The lieutenant glared, slapping the truncheon against his hand, feeling its heft. "Let's go over this in detail. I want to be fair. Start by giving me your side of the story. Where were you when the dog was poisoned?"
Waltz thought the guy was joking, but he displayed the truncheon with real threat. Waltz read of a case where the cops used a truncheon in an unorthodox manner and almost killed a guy. Waltz was alone in a room, cuffed to a chair, with a loose cannon wielding a digital dildo, porn-size.
Ah, the guy was messing with him, that's all.
"Answer the question. Where were you when you poisoned the dog?"
Waltz's voice squeaked. "What if I don't file a report?"
The lieutenant stopped slapping the truncheon, and waved it like a stern finger. "I encourage you, as a law-abiding citizen, to file a report. It's your duty. Don't let some sleazeball get away with attempted murder."
"But what if I don't file a report?"
The cold smile returned. "Then I wouldn't have to round up any suspects."
"I don't guess I'll file a report. Nothing would come of it."
"So you're not going to file a report?"
"No."
"I no longer have a crime I suspect you of." The lieutenant handed Waltz the truncheon. "Re-wrap this. I don't like to waste a fresh truncheon." He kicked the trash can over to Waltz.
The trash can slammed into Waltz's knee. Waltz picked out the plastic and carefully wrapped the truncheon. It had some heft. He couldn't find a button. He placed the truncheon on the table.
The lieutenant unlocked the cuffs. "You're free to go. You'd better get out of here before somebody files a report."
Waltz slunk out.
The lieutenant laughed.
***
Jazz came out of the office and stopped Waltz on the dance floor. "Did you call the detective?"
The music switched to tango. Waltz watched the dancers. "No. I went to the cops instead. I figured they'd be better than a detective."
Jazz started. "You went to the cops?"
"Surprised?"
Jazz shifted his strawberry slush to his other hand, the red slurry sloshing in the cup. "That was stupid. They won't help."
Waltz smiled. "Sure they would. They'd let me file a report, but nothing would come of it."
"They wouldn't investigate at all?"
"They offered to truncheon a confession out of the most likely suspect - me."
"I wish I'd seen that. They have more sense than I thought, but I don't want them hanging around the studio. It would be bad for business."
Waltz watched Rachel and Armando tango. Armando dipped her low, lifted her back up, and finished with a quick snap. Rachel snapped her head around, her red hair twirling and slapping against her cheeks. "I didn't think about that."
"You almost screwed things up good. We can't have cops all over the place questioning people, driving them away from the studio. From now on, you do what I tell you. Going to the cops was stupid."
Jazz was right. It was stupid. He should have done what Jazz said. An image flashed into Waltz's mind, the lieutenant hanging around the studio, unwrapping a fresh truncheon, slapping it in his hand, sneering, steely-eyed, cuffing a student to a table. That would put a damper on any business, especially a ballroom dance studio. Jazz was always right. "Okay. Okay."
"And it's going to be bad for business if I go around accusing everybody of poisoning Cha-Cha. Do you see?"
"I see."
"Call the detective. It's a business expense. Deduct it from our taxes."
***
Waltz went to the desk in the teacher's lounge. He would be safe there from Jazz's kibitzing. He'd make the call before anyone came in. He didn't want to be the butt of jokes again.
He got an answering machine and left a message. He'd have to wait.
He checked his watch, four o'clock. His next student came at seven. He ought to get on that computer project for his class, but the computer was in the office. The detective would probably call right back, catching him there, forcing him to perform like a dancing puppet in front of Jazz.
He examined several mysteries he kept in the desk drawer. He selected The Croatian Crow. He loved a good mystery. He sprawled on the couch with his feet over the back and his head on the arm.
I took a slug of rotgut, my stomach sour as milk sixteen weeks past the expiration date, my wallet flat as a kid's trike under the seventeenth wheel of an eighteen-wheeler, when suddenly a shot rang out, hot lead smashed into the gat in my shoulder holster, saving me from sure death, the lead shattering, searing my face, and I scrambled for cover under my desk, another adventure beginning, this time without a long-legged blond, when a long blond leg insinuated itself beneath the desk like a cobra slithering under a sleeping child, tearing its hose, chucking me under the chin, and whispering in a voice made husky by whiskey, "You've got to help me find it."
I flicked the flakes of hot lead off my face. "It?"
"The Croatian Crow." Her baby blues flashed sudden panic, "Er... I mean...er... the Chinese Chicken."
Our lips met.
She broke the kiss. "You believe me, don't you?"
Nerve endings twanged all over my body. "Of course."
She was lying.
Waltz read on.
The door opened. Rachel and Armando came in, laughing and talking. Waltz glanced at his watch. He'd been reading for over half an hour.
The phone rang. Waltz swung his legs off the couch, got up, and grabbed the phone. He put his finger over his lips. Rachel and Armando quieted down.
He wished he had a cell. He could call without an audience. But a cell made a bulge in your pocket and destroyed the drape of your pants. He had to have the drape.
He picked up the phone. "Dance Terminal, your harmonious harbor of dance delight." He cringed. His mother used the greeting when she owned the studio. Jazz insisted they still use it.
Waltz's audience snickered. His shoulders tightened.
"Harns Domestic Investigations. Let me help you screw your spouse."
Great. He'd thrown the studio greeting in the face of a cynical private eye. And a wiseass, to boot. "I need a detective."
"I guarantee to get the goods on your wife. She'll pay for her cheating."
Yvette entered. "Did y'all see my student trying that salsa step?"
Rachel pointed at the phone in Waltz's hand. Yvette shut up.
Waltz closed his eyes. He didn't want to watch Yvette watching him. "It's not that kind of case. Somebody poisoned my brother's dog."
"I do domestic investigations."
"What does that mean?"
"Divorce cases."
"You mean, only divorces?"
"Yes, only divorces. I'm all divorce, all the time."
"But my brother thinks I did it."
"Sorry. The only way I would take the case is if the dog's spouse did it."
Waltz hated wiseasses. "He collapsed while dancing. Somebody put sleeping pills in his beer."
"Did his wife catch him dancing with another bitch?"
"He was a confirmed bachelor, ever since the incident with the vet."
"Call me when you're ready to get rid of your cheating bitch of a wife."
"You've got to help me find the Croatian Crow... er... I mean...er...the Chinese Chicken."
She hung up.
Waltz placed the phone on the cradle. He'd never run across anybody less eager for business, unless it was the clerks at that All-Mart a block from his apartment. Weren't all private eyes broke all the time, desperate for cases?
Rachel fondled her earlobe. "You're trying to hire a detective to find out who poisoned Cha-Cha?"
Waltz liked the way she rubbed her earlobe between her thumb and forefinger, caressing it. He ought to ask her out. So what if he was going with Yvette? He was thinking of dumping her anyway. "It's more like Jazz is making me hire her."
"Why do you let him manipulate you like that?"
"He's not manipulating me. He
just wants my help."
"What makes him think you poisoned Cha-Cha?"
***
Jazz was dealing cards fast, face up.
Waltz sagged into the chair facing the desk. "What are you doing?"
"Practicing counting."
"Counting cards?"
"Yes. Counting the ratio of high cards to low cards."
"What for?"
"So I can win at blackjack in Vegas."
"Oh."
Jazz stopped counting. "Well?"
Waltz took a deep breath. "She only does domestic investigations." He waited for the explosion.
Jazz took a sip of his slush. "Only domestic investigations? Are you sure?"
"She made it clear. She repeated it several times, like I was a moron."
Jazz rubbed his temples. He closed his eyes. "By domestic investigations, she means divorce cases?"
"Yes. She said she'd only take the case if Cha-Cha's wife poisoned him. When she found out Cha-Cha was a bachelor, she hung up."
"Only divorce cases? That's all she does?"
"I quote, 'I'm all divorce, all the time.'"
Jazz opened his eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Why would anybody specialize in such a narrow field? Ridiculous."
Waltz relaxed. It was a minor eruption, directed at the detective, not him. "You wouldn't want to hire her for anything but a divorce. That's all she knows how to do. All she has any interest in doing."
Jazz picked up the cards and began shuffling. "Only divorce cases. I'm not going to put up with that."
"Be glad. You don't want that wiseass anywhere around you."
Jazz cut the cards several times and slammed them down on his desk. "Ah, what do I care? She wants to do the divorce thing, let her do it. I don't need her. I can handle things on my own. Still, it's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. It would be like us teaching only foxtrot. Or only salsa. Wouldn't that be great? 'I'm sorry sir. We don't teach two-step, waltz, or swing. You'll have to go to the studio down the street for that. We teach a rare type of folk dancing done only in Sri Lanka. With razor-sharp swords. Yes, it is dangerous. Dancers have lost arms. One unfortunate lost his leg at the knee. He got a great nickname out of it, though. After that, everybody called him Captain Ahab."
Waltz laughed.
Jazz riffled the cards with his thumb. "'Even experts with many years of experience occasionally lose a limb. You'll have to sign a release. We have a course starting tomorrow. Would you care to sign up? Yes, that's the only dance we teach. We find it best to specialize.' How asinine can you get?"
Waltz wished that wiseass private eye could hear Jazz.
Jazz watched the dancers through the window. "I thought sure she took other types of cases."
"We could get another PI. Anybody would be better than her. She's the biggest wiseass I've ever come across."
"No, I wanted her." Jazz drummed the desk with his fingertips. "They say she's the best. She must do a hell of a job on domestic investigations. If that's all she does, a lot of people must be getting divorces."
He got up and walked to the other window. "Idiots. They think they'll find somebody better the next time."
Waltz pivoted his chair to watch the dancers tango. "Maybe she's good at divorce cases. But I don't see anything else good about her."
"Well... they say she's honest. Most of the rest of them are a bunch of crooks." Jazz returned to his chair, leaned back, and studied Waltz. "Forget about the PI. I'll take care of this myself. I'm going to get the creep who did it. I don't need a PI."
"Do you still think I did it?"
"I suspect everybody."
"You're not going to go around accusing everybody, are you?"
"Don't worry about it. I have my ways, ways much more subtle than that."
Jazz was coming back to his senses. Waltz should've realized it was all grief over Cha-Cha. He relaxed and lit a cigarette.
"I have forbidden you to smoke."
Waltz started. Why did he light up? He knew smoking would set Jazz off. "When are you going to stop acting like my father?"
"I can't stop now. I obviously haven't finished the job. I know you don't care that cigarettes will kill you. You think you'll live forever. But think about this. Keep smoking and you won't be able to get it up."
Waltz laughed.
"I'll show you the article. Keep smoking, and by the time you're forty, it'll just hang there, like an empty balloon."
Forty was a long way off. He was twenty-one. Still.
Jazz picked up the cards and shuffled them. "I know you doubt me. Go ahead. Stick 'smoking hard on hard-ons' in your Google and see. But put that thing out or go to the lounge."
Waltz leaned back and exhaled luxuriously. Jazz leaped out of his chair, snatched the cigarette out of Waltz's lips, and carried it at arm's-length, between his thumb and forefinger, like a fresh dog turd, out of the office. He marched across the dance floor to the exit. Waltz watched out the street window. Jazz emerged onto the sidewalk where he flung the cigarette under a UPS truck. He continued up the street.
Talk about a hair-trigger temper. That was unusual even for Jazz. He was still upset over Cha-Cha. In the future, Waltz would smoke only in the lounge.
He sat at his desk. Before he went to the police station, he put a new hard drive in the computer. He hit the space bar. Windows had installed. He opened the web browser. It worked.
He pumped his fist. "Yes."
He'd copy the files from his backup drive and he'd be done. It was so good to have a backup.
First, he'd check out Jazz's claim about smoking. He typed in "smoking and penis," and hit enter. "Enlarge your penis" ads popped up all over the place.
He formulated a new search rule. Never stick penis in your Google.
He tried again. What was that term? Lack of getitupsis? Penis diserectis? Malerectis? Erectile dysfunction. That was it. He typed in "smoking and erectile dysfunction." He hit enter.
He found out where to buy Viagra. Who knew that many internet outlets sold Viagra?
He scanned the serious results and selected the first of several thousand. He read the article. Wow. Jazz was right. He'd better stop. Soon. He vowed he would - before he was thirty.
Jazz came back, sipping a fresh strawberry slush.
"I'm sorry, Jazz. I know you hate smoking and I know you're still upset over Cha-Cha."
Jazz remained quiet at his desk. He seemed to have forgotten about the cigarette.
After awhile, he leaned back in his chair and put his feet on his desk. "I'm going to get the ones responsible for the whole thing."
"I don't understand what made you think that somebody poisoned Cha-Cha in the first place. I thought he simply drank too much beer. So did the vet."
"I had my reasons, and I'm going to get the people responsible, the people that have caused all my problems."
"People? You think it's a conspiracy?"
"It takes two to tango."
"What does that mean?"
"Never mind. I'm going to get them."
"But Jazz, a group of people conspiring to poison a Chihuahua. It doesn't make sense."
"It's more than Cha-Cha."
"What else?"
"I'm going to get the people responsible. You can count on that. That's all I'm going to say."
Chapter 3
Tutus and Tights
The next afternoon, Waltz skidded into the lounge. Most of the other instructors were already present, awaiting the one o'clock staff meeting. Waltz selected a videotape from the stack next to the VCR and shoved it in. He set the recorder for his favorite soap opera, Dance of Deceit.
Yvette watched him. "How far behind are you now?"
"Five weeks."
She sighed loudly, like he was doomed. "You'll never catch up."
"Once I was behind three months. I caught up in two weekends. And I can do it again. I'm a dedicated man." He double-checked the setting on the VCR. "I'm getting a new VCR at home. I'm having a Dance of Deceit m
arathon. You're all invited. I'll have pop corn. I'll give a lecture afterwards, in which I demonstrate that Deceit is fine art, written by great artists. If he was alive today, Shakespeare would be writing it."
Waltz went to the desk and put his keys, comb, and pocket mirror in the drawer. He put a cigarette in his shirt pocket and the pack in the drawer, leaving nothing but a folder of matches tucked into the corner of his rear pants pocket. He removed the cash from his wallet, put it in his right front pocket, and put the wallet in the drawer.
Without stuff in his pockets, his pants draped better and gave him the freedom to dance. He worked hard at the gym doing heavy squats and dead lifts. His glutes were rounding out nicely. Girls admired guys' butts. He would give them a silhouette unsullied by pocket bulges.
His detractors watched his ritual, smirking and poking each other.
It was time for the meeting. They filed out of the office. Full-length mirrors covered the long sides of the ballroom. They were a great tool for improving your dancing. Waltz paused in front of the first one and checked his hair again. He smoothed it down with his hands. He turned from side to side to make sure of the profile of his butt.
They gathered on the bench that lined the wall across from the office and teachers' lounge, ready for the daily staff meeting. Lala glided to the front of the bench, her soft dance shoes hugging the floor. "I hope you know why you are here. Is to sell lessons. You teach dance to sell. You must be alert for the chance to sell, for example, people who have the divorce. They are lonely. Show them social dance is the best way to meet someone. If you find someone who is to divorce, come to me. We will sell them a batch of lessons."
Jazz left the bench and stepped in front of Lala. "Thank you, La. And now, I've got a special treat for you all."
He beckoned to a stranger. "Come out here, Gordon. Let me introduce you. This is Gordon Hogan, dance director of the New York City Ballet. He's an old friend of mine from the time when I danced with the ballet. I've brought him down here for two weeks. He'll be working with us each afternoon to improve our dancing. This man can dance and he can teach. He's been here a week already preparing this program for us. Give him a big San Salsa welcome."
The staff gave Gordon a standing ovation. Waltz could hardly believe it. What a chance to improve his dancing. Waltz took back every bad thing he thought about Jazz.
Jazz draped his arm around Gordon's shoulder. "Lala is right. The lifeblood of the studio is selling. To sell more, we must teach better. That's why Gordon is here. I know I can count on you all to learn as much as you can from him. He'll be giving his first class at two o'clock. I'll see you there."
Drink, Dance, Divorce Page 3