Stuart Kaminsky - Dancing in the Dark

“Well-” I started, but Astaire was out of the corner and between us.

“Mr. Forbes and I have worked out a deal,” Astaire said. “I give him and Mrs. Forbes five hours of lessons free of charge and my obligation to him is finished.”

“What obligation?” I asked.

“Let’s say it’s in honor of the memory of Luna Martin,” said Astaire.

“Arthur,” Carlotta Forbes called. “Let’s go. Who cares if some hoofer from the On Your Toes Dance Studio got tattooed with lead?”

“The glow of one warm thought is worth more to me than money,” said Jeremy at my side.

“Jefferson?” I asked.

“Jefferson,” Forbes said, moving away from me and across the room to his impatiently waiting wife.

“Toby, go,” Astaire ordered. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

Astaire nodded to Kudlap Singh, who went to the phonograph and put on a scratchy version of a Horace Heidt fox-trot-at least I think it was a fox-trot.

I went to the chair Forbes had vacated and sat. Jeremy followed me, sat stiffly. Astaire walked to the waiting couple.

“Thomas Jefferson?” I whispered.

“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.