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Mandolin.”
    “You’re getting there, Shel,” I said.
    “Think so?” he asked brightly.
    I nodded. I didn’t tell him where I thought he was getting. My guess was somewhere south of a purgatory reserved for people with bad voices who insisted on playing instruments they couldn’t control or understand. The next level down was sinners who had to listen to them.
    “How can you stand it?” I asked Violet, who was writing out bills.
    “I’ve heard worse,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll tell you between you and me. Rocky loves to sing. Old songs in Italian. Loves it. But my Rocky can’t carry a tune. Can’t even drag it across the floor, but does he know it? No. I tell him he sounds like Frank Sinatra. Makes him happy to sing. Makes me happy too. Change of subject. I’ll give you six to four on the Maldinado fight next Saturday.”
    “I’ll think about it,” I said.
    “Offers open till tomorrow,” Violet said, sharpening a pencil.
    I left. The sixth-floor landing was empty. The sounds from the offices had hit a lull. The elevator was all the way on one. I could walk down before it inched its way up to six. I listened to my footsteps as I went down the stairs.
    I had my list of stops to make after I picked up the Crosley from No-Neck Arnie. When I got to the garage, Arnie was standing over the open hood of a Nash, tapping a big wrench in his hand and pondering the fate of the vehicle. If I owned that Nash, I wouldn’t have been happy with Arnie’s look.
    “Am I ready?” I asked.
    “Depends,” said Arnie, pulled from his reverie. “You talkin’ about the bill? That’s ready. You talking about will it run? It’s ready. You talkin’ about the future? That depends.”
    “On what?” I asked.
    “How long I can keep the Crosley going with wire, oil, trial and error, and luck.”
    “I’m reassured,” I said.
    “That’s what I’m here for,” he said looking back at the yawning Nash as he moved toward me. “Sixteen dollars and four cents. Parts and labor.”
    “What was wrong with it?”
    “The water wasn’t freezing into ice cubes,” he said deadpan.
    “That’s a Crosley joke,” I confirmed.
    He nodded and smiled. There were lots of Crosley jokes.
    “Valves,” he said. “I was right.”
    I pulled a pair of tens from my wallet and handed them to Arnie, who pocketed his wrench and made change from bills and coins in another pocket.
    “How’s your son? Hear from him?” I asked, heading for my car where it was parked in a dark corner.
    “Got a letter. Says he’s fine. Motor pool. Don’t know where. Fifth Army.”
    “I remember.”
    “It’ll be over soon,” Arnie said. “Then he’s coming back here to work with me again. Jeeps are the future, Peters. Mark my word here. Danny knows Jeeps. Army’s gonna sell thousands of ’em when the war’s over. We’ll put up a big sign, ‘We specialize in Jeeps.’”
    “I know a guy who can make the sign,” I said. “His name’s Fahid Sullivan.”
    “I’ll do it myself,” he said. “I’ve got artistic talent.”
    “Valves,” I said, heading for the Crosley.
    “Valves,” Arnie said. “Oh yeah, I figured out what was wrong with your passenger door. Got a hinge from a Studebaker. It fit. No charge.”
    “Thanks, Arnie,” I said.
    “Now, I got a sick Nash,” he said, and turned back to his patient.

CHAPTER
    3
     
    T HE OFFICE OF the Eugene O’Neill Society of Southern California was on Spring Street, a short ride from No-Neck Arnie’s. I could have saved rubber and gasoline by calling, but sometimes the best way to get information is to catch someone off guard. Catching Iona Struberki off guard proved unnecessary.
    The office was in a one-story strip of six offices, all with doors facing a cracking concrete parking lot. There were five other cars in the lot which provided space for visitors to Hollywood Title and Loan; William Kaar, Attorney at Law; Loyal Friends of Armenia; Arthur Lewis, pet doctor specializing in exotic