Dancing in the Dark

Chapter Six: Everybody Do the Varsity Drag

There were fourteen places calling themselves dance studios or ballrooms in the L.A. phone book. I went to a candy store with a stack of nickels and started phoning around, leaving the big ones for last. While I called I munched on a mound of marble halvah and watched the traffic go by on Sunset.

“Make Believe Ballroom,” came a world-weary woman’s voice on the first call.

“I’d like to talk to Willie.”

“We have no Willie,” she said.

“How about William or Bill?”

“No,” she said with a sigh. “Are you interested in dance lessons?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I just had one with Fred Astaire.”

“Give him my best,” she said and hung up.

My rear end still smarting and my stomach aching from too much halvah and a desperate need for a Pepsi, I kept dialing-Mr. Lyon’s Studio of Dance, Terpsicorean Interludes, the Royal Ballroom, Corine’s House of Dance, the Talented Two-Step, Harold Augustine’s Dance Studio, the Viennese Ballroom.

After seven tries, I’d found one Bill and a Willie. Bill turned out to be a Negro about seventy who cleaned up at the studio and other shops on the block. The conversation with Willie was even less promising. Willie was a woman. I struck Willie-gold on the eighth call.

“On Your Toes Dance Studio and College,” the man answered sleepily.

He sounded very much like the man on Luna’s wire recording.

“I’d like to speak to Willie,” I said.

“Concerning?”

“Dance lessons.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Toby Peters,” I said.

“This is William Talbott,” he said.

“I want to dance.”

“We want to teach you,” said Willie. “Who gave you my name?”

“Your name?”

“You asked for ‘Willie.’ ”

“A friend who’s familiar with your studio.”

“Took lessons with us?”

“Learned a great deal from you.”

“And recommended us?”

“You specifically,” I said lightly.

“This person’s name might not be Stella?”

“It might well be.”

“That explains it,” he said. “I’m at your service, Mr. . ”

“Peters, Toby Peters. When can we start?”

“Anytime tomorrow,” he said. “From nine in the morning till nine at night.”

“How about today?”

“Today,” he said. “Let me look.”

He shuffled some papers and I waited. I had a feeling his answer would be-

“You’re in luck. We have a cancellation this afternoon at two.”

“Can we make it one?” I asked.

“Ah. . that will be difficult, but I can make a few shifts and changes to accommodate a new student.”

“Thank you.”

“You know how to get here?”

The address was on Western, not far from Melrose.

“I’ll be there at one.”

We hung up. It was eleven-thirty in the morning. If I hurried, I could get to the On Your Toes Dance Studio and College and catch Willie when he wasn’t on his toes.

I called my office. Violet answered, “Sheldon Minck, Creative Dentistry without Pain.”

“And Toby Peters, Private Investigator,” I said.

“Dr. Minck said I shouldn’t give your name,” Violet said.

“Put Dr. Minck on the phone.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to you, Mr. Peters,” she whispered. “I wish you’d come here quick. He just sits in his dental chair looking at his fingers.”

“I’ll get there as soon as I can, Violet. Anything else?”

“You got a call from. . a Miss Anita Maloney. She left a number. You want it?”

Maybe Anita wanted to go to another prom or she remembered I had borrowed two bucks from her on prom night. Violet gave me her number. I wrote it in my notebook even though I had it scrawled on a napkin somewhere in my pocket.

“And a Mr. Forbes called saying you should give him a call as soon as you checked in.”

I heard a distinct background groan from Shelly Minck. I took Forbes’s number.

“That it?” I asked.

“You owe me two dollars,” she said.

“The fight,” I remembered.

“Ortiz in a TKO over Salica in the eleventh. Double or nothing on the Bivins-Mauriello fight tomorrow?”

“Odds today?”

“Bivins is still five-to-six.”

“You get Bivins. I get Mauriello. My ten to your two. You lose and we’re even.”

“Okay,” she said brightly. “If Dr.-”

She was cut off by the phone being wrenched from her hand. The frantic voice of Sheldon Minck came crackling.

“My fingers are my life,” he said, nearly weeping. “I’m like a. . like a harpist, or an exterminator.”

“What is so special about an exterminator’s fingers?”

“You try using a Flit can with paws,” Shelly said.

“No one is going to cut off your fingers,” I said. “I talked to Forbes. All that was for show. He tried to hire me to find out who killed Luna.”

“I didn’t do it,” Shelly cried.

“Until you said that I didn’t suspect you.”

“Said what?” Shelly screamed.

“I’m kidding, Shel,” I said. “Your fingers are safe and I don’t suspect you.”

“You’re lying to make me feel better.”

“I’m not lying, Shel, but your fingers might be in trouble if you don’t tell Violet to say my name when she answers the phone. We have an agreement.”

“I’ll tell her,” he said reluctantly. “You sure I’m-”

“I’m sure, Shel.”

“Then I can have Violet go down to Manny’s and pick up some tacos.”

“What has one thing got to. . right, Shel. You can have Violet pick up some tacos. Good-bye.”

I hung up and retrieved my Crosley from Cotton Wright, the parking attendant at the Monticello, and gave him a buck tip, which I marked in my expense book along with the cost of parking.

“You a veteran?” Cotton asked as I eased gently onto the pillow I had taken from my room at Mrs. Plaut’s boardinghouse.

“No, Cotton. You asked me that a few days ago.”

“What did you answer?”

“No. I wasn’t a veteran then and I’m still not.”

“You know I’ve got a piece of metal in my head from the war?”

“I know, Cotton,” I said, turning on the ignition.

“Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it hums. Sometimes I don’t even notice.”

“What are the best times?” I asked.

“When it hums,” he said.

I pulled out of the lot with a wave at Cotton and headed down Sunset, bound for Western. I turned on the radio and through the static learned that the Japanese had captured Hinajong in Northern Hunan in their drive southward over the Yangtze. On the other hand, the Chinese were making gains in Burma. I also learned that more meat rationing was coming April 1. Mrs. Plaut would be on me for that. I wondered whether Anita Maloney could come up with ground beef as easily as she came up with potatoes.

There was a small parking space only a car the size of a Crosley could love right near the corner of Western and Melrose. I backed into it, trying not to turn my body too painfully to look over my shoulder. When I was parked, I opened the door and eased out, my rear end a massive, low-level electric shock. But, all in all, it felt better than it had the day before.

The On Your Toes Dance Studio and College was not a storefront. It was in a small office building. I found it listed in the directory in a dark, white-tiled lobby the size of a small rest room. The white tile was seriously cracked, and the black-on-white list of offices and renters was badly in need of some letters. Next to the building directory was a yellowing poster that read, “Save Cooking Fats and Grease.”

I found the studio between Nona’s Hair and Fingernails and Quick Letter Copy Service. On Your Toes was on the ground floor. I groped my way past the narrow staircase and along an even narrower short corridor, at the end of which was a pebble-glass door with “On Your To s Danc Studio” printed in gold letters. A simple line drawing of a dancing couple had been drawn on the glass. The man wore a tuxedo. The woman wore a billowy white dress. They were both smiling. I knocked at the door. No answer. I waited. Knocked again. Still no answer. I tried the door. It was open. I walked into a room almost as dark as the hallway. The lights were out and the venetian blinds on the windows across the floor were closed. The only light that came into the room was through the spaces left by broken, bent, and missing slats on the blinds.

I was in a wooden-floored room about the size of a handball court. The wall of mirrors to my right made it look a little bigger, but the cracks in the mirrors worked against any possible suggestion of class. On my left was a glassed-in dark cubicle that must have been the office. I walked over to it and opened the door.

There was a crash from the end of the cubicle from somewhere just beyond the outline of a desk. I froze.

“Don’t move,” came a man’s voice.

I could see enough of the man who rose behind the desk to see that he carried what looked like a gun in his right hand.

“I’m not moving,” I said.

“Put your hands behind your head,” he said.

I put my hands behind my head and a desk lamp snapped on, bouncing odd shadows.

The big man with the gun was about forty with full, ruffled blond hair and a frightened look on his face. He wore dark wrinkled trousers and a mess of a long-sleeved white shirt unbuttoned to show his undershirt.

“Who sent you?” he asked.

“Stella,” I said.

“She’s a whore,” he said, voice cracking. “I don’t owe her a goddamn nickel. Chavez sent you, or Albertini.”

I kept my hands behind my head and watched him fumble through the mess on his desk until he found a pack of cigarettes. He managed to light one with trembling fingers and keep the gun aimed in the general direction of my chest.

“I told them I’d pay them a little at a time,” Willie went on. “I’ve got a rich new student and I’ve been in touch with a friend with a lot of money.”

“Luna Martin?” I guessed.

That almost stunned the cigarette from his lips.

“How did you. . she owes me,” he said, trying to compose himself and glancing from time to time at the door to my right.

“My name is Toby Peters,” I said.

“Peters? You’re a. .” he said, looking at the alarm clock on his desk. “You’re an hour early.”

“Eager to dance,” I said. “Can I take my hands down?”

“How did you know about Luna?” he asked suspiciously.

“She’s a friend. She’s the one who sent me here.”

“Luna sent you here for dance lessons?”

“In a way,” I said. “Hands down?”

“At your sides,” he said. “But don’t move. No offense, Peters, but I’ve got some people I owe a few dollars, and they won’t handle this in a civilized manner. You understand?”

“Fully,” I said. “Think you could put the gun down now?”

He looked at the gun in his hand and took the cigarette from his mouth. He placed the gun on the table in front of him.

“Bad start,” he said with a smile as he brushed back his hair.

“I wouldn’t say we hit it off on first sight,” I agreed.

“Well,” he went on, buttoning his shirt. “I was just taking a little nap to get the creative juices evenly divided throughout my body. All body liquids flow to your toes when you’re standing unless your heart and the other organs keep them flowing through the body. That puts a strain on your heart.”

“And the other organs,” I added.

“That’s right,” he said, tucking in his shirt.

Someone or something groaned from behind the desk. Willie Talbott ignored the sound and said, “A dancer needs an even distribution of body liquids and an even disposition.”

“And a gun,” I said, taking a step to my left where I could see around the side of the desk.

A pair of bare feet, definitely female, were clearly visible.

“Miss Perez is recirculating her body fluids,” Talbott said. “Clothes constrict the flow.”

“Makes sense to me,” I said. “She seems to be asleep.”

“She’s concentrating deeply,” Talbott explained, putting the cigarette back in his mouth and coming from behind the desk. I eased farther to the left in the hope of seeing more of the meditating Miss Perez.

Talbott took my arm and guided me toward the door, removing the cigarette from his mouth again to tell me that I was in luck, On Your Toes was offering an introductory special, three lessons for five dollars. Each lesson was half an hour. Payment was required in advance. Results were guaranteed.

We were back on the wooden floor and out of the office now.

“In three lessons you’ll have me dancing?” I asked.

“Guaranteed,” he said, trying not to glance at the entrance door through which collection goons might suddenly charge, and at his office through whose window we might see the unclad Miss Perez rise.

Up close and with better light I revised my estimate of Willie Talbott. He was closer to my age and in need of a shave. His hair was definitely dyed. The gray stubble on his unshaven face was a giveaway.

“I can’t hear the beat,” I said.

“I could teach a deaf elephant,” he said with a smile, showing impossibly white teeth.

“Fred Astaire gave up on me,” I said.

“He doesn’t have my patience,” Talbott said with an amused smile.

“Okay,” I said. “Then I have only one question.”

“Payment in advance,” he said. “Five dollars for three lessons. Otherwise, the special offer doesn’t apply.”

“No,” I said. “You called Luna Martin a few days ago. What did you want from her?”

Talbott couldn’t help looking at his desk through the window. Somewhere on that desk was his gun.

“Look,” he said, taking a step back from me. “Tell Luna to just forget it. It was just a. . a. .”

“Gag,” I said.

“Something like that,” he agreed, looking for somewhere to put his cigarette.

He took a few steps toward his office door. I stopped him with, “Where were you this morning from ten to eleven?”

“This. . right here. In my office. Meditating.”

“On the floor?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“With Miss Perez?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s talk to Miss Perez,” I said.

“Look. .” he began.

I smiled. I do not have a pleasant smile. He shuddered.

“What’s this about?” Talbott tried.

“It’s about someone cutting Luna Martin’s throat this morning,” I said.

Talbott backed away.

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “She used to work here.”

“No,” he said.

“She didn’t work here?”

“Yeah, she worked here. I mean. .” His hands were brushing back his hair furiously. “No, she can’t be dead.”

“What were you trying to blackmail her with?” I asked, advancing on Talbott, who took another step back.

“Blackmail her? Luna? I wasn’t. . I didn’t,” he said, looking around the empty little studio for sympathy or help.

“Luna recorded her conversation with you, Willie,” I said. “The police have the wire. They’re going to find you the way I found you. And they are going to ask you the same questions. Only, they won’t be as sweet as I am.”

“Shit, damn, crap,” Talbott said, throwing what was left of his cigarette at the cracked mirror.

“And snap, crackle, pop,” I added.

“It can’t get any worse,” he said helplessly.

But he was wrong.

The door behind me crashed open, rattling the glass. Talbott’s eyes widened with terror as he stared over my shoulder at whoever had come in. I turned. The dancing couple on the door were quivering. Two men stood in the doorway. Both were big. Neither was well dressed, neither wore a hat, but who am I to talk. The shorter one was a bulldog. The bigger one a Saint Bernard.

“You ain’t home,” said the bulldog.

It was an observation that couldn’t be challenged.

“I spent the night here,” Talbott said, his voice cracking.

The Saint Bernard closed the door.

“Who’s this?” the bulldog asked.

“A client,” I said.

“Blow,” the bulldog said to me.

“Peters, no,” Talbott pleaded.

“Blow, client. Willie and us have business to talk about,” said the bulldog.

“I’ll tell you about Luna,” Talbott almost wept, clutching my sleeve.

“How much does he owe you?” I asked.

The bulldog looked at me for the first time.

“He owes Mr. Chavez, Mr. Constantine Chavez, three thousand dollars,” the bulldog said. “You got three thousand dollars, client?”

I was supposed to be impressed by the mention of Constantine Chavez. Normally, I would have been. Chavez was a middle-level mobster with a reputation for having no patience.

“No,” I said, facing them, Talbott behind me. “But I work for a man who has, Arthur Forbes.”

“Fingers?” the bulldog said suspiciously, turning to the Saint Bernard, who showed no emotion. The bulldog turned back to me and cocked his head. “What’s Fingers got to do with this jamocko?” asked the bulldog.

“Mr. Forbes wants some information from him,” I said. “Mr. Forbes may well be willing to pay three thousand dollars for the information.”

Bulldog thought about this for a while. He examined our faces, turned once more to the Saint Bernard, who said, in a surprisingly high voice, “Chavez said we get the money or we break him up.”

The bulldog sighed and nodded. “Asked you once, ask you again. You got the cash, client?”

“No,” I said.

“Then we break him up. Tell Mr. Forbes we hope there’s no hard feelings. We’ll leave him so’s he can still talk.”

Talbott let out a pained gasp behind me.

“Hold it,” I said, holding up my hands.

“We got a job,” said bulldog. “Don’t make it no harder than it is.”

What happened next was fast and confusing, but I think I’ve got it straight. Bulldog was about two inches in front of me now. The Saint Bernard was at his side, looking at Talbott. I heard glass shatter and turned to Talbott’s cubicle. The cubicle’s window crashed to the floor, sending shards of glass in a burst in our direction. I covered my face with my arm and got a glimpse of a naked girl, undoubtedly Miss Perez, who had given up her meditation, had a gun in her hand, and was now firing at me, the bulldog and the Saint Bernard. I went to the floor. So did the bulldog and the Saint Bernard. Behind me I could hear Talbott letting out a series of strangled whimpers.

The cracked mirror on the far wall exploded with the second shot from Miss Perez. I covered my head, tasting glass shards on my lips as I tried to push through the wooden floor. There were four more shots, more breaking glass, and then the place went quiet, except for heavy breathing and Talbott’s groaning.

We all got up slowly, gingerly brushing glass from our clothes and skin. Bulldog’s forehead was bleeding. The Saint Bernard looked as if the palm of his right hand had been shredded. I seemed to be all right. We all looked at Miss Perez, who still held the pistol in her hands, aiming it in our direction. She was dark with long straight black hair. She was very pretty and she was very, very young and she was very naked. She should have been very scared as well, but she didn’t look it. She just looked dazed and stood there blinking. I wondered what she and Talbott had been doing besides evening out their body liquids.

“This don’t change nothing,” bulldog said.

“Someone must be calling the cops right now,” I tried.

“We work fast,” said bulldog.

“We are professionals,” added Saint Bernard.

“Oh, God,” Talbott groaned behind me. “Peters.”

“Look,” I said.

Bulldog pushed me toward Saint Bernard, who punched me in the shoulder and sent me awfully damned close to stumbling into the jagged glass left in Talbott’s cubicle window. Bulldog had Talbott by the neck now. Saint Bernard was watching me. I knew I was going to try something ridiculous and I was pretty sure I didn’t have a chance in the world. I looked over at Miss Perez. Eighteen, tops, I figured, and started back toward the fugitives from the kennel.

“Pardon me,” came a voice from the doorway.

Everyone in the room froze, then turned to the newcomer who stood in the doorway, hands on his hips.

“I have to tell you I’ve danced in worse,” said Fred Astaire.

I looked at bulldog and Saint Bernard. A faint look of possible recognition touched the bigger man’s face. The bulldog showed nothing.

“Get out, now,” bulldog said. “Now.”

“Can’t do that,” Astaire said with a smile, tiptoeing over broken glass.

“Throw him out,” the bulldog said, and the Saint Bernard lumbered toward Astaire.

It was no contest. Astaire jumped to his right as the big man reached for him. Astaire threw a short, sudden kick to the rear of the big man’s left knee, and the Saint Bernard went down with a grunt. Bulldog left Talbott and moved toward Astaire, who circled to his right, saying, “If we can just be reasonable.”

Bulldog was in no mood to be reasonable and he was quicker on his feet than Saint Bernard. He anticipated Astaire moving to his left or right and had his arms held wide open. Astaire stepped into the open arms, planted his left foot flat on the floor, and leveled a stomach-high kick at the bulldog, who staggered back, slipped on glass, and fell heavily.

I moved to the Saint Bernard, who was doing his best to get to his feet and finding it hard to do without the support of his left leg. Bulldog was rolling on the floor, holding his stomach, and trying to catch his breath.

“I’ve never done anything like that in my life,” Astaire said.

“I think we should get out of here,” I said.

I grabbed the open-mouthed Willie Talbott and pushed him toward the door. Then I went into Talbott’s office and moved toward Miss Perez, who backed away from me as I circled around the desk. I took the empty gun from her hand, put it on the desk, reached down, picked up a flowery dress from the floor, and handed it to her. She looked at the dress as if it were some alien and puzzling item from Mars.

“Put it on,” I said. “Fast.”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Astaire and Talbott going through the studio door.

Miss Perez took the dress and got into it.

“You have shoes?” I asked. “You don’t want to walk through this glass without shoes.”

She blinked around at the floor, spotted a pair of slingback pumps, and slipped them on. I looked over at bulldog and Saint Bernard. They were recovering slowly, but they were recovering. I guided Miss Perez out of the cubicle and past the Saint Bernard, who turned to me and said, “I can’t walk, I can’t work.”

“Should have thought of that before you became an insurance salesman,” I said.

Astaire and Talbott were standing on the sidewalk. Talbott looked at Miss Perez, turned to me and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“How did you find me?” I asked Astaire.

“Wasn’t looking for you,” he said with a shrug. “I called Forbes and asked him if he knew the name of the dance studio where Luna taught before he met her. He told me and. .”

“Here you are,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Let’s not do it again,” he said, looking at Miss Perez.

“Talbott’s right,” I said. “We should get out of here. I can only take one passenger in my Crosley.”

Astaire led us around the corner to a big black Lincoln with darkened windows. I kept my hand on Talbott’s shoulder to discourage him from taking off down the street. Astaire had no trouble leading Miss Perez to the front seat.

Fifteen minutes later we dropped Miss Perez at her aunt’s apartment on Burnside. Astaire gave her two twenty-dollar bills and asked if she was going to be all right.

Miss Perez had managed to find her way halfway back to the planet and, as she got out of the car, twenties in hand, she looked at Fred Astaire and said, “You’re him.”

“Always have been,” Astaire said.

“Is it okay I tell my Tia Alicia?” she asked.

“It would be my pleasure,” Astaire said as she opened the door.

“I don’t think I’m gonna spend this money ever,” she said.

“I suggest you do spend it,” said Astaire.

“Well,” she said, stepping onto the curb and brushing back a stray strand of hair. “Maybe one of them. Sorry I tried to kill you.”

I waved a hand in my best nonchalant manner.

“Willie?” she said to Talbott, but his head was down and he was in no mood for words of love.

Astaire pulled away from the curb and looked at Talbott and me in the rearview mirror.

“Well, Mr. Peters, where do we go from here?”