Dancing in the Dark

Chapter Nine: Say, Have You Seen the Carioca?

Jeremy and I looked at each other for a second or two and then I pushed the button again and listened to the chime.

When the door opened this time, Kudlap Singh filled it, blocking out the hallway light. He ignored me and looked at Jeremy as impassively as Jeremy looked at him.

“Mr. Forbes is busy,” he said.

“Singh,” Jeremy said.

I had to stop myself from putting my hands behind me to protect my rapidly improving rump.

“Mr. Forbes is busy,” Singh repeated, looking at me.

“A man that abandons a friend who has learned with him no longer has a share in speech,” Jeremy said. “What he does hear he hears in vain, for he does not know the path of good action.”

Singh didn’t turn his head but his eyes shifted to Jeremy, who looked back at him and continued, “Unkindly I desert him who was kind to me, as I go from my own friends to a foreign tribe.”

“A moment, Jeremy Butler,” Singh said softly, and the door closed on us again.

“What the hell was that?” I asked.

“Quotations from the Rig Veda, an ancient Hindu collection of over a thousand hymns. I’ve read only a weak British translation from the Sanskrit, but when we were traveling the circuit Singh translated passages for me. The Veda has been a great influence on my poetry and my life.”

The derricks pounded on their steel stalks. We waited. The door opened again. Again Kudlap Singh blocked the light.

“Come in,” he said, stepping back so we could enter.

We went in. The house was a lot more modest than Fingers Intaglia’s wealth and reputation would suggest. Kudlap Singh led the way down a carpeted hallway with paintings of the same man in a powdered wig. I looked at Jeremy, who said, “Thomas Jefferson.”

It made a crazy kind of sense. Singh stopped in front of two big wooden doors and knocked.

“Come in,” Forbes called.

Singh opened the doors and we stepped in with him. We were in what must have been a big dining room or a library, but it wasn’t anymore. One wall was mirrored top to bottom and all the way across. The floors were polished wood. In one corner was a small upright piano. Against one wall were four blue upholstered chairs and a pair of tables, on one of which sat a phonograph. Arthur Forbes in a gray sweat suit was sitting in one of the chairs, wiping himself with a towel. In front of the mirror, her back turned to us, was Carlotta Forbes. She glanced at us in the mirror and then did a series of knee bends.

Standing next to the phonograph was Fred Astaire, sleeves rolled up, red handkerchief around his neck.

“What do you want and who’s that?” Forbes asked, continuing to dry himself.

“Yo soy Jeremy Butler, un amigo de Senor Peters,” said Jeremy.

“Esta bien, pero por que vienen a mi casa ahora?” Forbes replied. “How did you know I speak Spanish?”

“Thomas Jefferson, whom apparently we both admire, spoke fluent Spanish and believed that all Americans should.”

“ ‘I hope to see a cordial fraternization among all the American nations-’ ” Forbes said with a challenge in his voice.

“ ‘-and their coalescing in an American system of policy,’ ” Jeremy finished.

“You a history professor?” Forbes asked.

“A poet,” answered Jeremy.

“A poet,” Forbes said with a smile, looking at his wife who ignored him and continued to do knee bends, and then at Fred Astaire who sighed, folded his arms, and leaned against the wall. “You’re Battering Butler, the Human Cannonball. I saw you wrestle six, seven times, once against Kudlap Singh here.”

“That was long ago,” said Jeremy.

“I’d like to see a rematch,” Forbes said with a grin.

“In 1808, Thomas Jefferson refused a third term and retired forever from politics to Monticello,” said Jeremy. “He knew when to move to new endeavors. Much like you and me.”

“Whatever,” Forbes said, rising and draping the towel around his neck. “Now, what do you want?”

I turned to Astaire and said, “Did you tell him?”

Astaire shook his head.

“A man named Willie Talbott was murdered today,” I said. “Luna Martin worked for him as a dance instructor before-”

Mrs. Forbes had stopped her knee bends and was facing us with her hands on her hips.

“Go on,” said Forbes, “Carlotta knows all about Luna. We’re working it out. Just have a point when you get to the end.”

I looked at Carlotta Forbes. Judging from the look she gave her husband, if they were working it out, they had a lot of work left to do.

“Talbott had some information that might have helped us and the cops find her murderer,” I said.

“Information?”

“Talbott was blackmailing her. I think it had something to do with one of Luna’s clients when she was teaching at the On Your Toes ballroom. I went with Talbott to his apartment to get Luna’s client list. Talbott tried to run with it. Someone put a hole in his chest and took the book.”

“Sounds like a valuable book,” Forbes said.

“You wouldn’t have any idea where we might find it?” I asked.

Forbes suddenly did not look happy. “What are you sayin’?”

“I’m trying to find out who killed Luna Martin,” I said. “That’s what you said you wanted me to do.”

Forbes strode toward me, throwing the towel in the general direction of the chair. When his nose was inches from mine, he whispered, “You want to watch us dance?”

“Sure,” I said.

“You sit there and watch and in ten minutes you say, ‘Good night, Mr. Forbes, Good night, Mrs. Forbes, Good night, Mr. Astaire,’ and then you and your friend leave. You want to ask me questions, you call the hotel and leave a message and I’ll get back to you. You understand?”

“Well-” I started, but Astaire was out of the corner and between us.

“Mr. Forbes and I have worked out a deal,” Astaire said. “I give him and Mrs. Forbes five hours of lessons free of charge and my obligation to him is finished.”

“What obligation?” I asked.

“Let’s say it’s in honor of the memory of Luna Martin,” said Astaire.

“Arthur,” Carlotta Forbes called. “Let’s go. Who cares if some hoofer from the On Your Toes Dance Studio got tattooed with lead?”

“The glow of one warm thought is worth more to me than money,” said Jeremy at my side.

“Jefferson?” I asked.

“Jefferson,” Forbes said, moving away from me and across the room to his impatiently waiting wife.

“Toby, go,” Astaire ordered. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

Astaire nodded to Kudlap Singh, who went to the phonograph and put on a scratchy version of a Horace Heidt fox-trot-at least I think it was a fox-trot.

I went to the chair Forbes had vacated and sat. Jeremy followed me, sat stiffly. Astaire walked to the waiting couple.

“Thomas Jefferson?” I whispered.

“A great president,” Jeremy answered, his eyes fixed on the dancers before him.

“But why would a finger clipper from Detroit have a thing about Jefferson?”

“Thomas Jefferson was a brilliant statesman, inventor, businessman, and architect, admired by all. He also had an almost uncontrollable need for sex. A myriad of mistresses, including his own former slaves.”

“You got a book about him I could read?” I said.

“Several,” said Jeremy, and the couple were swirling around the floor.

Well, swirling is a little generous. Carlotta Forbes wasn’t terrible. But Arthur was a disaster, worse than Luna had been. He stomped, slid, clomped, and trampled through the song while Astaire stood in the middle of the room, hand to his chin, watching and saying things like, “Slide, just brush the floor. . shorter steps to the side. . remember where you are in relation to the wall. . good. . left hand up. Elbows up. Smile. It’s supposed to be fun.”

After a long pause between records while Astaire quietly but animatedly huddled with the happy couple, he motioned for Singh to change the record. A Xavier Cugat rumba rattled through the room and the Forbeses tried to look like Volez and Yolanda and came out like Wheeler and Woolsey. When the song was mercifully over and Astaire had said-amazingly-“Good. We’re getting somewhere,” Forbes turned to me and Jeremy.

“You want a drink, Singh will get you one in the other room. Then I want you gone.”

“A few more questions,” I said. “How did you meet Luna Martin?”

“I said out,” Forbes said. “Singh, usher the visitors out of the house, now.”

Singh dropped the needle on a fresh record and advanced on us accompanied by Guy Lombardo and the Royal Canadians.

Jeremy looked at me. I got up and said, “Did someone introduce you to Luna Martin?”

“Get them the hell out of here,” Carlotta Forbes screamed.

The rest was fast. Singh reached for me. Jeremy grabbed his outstretched hand. Singh twisted away and threw an elbow at Jeremy’s head. Jeremy sagged back over two of the blue chairs. I got out of the way fast. Singh stepped up on the blue chair and leaped at Jeremy, who had tumbled against the wall.

I looked at Forbes and his wife. They were smiling for the first time since we’d entered. Astaire stood, arms folded, watching with interest.

Jeremy and Singh were on the floor now. Jeremy threw Singh to one side and got him in a headlock. Singh broke loose, reversed, and got Jeremy in a full nelson. Jeremy’s face and head were bright red and I thought of Alice Pallis Butler’s warning to me about getting Jeremy in trouble. I moved in to help. Jeremy waved me away.

The two giants bounced around the room as the voice of Carmen Lombardo told us that love makes the world go ’round, Jeremy trying to break the hold, Singh holding tight. Flying past Carlotta Forbes, the two former wrestlers hit the mirror. It quivered but didn’t break. Stunned, Singh released his prey. Jeremy gasped for air and then turned to face the massive Indian. They circled each other, breathing heavily, and then Jeremy lunged and the two men locked arms, head to head. They let out pained noises and Jeremy sank to one knee and then went over on his back, panting in defeat.

The record was over. It began to click as the needle repeated nothing.

Singh helped Jeremy up, grabbed my arm, and led both the staggering Jeremy and me to the door and into the hall past the Jefferson paintings. When we got to the front door, Singh let go of my arm, opened the door, and guided us out. We were greeted by the steady thumping of the derricks on the beach. Singh pushed the door closed behind us and said, “Once again I owe you, my friend.”

Jeremy was no longer staggering or bent over in pain and defeat. He was upright, serious. Singh offered a hand. Jeremy took it.

“What the hell is this?”

“What you witnessed in there,” Jeremy said, “was a slight variation on a routine Singh and I used on more than one occasion.”

“Except for the chairs,” said Singh. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Added a touch,” said Jeremy.

“I must go back,” Singh said. “Be cautious, Peters. There are those who would like the matter to end here and who would do much to see that it happens.”

The big Indian went back in the house.

“There was no possible victory in there, Toby,” Jeremy said. “If I won, Kudlap Singh might lose his job, his income, the means of support for his considerable family. And he, like me, is not a young man. I had nothing to lose by losing.”

“Could you have beaten him?” I asked, moving to the Buick.

“The danger comes in thinking about the battle in terms of winning and losing,” he said, opening the car door. “You think of the battle as a contest, a test of your skills against those of another. Skills, power, and endurance, all cultivated and, perhaps most of all, an understanding of where you are and what you are in the universe at each moment.”

“You’ve made it much clearer, Jeremy,” I said, getting in the car.

“That was my intention,” he said, sitting.

The front door of the house came open and Fred Astaire leaped from the steps and trotted down to the Buick. He leaned into Jeremy’s open window and said, “Magnificent.”

“Thank you,” said Jeremy.

“That was some of the most inventive extemporaneous choreography I’ve ever seen,” said Astaire with a smile, looking at me.

“Did Forbes or his wife know they were faking it?” I asked.

“No,” said Astaire. “Their only regret was a lack of blood.”

“We could have supplied that,” said Jeremy.

“I’ll bet you could,” said Astaire. “Would you like to teach me some of that?”

“You wish to wrestle?” Jeremy asked.

“No, I wish possibly to develop a dance routine for my next movie based on a fight between two men. But I want it to look graceful and real. Amazing body control. I’d better get back in there and finish hour two. It strikes me that if someone is killing off the third-rate ballroom dancers in Los Angeles, Mr. and Mrs. Forbes could well be next on the list without my help. Oh, yes, I’ll see what I can find out about your two questions, how did Forbes meet Luna and where did Luna live before she moved into the Monticello. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Astaire danced back into the Forbeses’ house and we pulled around his car and drove away.

We listened to “Can You Top This?” for about ten minutes. Peter Donald used his accents to tell a joke about an Irishman and an Italian trying to buy the same shirt. Then Senator Ford deadpanned a joke about a guy called Sandy who lost his shoes in the movie theater. He did all right on the laugh meter. Harry Hirschfield and Joe Laurie, Jr., told jokes that seemed pretty good to me but they didn’t top the contestant’s joke on the laugh meter.

I chuckled. Jeremy showed no emotion.

“It’s funny, Jeremy,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “Both of the Forbeses, husband and wife, are in great pain.”

“They threw us out, threatened us with death and dismemberment, and you feel sorry for them?”

“I sense their pain,” he said. “That is quite different from feeling sorry for them.”

“Juanita said three would die,” I said.

“I would not be surprised,” said Jeremy.

And that was all we said till we parked in front of the Farraday Building.

“I wonder what time it is,” I said, looking at my father’s watch, which said it was four-twelve.

“I don’t own a watch,” said Jeremy, opening the door.

“I forgot,” I said, getting out of Jeremy’s car. “I’m tired and it’s been a long day. Good night, Jeremy, and thanks.”

Jeremy drove toward the corner where he made a right and headed for his space behind the building. Three women, arm in arm and giggling, a little drunk, came down the street.

“Have the time?” I asked.

They stopped. They were all short of pretty, but makeup was doing a lot for them.

“Five after midnight,” a pug-nosed blonde in the middle said.

“We’re gonna turn into pumpkins,” said a taller brunette, putting her hand over her mouth.

The other two girls thought this was hilarious. A sure ten on the laugh meter.

“Sherry’s husband and our boyfriends just shipped out on the. .” the blonde started but was cut off by Sherry, saying, “No names.”

“That just slipped out and they just shipped out,” the blonde said.

New laughter.

I left them on the street, looking for trouble or a cab. I couldn’t tell if they’d gotten drunk to deal with their grief or were celebrating their liberty.

This part of Hoover was shut down by midnight. Stores were closed with no night-lights. Even Bowden’s Bar across the street, which usually pushed the curfew, was asleep. I was pretty tired myself.

My car was at the corner where I’d left it, a parking ticket under the windshield wiper. This had been a bad day.

It suddenly got worse.

I opened the driver’s-side door and leaned over to get in the Crosley, which is probably why the first bullet missed and went down the street. I ducked into the car and looked back over my shoulder, reaching for the glove compartment and my.38. The second shot whined off the roof of the car over my head.

There was no one on the street; no one I could see. The third shot shattered my rear window and thudded into the back of the passenger seat. I turned the key, ducked, and destroyed valuable tire rubber in a first-gear escape toward Main Street.

I checked the rearview mirror. Someone had stepped out of the Farraday shadows and was aiming a gun in my direction. I couldn’t see who it was, but I did hear the next shot screech past me. I had my gun out of the glove compartment now, but I didn’t know what I was going to do with it except sleep with it under my pillow.

Juanita had said something about my broken car window. She had also said something about three dancers dying and a fourth dancer. .

The hell with it. I headed home.

Parking was tough after ten on Heliotrope, but my Crosley was small. I fit into a space between a fireplug and an old Ford. My.38 was in my hand and I checked the street to see if I had been followed. It looked safe. Of course, I couldn’t be sure if someone had gotten here ahead of me and was hiding behind the bushes or leaning back into the shadows.

I checked the rear window. Shattered, glass all over the back seat. There was a scratch on the roof that went down to white metal. I couldn’t tell how bad it was since the streetlights were cut for nightly curfew. Tomorrow.

I put my gun in my pocket but kept my hand on it. I can’t shoot straight. The chances of my hitting a target more than ten feet away are small. But I could make a lot of noise if I had to.

Up the white wooden steps of Mrs. Plaut’s boardinghouse. The door was locked. I took my key out quietly and went in. There was a dim light in the hall. Mrs. Plaut’s door was closed. I started up the steps and heard something behind me, a door opening. I pulled out my gun, turned and sat on the step behind me.

“Mr. Peelers,” said Mrs. Plaut with great exasperation. “That is a weapon in your hand.”

She was wearing her oversized blue-flannel robe, which had belonged to the Mister when he had been alive and treading the byways of confusion with his lovely bride. She was also, thank God, wearing her hearing aid.

“I know, Mrs. Plaut.”

“You meant to shoot Cornelia.”

“Cornelia?”

“My bird. I am aware that you and your cat do not like Cornelia.” Mrs. Plaut had a yellow budgie whose name changed with her depthless whims.

“I was not planning to shoot Cornelia, Mrs. Plaut. I promise you I will never harm Cornelia unless she attacks me in a rabid rage.”

“If that should occur, you have my permission. You cannot, however, make the same promise for your cat.”

“Dash isn’t my cat. He just lives with me sometimes.”

“He is, like all cats, stupid.”

“Cats aren’t stupid, Mrs. Plaut. They just don’t like the rules.”

She looked at the gun in my hand again. I stood up and put it in my pocket.

“I’m taking up a collection of guns,” I said. “A hobby. To soothe my ragged nerves.”

“A Police Positive Special Model-looks like a 1936-is hardly the weapon with which to begin a collection.”

“You’re right, Mrs. Plaut.”

“I know where you can obtain an 1882 Adams and Tranter revolver for a reasonable price.”

“You never fail to surprise me, Mrs. P.,” I said.

“It is my lot in life.”

“Someone tried to kill me tonight, Mrs. Plaut.”

“That is not good,” she said firmly. “Young men are dying all over the world in the war. People should not be trying to kill each other on the home front.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” I said. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”

I started back up the stairs.

“That is not likely,” she said.

I grunted.

“Your sister is waiting in your room for you. She’s been waiting for hours.”

My hand went back to my gun.

I have no sister.