Stuart Kaminsky - Dancing in the Dark

Forbes had said his wife was a pack rat, that she didn’t throw anything away, not a grudge, not an old dress. He was right.

I headed for my car.

I knew a few more things than I knew before I had made the trip.

The most important thing I had learned was who had killed Arthur Forbes. At least I thought I knew. I was more sure of something else. Fred Astaire’s life was in danger.

I pushed the Crosley, but there was no way I could get more than forty-five miles an hour out of it. I made one quick stop for gas, a Whiz bar, and an apple. I listened to Elmer Davis on the radio and tried to come up with more of a plan than I had. No use.

Davis reminded his listeners that the United States was an awesome power. We had put together an army of twelve million men and we were fighting two powerful empires at the same time. We had a navy bigger than the combined fleets of our enemies and allies. And we were still able to record a twenty-percent increase in annual civilian spending. Davis closed by saying that, “To America, war is a business, not an art.”

It was almost dark when I got back to L.A. and pulled into a parking spot on Wilshire between a fire hydrant and a Rolls-Royce. The street was packed and the lights were bright at the Wiltern Theater. When darkness hit so would the curfew, but there were still a few minutes. I ducked traffic and ran across the street to the front of the theater, where my brother Phil and Steve Seidman stood waiting.

“You’re late,” Phil said, checking his watch.

“Did they start?” I asked.

“I got the schedule,” said Seidman. “Ritz Brothers open, followed by Jane Withers and Allan Jones. Then Fred Astaire and Rita Hayworth. Show closes with Alice Faye and Phil Harris.”

“You see Guiseppi Cortona and his daughter go in?” I asked.

“Who knows?” Phil said. “This better be something, Tobias.”

“They’re in there. Forbes told me he had tickets. Let’s go,” I said, heading for the lobby door.

“This is bullshit,” Phil said, holding his ground.

“We’ve got no time for this,” I said, “but here.”

I took out what I had found hidden at the Forbes house and handed it to Phil. I showed him where he should look.

“Carlotta Forbes took dancing lessons at On Your Toes Dance Studio. Her teacher was Luna Martin. They had lots of lessons. Look.”

I flipped the pages of Willie Talbott’s book and showed him.

“And?”

“And,” I said, looking at the lobby and hearing the laughter inside the theater, “I’d have to say Carlotta introduced Luna to her husband or got Luna to introduce herself.”

“Why?” asked Phil.

“Blackmail. I’d say Carlotta was in bed with Willie and maybe even with Luna,” I said.

Phil shook his head. He had heard it all before and seen it all. He was an L.A. cop.

“That’s life,” I said.

“So,” said Phil, “Carlotta murders Luna. Carlotta goes for Willie Talbott’s book to keep us from finding her connection to the dead woman. She kills Willie. No more blackmailers. Then. .”

A couple in full evening dress hurried in late.

“Forbes finds out, maybe finds the book and has it out with Carlotta, tells her, father or no father, he’s getting rid of her. Or maybe he threatens her with telling Guiseppi. He calls me and Astaire and tells us he wants to talk to us,” I said. “By the time we get there, Carlotta puts a knife in her husband’s heart, gets the book back if she ever lost it, calls the cops to catch me and Astaire with the body.”

More laughter and applause inside the theater.

“Stupid,” Phil said, running his hand over his bristly gray hair. “Why does she want to kill Fred Astaire?”

“Astaire and I went to Willie’s to get the book. She’s afraid Willie showed it to us before he went for the roof where she was waiting for him and she turned over the room and couldn’t find the book. Carlotta knew our Willie and his room pretty well, but. .”

“No,” said Phil.

“I found the book in Carlotta’s closet,” I said. “The killer took it from Willie Talbott. Give me that much.”

Phil and Steve Seidman exchanged looks. Steve closed his eyes and shrugged. We started moving toward the lobby. Posters announcing the “Night of Stars for Victory” were propped up all around.

A pair of men in suits and ties stopped us at the inner door. One of them asked for tickets. Phil showed his badge. The men took turns looking at it and couldn’t make up their minds what to do. Phil made up their minds for them. He pocketed shield and wallet and bulled past the men, one of whom said, “Wait just a goddamn minute.”

But we didn’t wait. We opened the inner doors and went in.

The theater was packed and in a good mood. Jane Withers was on stage with Allan Jones. Harry Ritz was peeking, goggle-eyed, around the curtain on the right of the stage. Every time Withers or Jones looked toward the curtain, Ritz disappeared. The audience went wild.

Cortona was in about the fourteenth row on the right. He was easy to find. There was an empty seat next to him and he was the only one not laughing at Harry Ritz. Seidman and Phil moved to the exit door on the left and went through. I excused my way into the seat next to Cortona, stepping on the foot of Edith Head. Cortona glanced at me but didn’t seem surprised to see me.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said.

Cortona didn’t answer.

“This Carlotta’s seat?”

Cortona was silent.

The audience roared as all three of the Ritz Brothers high-stepped across the stage behind Withers and Jones, who finally caught them.

“Where’s Carlotta?”

Cortona closed his eyes, his chin sagged on the head of the cane held between his legs.

“I warned Arthur when he married her,” he said. “She’s my daughter but she’s not right in the head.”

I had to lean over to hear him over the laughter in the audience and the banter on stage.

“She’s my only child,” Cortona said, his eyes still closed. “But she’s. . she has a streak in her. A temper. I don’t know where she gets it.”

I had some ideas, but this wasn’t the place to bring them out.

“Will you please be quiet?” a man in the row behind us said, leaning forward.

“She wanted me dead,” I whispered to the old man. “And she wants Astaire dead.”

He didn’t answer.

“Why?” I asked.

“The book,” he said. “She’s afraid you saw the book. Carlotta and that Luna Martin were. . And she blames you and Astaire for working Luna up.”

“She’ll be caught before. .” I said.

“She doesn’t care,” he said, shaking his head. “I can tell big men with guns and knives what to do and they do it. But with her. .”

The applause suddenly boomed and Jane Withers did a gee-whiz introduction of Astaire and Rita Hayworth. I eased my way back into the aisle and went for the door Phil and Seidman had taken.

There were two guards in brown uniforms at the stage entrance. One of them held up his hand. The other one said, “Toby, what the hell is going on? Phil just blew by and the place is going nuts.”

The guard was Barry Lorie. We had both worked security at Warner Brothers. Good man, bad legs.

“Someone’s trying to kill Astaire,” I said.

“Shit you say.”

“Straight up, Barry. You see a thin, good-looking dark woman back here, all in black?”

“Lots of ’em,” said Barry. “In black, white, pink, red. You name it.”

Astaire and Rita Hayworth were in the wings no more than a dozen feet from me. People were scurrying around. A guy with a clipboard was looking at his watch and doing a countdown. Astaire was in a tux and a toupee. Hayworth was in something black and frilly, her red hair billowed soft.