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.