Dancing in the Dark

Chapter Ten: All Right Chillen, Let’s Dance

A thin sheet of light shone under the door of my room and made a faint fan pattern on the wooden floor. I held the gun in my right hand, stood to the side of the door, and opened it quickly with my left as I jumped into the open doorway and leveled my weapon at a woman sitting on my sofa with a copy of Woman’s Day in one hand, the other stroking Dash, who purred happily.

She looked up at me and smiled wearily.

I smiled back. She looked like she was about forty. Great teeth, blond hair pulled back, definitely clean and pretty. She wore a yellow dress that fit her snugly.

“Tough night?” she asked, looking at the gun in my hand.

She put down the magazine but continued to stroke the cat.

“Tough night,” I said, closing my door, unable to place her familiar voice.

“I’m unarmed,” she said.

“I can see that.”

I put the gun back into my pocket. Guns are hell on pockets. I had a shoulder holster, one I bought when I was a cop in Glendale. I seldom used it and I almost never took the.38 from my closet.

“I have a message for you,” she said now, stroking the contented Dash under his orange chin. “Violet would like you to bring the money you owe her in the morning.”

“You’re a friend of Violet?”

I was still standing. The only thing between us was the mattress, covered by a green blanket, on the floor.

“When I called your office, I talked to Violet. She gave me your address and asked me to remind you about the money. She said you lost a bet.”

I moved to the table near the window, pulled out one of my two wooden chairs, and turned it toward her. I sat and tried to place that look and voice.

“You don’t recognize me,” she said.

I shrugged. “It’s been a long day.”

“Mr. Dutz, Music. How do we know radio announcers have small hands?”

“Because,” I answered. “They say ‘wee paws now for station identification.’ ” Dutz told that same dumb joke every semester. Clue number one, she had gone to Glendale High a long time ago. Dutz had been dead for almost twenty years.

“Don’t have it yet?” she said, crossing her legs. They were good legs.

“You’re not?. .” I started.

“The flower was a purple orchid. You kissed me at my front door. You kept your mouth closed and your eyes open.”

“Anita?”

“I clean up pretty good, Tobias,” she said with a smile. “When you came to the diner the other day, I had put in twelve hours on my feet and had one hell of a Chinese headache. Not to mention that I wasn’t wearing any makeup and I hadn’t had my hair dyed and done in more than a month.”

It was hard to believe this was the same tired woman who had served me at Mack’s diner and reminded me that I had taken her to the prom.

“Anita, what the. . what are you doing here?”

She took Dash on her lap. Something the cat never allowed. Dash nuzzled against her breast. I was definitely waking up.

“You said you’d call. You didn’t. I called. You didn’t return my calls. I’m persistent. You want to hear a quick version of my life story since high school, the part I didn’t cover at the diner?”

“I. .”

“I think we should renew our acquaintance before we. . By the way, why don’t you have a bed?”

“Bad back,” I said. “Big guy gave me a bear hug right before the war. I was guarding Mickey Rooney. The big guy wanted to talk to him. I was in the way. Back’s had a tendency to go out ever since. I sleep on my back on a hard mattress.”

“See,” she said. “We’re getting to know each other. After Ozzie,” she said, nuzzling her nose against Dash’s, “I started college. One year at Scripps College for Women. Not easy when you’re raising a kid. I put in odd hours at a diner on the Coast Highway. Got a part in a play we were putting on at Scripps with. . you have coffee?”

“I’ll make some,” I said. “Keep talking.”

She talked. I made coffee.

“Anyway, we put the play on with men from Pomona College. Men, boys. The play was Mrs. Fowles’s Mistake: A Comedy in Three Acts. You know the kind of thing. Mistaken identities. Costumes. Women cheating on men who were cheating on women. I got bitten by the acting bug and a senior named Harold Sumner. We ran off, got married, found an apartment in Hollywood, and I tried to get into the movies. While I was ducking big-handed casting directors, Harold was. . dallying with a variety of ladies, young and not-so-young. Am I boring you?”

“No,” I said, setting out two cups and saucers while the coffee perked on my hot plate.

“Bear with me,” she said. “There’s a point. I threw Harold out when I caught him with my mother. They were necking in the front seat of her car half a block from our apartment. My mother was a good-looking woman. Bad judge of men. It runs in the family.”

“Want some toast with your coffee?” I asked.

She shrugged. I dropped two slices in the toaster and turned it on.

“Gave up on acting,” she said. “Tried office work. Great Pacific Insurance. Businessmen and salesmen have hands just as big as casting directors. I married a nice older guy who owned a diner where I had lunch with a few other girls. Nice guy, Mack Chirikides. I went to work with him in the diner. Customers have big hands. Mack died. Found out he’d spent all his money on horses. There was mortgage to pay on the diner. A kid to raise. I kept working. You came in there the other day.”

“Your kid?” I asked.

“One girl, with Ozzie,” she said. “Lonny. She’s married, lives in Sacramento. Husband’s in the army. They’ve got one kid, Mal.”

“You don’t look like a grandmother,” I said, gingerly pulling the toast out of the toaster and dropping it onto a plate.

“You?” she asked with a smile.

“Married Anne. Went to work for the Glendale Police force. Was asked to leave. Did security work for Warner Brothers. Got fired. Became a private detective. Lost Anne, wound up here.”

The coffee was ready.

“Sugar and milk?” I asked.

“Black,” she said. “I want to stay awake and I have to open the diner at seven.”

She put Dash gently down on the sofa. He curled up and went to sleep.

“I fed him,” she said, moving around the mattress and to the table. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Fine,” I said, pouring the coffee into two mugs. I pulled some orange marmalade from the small refrigerator and put it on the table.

“Well,” Anita said, taking a sip of coffee. “I’ve thought about you off and on over the years. You didn’t have big hands and you didn’t know how to kiss.”

“That was a lot of years ago,” I said. “I was a kid.”

She nodded and said, “So was I. Since Mack died twelve years ago, I’ve been to bed with three men: a cop, a bread salesman, and a sergeant in the army. They all reminded me of you.”

I didn’t know what to say. I look in the mirror every morning to shave-well, almost every morning. What I see there is a definitely middle-aged man whose hair is rapidly going gray. I see a brown-eyed mug with a mashed-in nose. I do not see anyone close to Preston Stewart. I do not even see Humphrey Bogart.

“So,” I said. “You tracked me down.”

“To end the fantasy or bring it to life,” she said.

“Nicely put,” I said.

“I do a lot of reading.”

She was looking at me over her cup. She held the cup in two hands. Her fingernails were short and very red. Her hands were rough. Her eyes were moist and perfect and when she put the cup down, her lips were red and full just like the girl I had kissed on prom night.

“Are you a little nuts?” I asked.

“Not usually,” she said with a sigh. “I’m usually a patient counter cleaner who knows how to keep her customers happy and her bottom from being pinched. I don’t think I’ve done a really wild thing in my life besides this. Are we going to keep talking?”

I got up and so did she. I moved to her. She pressed against me. The height was right. The feel of her breasts was right. I kissed her. Not like the kid at her door, like Gary Cooper. Long. Mouths open. She eased away and her hand went down between my legs. She smiled.

“Let’s end the fantasy,” I said.

“Let’s see if we can find a new and better one,” she answered.

Something woke me up. The first light of the sun was just glowing through the darkness. I blinked at the Beech-Nut clock on the wall. It was ten after six. I sat up. Anita came through the door.

“Wash room,” she said. “I’ve got to get to the diner.”

She leaned over and kissed me. I kissed back and tried to pull her gently back onto the mattress. She patted my hand and I let go.

“How’s your fantasy?” I asked.

“Alive and well,” she said with a smile.

“Movie Saturday?” I asked.

“Saturday night is busy,” she answered. “You can have me all day Sunday.”

I grinned and she left. I thought about Anne. I didn’t much care at the moment if she married Preston Stewart or Tojo. If it weren’t for the fact that someone had tried to kill me the night before, I would be in a damned good mood. My rear end didn’t even hurt, though there was a tenderness to it that I had done my best to keep Anita from finding out about.

I threw the covers back and went through my ritual of standing up. First roll over on my hands and knees. Then put one foot on the floor and rise slowly. I waddled naked to the dresser in the corner, found a clean though holey pair of underpants and some socks that were not in need of serious mending, and put them on. Trousers were another problem. I went to the closet and found a pair of navy twills and a shirt with all the buttons. My poplin jacket was ruined, probably beyond repair after my fall on the roof where Willie Talbott was killed. I had a tan zipper jacket. The good news was that it was clean. The bad news was that the zipper didn’t work. I pulled it out anyway.

Before I put on the shirt, I went down the hall to the communal bathroom. I thought I’d easily be the first one up. I was mistaken. Someone was taking a shower. I knocked on the door. Mr. Hill, the mailman who turned into an opera singer when he had some of Mrs. Plaut’s Christmas grog in him, called, “Come in.”

“It’s me,” I said loudly. “Toby Peters. Mind if I shave?”

“Shave,” he called.

The room was steamy. That included the mirror. I shaved carefully with my Gem razor and a fresh blade. The day was going well so far. I managed to keep from cutting my throat or even nicking my chin.

“Early run,” Mr. Hill said. “Why are you up? You’re never up this early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I said, gathering my shaving gear and trying to examine my face in the mirror, which had clouded again.

“Know how it is,” he said. “Miss Reynal and I were up late in the parlor, talking.”

Miss Reynal was the latest boarder, a redhead about forty-six, kind of pretty in a skinny way, which apparently was to Mr. Hill’s liking.

“She’s a fine woman,” I said.

“Yes,” said Mr. Hill in a rather throaty voice. Love was definitely in the air of the upstairs rooms of Mrs. Plaut’s boardinghouse.

I dressed, put on my shoulder holster and gun, and covered them with my jacket that wouldn’t zipper. Then Dash and I each had a big bowl of Wheaties and I was off on my quest for a killer.

Mrs. Plaut caught me as I tiptoed down the stairs. Mrs. Plaut seemed to sense when a boarder was going up or down.

“Mr. Peelers,” she said, her hands folded over her broom-stick frame. She was still or again wearing the Mister’s robe.

“Yes, Mrs. Plaut.”

“Your sister did not leave here till one hour past.”

“We were up late talking about old times.”

“What sane person would remain awake all night trying to remember old rhymes?” Mrs. Plaut was not wearing her hearing aid.

“She slept on the sofa,” I shouted. Cornelia the budgie began chirping wildly.

“Your sister?”

“My sister.”

“You do not look at all alike,” she said suspiciously.

“You don’t think so?” I shouted. “Strange, most people see the resemblance immediately. But I tend to think Anita looks like mom while I look like dad.”

“Yes, you do seem to be quite mad. Here nor there. Sister or no sister. She stayed the night. Overnight guest rate is two dollars.”

I got two dollars out of my wallet.

“New ration books Monday,” she said, poking the two singles into the depths of the Mister’s robe.

“I’ll give you the food stamps, Mrs. Plaut.”

“Dole’s liniment,” she said. “Takes care of your foot cramps like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“Thank you,” I shouted, trying to get past her.

“Wait,” she said, holding up her hand.

I stood in the hall while she went back into her rooms. Cornelia was calming down but still pissed. Mrs. Plaut returned and handed me the world’s largest muffin, or a small cake.

“Grandma Willitt’s recipe for okra muffins,” she said. “Tastes almost as good, but I used Crisco instead of butter. There’s a war on.”

“I know,” I shouted, holding the muffin in two hands.

“Return the tinfoil,” she said, pointing at the muffin.

I nodded and she went into her rooms, closing the door. I took a step toward the front door and Mrs. Plaut reappeared. She had a gun in her hand and it was aimed in the general direction of my crotch.

“Smith and Wesson thirty-eight Police Model Ten with a square butt. Neuter you in a flash.”

I stood there with the okra muffin in my hand and smiled.

“Better weapon than that Police Special of yours,” she said. “Belonged to the Mister.”

“Like the robe,” I shouted.

“Like everything in the house including the house,” she said.

“I’ve got to get going.”

“Give my hellos to your sister,” Mrs. Plaut said, her weapon still aimed in my general direction. “I like her.”

I retreated through the front door to the sunrise. No one shot at me. I headed for my car, wondering if I should drop the muffin and put my hand on my gun.

When I got to the Crosley, I knew something was wrong. The rear window was back, I went to the side of the car and looked in. The glass on the rear seat had been cleaned up. Someone had even done a not-too-bad job of painting the bullet streak on the roof.

I got in the car. There was an envelope on the passengerside seat. My name was on the envelope. I opened it. There were five crisp hundred-dollar bills in it and a handwritten note:

Peters. I clean up after myself. Take the money and forget the investigation. I don’t want to clean up blood. Last night was a warning. There will be no more.

There was no signature. I put the note back in the envelope and looked at the bills. I folded them, shoved them in my pocket, and drove back to the Farraday Building.

My hope, as it had been at Mrs. Plaut’s, was that it was still too early for any of the tenants to be in, though I knew Jeremy would be up and about with his soapy bucket and patient determination, ready for combat with grime.

I parked in front. There were plenty of spaces and I didn’t expect to be there very long.

The door of the Farraday was locked. I figured it was no later than seven or seven-fifteen. I used my key and went in. The dim lights were still on and the Farraday was silent. I went up the stairway slowly, trying to make sense out of what was going on. I had no success. I did have five hundred dollars and a note. Everybody was giving me money-Astaire, Forbes, the guy who shot at me. I was rapidly gaining some sense of financial security. My love life had shown a definite and surprising improvement. And I had no idea who killed Luna Martin or Willie Talbott.

There were no lights on in the offices of Minck and Peters, but the door was open. Could be lots of reasons. Shelly or Violet had forgotten to lock it last night. Someone was inside waiting to kill me. Or, most unpleasant to contemplate, Shelly had arrived painfully early. When I opened the inner door I found that the worst had come to pass.

Shelly was in his dental chair. Violet was leaning over him, their faces close together. The lights were out and the venetian blinds were closed, letting in hints of sunlight.

“Good morning,” I said.

Violet jumped away from Shelly and Shelly blinked twice at me and shifted in his chair. He didn’t have his white smock on yet. All he was wearing were his trousers, a shirt, and a dazed look.

“Toby?” he asked.

“Put your glasses on, Shel,” I said.

Shelly groped in his pocket and came up with his thick, heavily fingerprinted glasses. He perched them on the end of his nose. “Toby,” he repeated, only not as a question.

“Dr. Minck has had a tragedy,” said Violet, who was wearing a tight-fitting dress that matched her name.

“Mildred threw me out,” Shelly cried.

“And Dr. Minck called and asked me to come in early to give him some support,” explained Violet, checking her hair for strays.

“It’s not what it looks like, Toby,” Shelly said.

“I know,” I said. “If you touched Violet, and I can’t imagine her letting you, her husband would be through that door when the war was over to batter your misshapen body with his lethal fists. Am I right, Violet?”

“One hundred percent, Mr. Peters, but Dr. Minck has been a gentleman.”

“A despondent gentleman,” Shelly said, putting his head in his pudgy-fingered hands. “A depressed gentleman. A gentleman on the verge of breakdown. A gentleman. .”

“How many times has Mildred thrown you out, Sheldon?” I asked.

He shrugged and threw up his hands.

“Five? Ten? More?”

“This one is different, Toby. She accused me of. . you know, with Mrs. Gonsenelli. She just saw her picture and. .”

“Saw her picture?” I asked.

“In my wallet,” Shelly explained.

“You carry Violet’s photograph in your wallet?”

“Behind my driver’s license. How was I to know Mildred would go through every card in my wallet?” he said, almost weeping.

“Can I get you coffee?” Violet volunteered.

“Black for Dr. Minck, cream and sugar for me.”

I reached into my pocket for change but Violet waved me off, saying, “You can pay me when I get back and you pay up for the fight.”

“Mauriello wasn’t trying,” I said.

“He lost,” Violet said reasonably, moving toward the door. “You’ll be all right, Dr. Minck?”

Shelly was choked with emotion. He couldn’t speak through his tears. He waved her on and she went out the door.

“Shel,” I said. “You can stop. She’s gone.”

Shelly looked over the top of his glasses, saw that I was telling the truth, and said angrily, “Five more minutes, Toby. Five more and she would have felt so sorry for me that. .”

“I don’t think so, Shel. Did Mildred really throw you out?”

“Yep,” he said, getting out of the chair. “But she’ll get over it. Always does. Toby, I love that woman.”

“Which one?”

“My wife.” Shelly searched the floor for his shoes, found them, and picked them up.

“I’m checking my messages and then I’m out of here.”

“I think maybe the police believed me,” Shelly said, grunting into his shoes as he sat in his dental chair. “A captain named Cawelti came by the house last night. One of the reasons besides Violet that Mildred threw me out. Wanted to know why Luna Martin pointed at me before she fell down dead. Told him I didn’t know. Asked a lot of questions about you.”

“We’re old ballet-school classmates,” I said.

“You went to ballet school?” Shelly had paused in putting on his shoes and looked at me as if I had surprised him with a secret identity.

“Sure, before I became a cop. Starred in Swan Lake,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“No,” I agreed.

“Fingers,” he said. “He’s not trying to kill me, cut off my fingers?”

“No.”

“Can I believe you? I mean, really believe you?”

“Have I ever lied to you, Sheldon?”

“Many times,” Shelly said, looking around the office for his smock. “Wait, maybe Luna Martin wasn’t pointing at me before she died. Maybe she was pointing at someone behind me. After all, she was dying.”

“There wasn’t anyone behind you,” I reminded him.

An idea struck me. There had been no one behind Shelly but there was. . something. Then the idea seemed stupid.

The outer door opened and Violet called, “Someone open the door. My hands are full.”

I moved to the door and opened it. Violet came in with two paper cartons of coffee.

“When you finish the coffee,” she said, handing me one, “rinse it and put it in the wastepaper bin in your office.”

“I have a wastepaper bin in my office?”

“War effort,” she said seriously. “Dr. Minck said it was okay.”

I looked at Shelly. He was, with Violet’s return, once again on the verge of suicide. Violet handed him the other carton of coffee. He took it and touched her hand, saying, “God bless you, Violet. I don’t know how I would have gotten through the morning without you.”

Violet smiled, patted his hand, and turned to face me. “Calls,” she said, looking up at the ceiling and biting her charming lower lip. “A Mr. Astor, said you had his number. And a Mr. Forbes. Forbes left a number. I put it on your desk. He said he had to see you first thing this morning. Said it was very important. And a Mr. Canton called. Said you owe him money and would you please pay. Only he didn’t say ‘please.’ ”

“That it?” I asked, moving to my office and trying not to spill coffee.

“That’s it,” she said, following.

“Don’t leave me,” Shelly called.

“Be right back,” Violet said.

Shelly was sobbing now and looking around the dental office as if he had never seen it before. “Oh Death,” he wept. “Where is thy sting.”

I went into my office. Violet followed me and closed the door. In the corner was a cardboard box already half full of newspapers and old dental magazines.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Peters,” she said. “Dr. Minck is a cuddly puppy dog. And I know a fake cry when I hear one. He won’t touch me.”

“Good,” I said, moving behind my desk and looking down at the message from Forbes.

“You’ve got a glow, Mr. Peters,” she said.

“A glow?”

“Like you’ve. . I mean like. . You have a date last night?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head knowingly. I reached into my pocket.

“Good coffee,” I said. “How much do I owe you?”

“Twelve dollars,” she said.

I handed her one of the five one-hundred-dollar bills that had been in the envelope.

“I don’t have change for this.”

“I don’t want change. I want you to go out and find another job. I’ll give you some leads if you want them.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said. Violet had married Angelo “Rocky” Gonsenelli, middleweight contender, four days before he shipped out. She had taken care of herself till now and it was none of my business. “You don’t want change?”

“No,” I said.

“You’re not fishing for. .”

“No,” I said.

“Good,” she said happily. “You don’t know how much I need this. Thanks. Remember to drop the cup in the wastepaper bin when you’re finished.”

And she was gone.

I drank my coffee, looked out the window, tossed the cup in the general direction of the box in the corner, missed, retrieved the cup, and dropped it on top of yesterday’s L.A. Times. Then I called the number Forbes had left.

“Yes?” a man’s voice answered after the fourth ring.

“Forbes?”

“What?”

“Peters.”

“Peters. Get to the hotel. Room 813. Now. I’ve got something I want you to bring to the cops. It’ll mean a bonus for you.”

He hung up. I looked up at the Dali painting that covered one wall. The two babes were still content, in their beaming mother’s arms.

I looked at the wall in front of me. Phil and I still stood next to my father in the photograph, and our dog Kaiser Wilhelm looked directly at the camera. I suddenly wondered who had taken that photograph. I pulled out my notebook and wrote the question for Phil on a fresh sheet.

I called Fred Astaire. A woman answered after five rings. I gave her my name and about twenty seconds later Astaire was on the phone.

“I think I’ve got that problem taken care of, as I told you last night,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said, “but Luna Martin and Willie Talbott are still dead. Someone took a shot at me last night and left a note on my front seat telling me to stop looking for Luna’s killer.”

“That wasn’t the problem I was referring to,” said Astaire. “But it certainly tops mine.”

I told him about the call from Forbes and he said he’d meet me at the Monticello.

“I don’t think you should go,” I said. “But what I think doesn’t matter, does it?”

“It matters,” Astaire said, “but it doesn’t determine. Look, I’ve got a day before the fund raiser and then I have to go on that bond tour. I’d like something settled here before I go. See you at the hotel.”

He hung up and so did I.

In the dental office, Shelly was now wearing his smock and shoes. The cigar had not yet appeared. Violet was holding his coffee cup and Shelly was back in the chair still sobbing. Violet and I exchanged looks and I was gone.