“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.