saw them. Nothing Veblin could do but shake Phil's hand and send my brother back on the streets.
My tux was a mess. So were Jeremy's, Gunther's, and Shelly's. I sat down the next day in my office with Dash on the desk and tried to make up a bill. I couldn't do it. I knew Gable could pay. That wasn't the problem. The problem was I couldn't send a bill to a man who smelled like tragedy and went out to risk his life with a price on his head. It just wasn't done. Not even by cheap private investigators with small bank accounts, bad backs, miserable love lives, and a need for Wheaties.
I was going to take Dash down for tacos at Manny's. It was Sunday morning and I'd already read the LA. Times, where I found a lot about the Oscars and nothing about an incident in the parking lot of the Ambassador where a man named Edgar something had died after a particularly bad performance.
The phone rang. I put down the paper, told Dash to be patient for a few more minutes, and answered the phone.
'Peters?' came a voice I thought I recognized.
'Yes,' I said.
'Didn't think I'd catch you on a Sunday. Can you dance?'
'Dance?' I asked.
'You know. Fox-trot. Rumba. Waltz. Basics.'
'Not so you'd recognize them, but enough to almost get by.'
'Good. Good. How about meeting me tomorrow? I think I have a job you'd be particularly suited for.'
'I'll give it a whirl,' I said.
'I'll give you a call in the morning and set up the time and place,' Fred Astaire sang, and hung up the phone.
