Read A Few Minutes Past Midnight for Free Online Page A

birds; Jean & Webster Mullicov, profession unlisted; and United Associations of the Arts.
    I stepped through the door of United Associations of the Arts and found myself in a small, cluttered office with a small, cluttered desk facing a white-haired woman with a cup of something steaming in one hand and a large cookie in the other.
    She smiled up at me as I entered, her right cheek packed chipmunk style. She had clear skin, dark eyes, and a thin nose.
    “Can I help you?” she asked, putting down her tea or coffee.
    “I hope so,” I said. “Miss …”
    “Iona Struberki,” she answered. “Would you like a chocolate-chip cookie?”
    She held out a plate. The cookies were large. I took one, looking for someplace to sit. The chair on my side of the desk was piled high with magazines. I stood.
    “This is the office of the Eugene O’Neill Society of Southern California?” I asked, taking a bite of the cookie. It was damn good, so I added, “These are great cookies.”
    “Thank you,” she said. “My sister and I made them.”
    She pointed at the wall to her right. I looked at a line of photographs.
    “Third from the right on top,” she said. “The one with glasses. That’s Mr. O’Neill.”
    O’Neill, his hair gray, his lips straight, his eyes unfocused looked out at nothing in particular.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “And next to and surrounding him are Lloyd C. Douglas, Louis Bromfield, John Steinbeck, Pearl Buck, John Dos Passos, and … but you are interested in our O’Neill Society, Mr….”
    “Peters,” I said, finishing my cookie. She held out the plate. I took another one. “You have societies for all these people?”
    “And many more,” Iona Struberki said proudly.
    I could smell the coffee now as she took a sip.
    “You wish to join? Our Eugene O’Neill Society has a five-dollar-per-year membership fee for which you get two newsletters and the right to attend our monthly meetings of readings from Mr. O’Neill’s works. Which is your favorite O’Neill play? Mine is Desire Under the Elms. Yours is …?”
    “ Strange Interlude ,” I said, remembering a scene in a Marx Brothers movie that made fun of the play. I had slept through the Clark Gable movie version of the O’Neill play.
    “Esoteric,” she said with delight.
    “Whenever possible,” I said. “How many members are there?”
    “In O’Neill? Eighty-six,” she said. “I must tell you we are not affiliated with any other of Mr. O’Neill’s appreciation groups though we are in contact with many. Not, however, with the so-called Eugene O’Neill Club of the West in San Francisco. You understand?”
    “Perfectly. You have a member named Fiona Sullivan?” I asked.
    She pursed her lips, put down her cup, and considered the question before raising a finger.
    “I don’t think so.”
    She opened a desk drawer, pulled out a ledger book of which the green cloth cover was badly faded, and began thumbing through for her page of O’Neill members.
    “No,” she said. “Three Sullivans. No Fiona, however. May I ask why you are looking for a Fiona Sullivan and why you expected to find her among our members?”
    “Mutual friend, loves O’Neill. Friend and I were talking about Charlie Chaplin and O’Neill’s daughter. He mentioned that a Fiona Sullivan was particularly bothered by the marriage.”
    “Not the only one,” Iona said with a sigh. “We were supposed to talk about Desire Under the Elms last Tuesday, but we couldn’t get past Oona. Very disappointing.”
    “Sorry I missed that,” I said. “Anyone particularly upset, angry with Chaplin?”
    This was the time for her to ask who I was and what I wanted, but Iona was caught up in the subject.
    “Upset? Almost ended the Society,” she said sadly. “I shouldn’t be telling a perspective member, but of the fourteen members in attendance, seven staunchly supported the union, seven were appalled.”
    “Anyone in particular upset?”
    “Mr. Kermody,” she said, squinting in