“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 m
akeup 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.
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.”
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