Stuart Kaminsky - Dancing in the Dark

“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.

“Get out, now,” bulldog said. “Now.”

“Can’t do that,” Astaire said with a smile, tiptoeing over broken glass.

“Throw him out,” the bulldog said, and the Saint Bernard lumbered toward Astaire.

It was no contest. Astaire jumped to his right as the big man reached for him. Astaire threw a short, sudden kick to the rear of the big man’s left knee, and the Saint Bernard went down with a grunt. Bulldog left Talbott and moved toward Astaire, who circled to his right, saying, “If we can just be reasonable.”

Bulldog was in no mood to be reasonable and he was quicker on his feet than Saint Bernard. He anticipated Astaire moving to his left or right and had his arms held wide open. Astaire stepped into the open arms, planted his left foot flat on the floor, and leveled a stomach-high kick at the bulldog, who staggered back, slipped on glass, and fell heavily.

I moved to the Saint Bernard, who was doing his best to get to his feet and finding it hard to do without the support of his left leg. Bulldog was rolling on the floor, holding his stomach, and trying to catch his breath.

“I’ve never done anything like that in my life,” Astaire said.

“I think we should get out of here,” I said.

I grabbed the open-mouthed Willie Talbott and pushed him toward the door. Then I went into Talbott’s office and moved toward Miss Perez, who backed away from me as I circled around the desk. I took the empty gun from her hand, put it on the desk, reached down, picked up a flowery dress from the floor, and handed it to her. She looked at the dress as if it were some alien and puzzling item from Mars.

“Put it on,” I said. “Fast.”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Astaire and Talbott going through the studio door.

Miss Perez took the dress and got into it.

“You have shoes?” I asked. “You don’t want to walk through this glass without shoes.”

She blinked around at the floor, spotted a pair of slingback pumps, and slipped them on. I looked over at bulldog and Saint Bernard. They were recovering slowly, but they were recovering. I guided Miss Perez out of the cubicle and past the Saint Bernard, who turned to me and said, “I can’t walk, I can’t work.”

“Should have thought of that before you became an insurance salesman,” I said.

Astaire and Talbott were standing on the sidewalk. Talbott looked at Miss Perez, turned to me and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“How did you find me?” I asked Astaire.

“Wasn’t looking for you,” he said with a shrug. “I called Forbes and asked him if he knew the name of the dance studio where Luna taught before he met her. He told me and. .”