old buddy, the file turns out to be missing.”
“C’mon, she only died yesterday,” I said, eying him.
The plainclothes Bayside cop twisted his thick fingers together. “Seriously, Frank, this isn’t anything you want to dig into any further. Okay?”
“Meaning what—some kind of coverup?”
He didn’t say anything.
“What about getting a look at the autopsy report?”
After several silent seconds, Tomley replied, “That’s not available.”
I leaned forward. “Well, can you get me in to see her body?”
He shook his head. “Too late for that.”
“What do you mean, George? They misplaced that, too?”
“She was cremated,” he said, gesturing toward the foggy ocean outside. “And her ashes scattered over the Pacific.”
“Who the hell’s idea was that?”
“Hers.”
“Oh, so? Where’d she request that—in a P.S. to her suicide note?”
Tomley coughed into one big hand. “I snuck over here to fill you in as best I can, Frank,” he said. “Even if you were still a reporter with the Times, I’d advise you to forget about it. And, hell, as an ex-reporter—this sure isn’t anything you want to fool with.”
“Where’s the pressure coming from, George?” I asked. “Are we talking about movie people, local hoods or—”
“We’re not talking about anything.” He rose up, lurched free of the booth. “This is just one more suicide. They happen all the time, especially around Hollywood.” He leaned over, putting a hand on my shoulder. “It can be a very depressing town.”
The big cop let go of me, nodded once and went walking out into the morning fog.
From behind the counter Enery called, “You want something to eat, Frank?”
Shaking my head, I got up. “Nope,” I answered. “Turns out I don’t have much of an appetite.”