I put my hands behind my head and a desk lamp snapped on, bouncing odd shadows.
The big man with the gun was about forty with full, ruffled blond hair and a frightened look on his face. He wore dark wrinkled trousers and a mess of a long-sleeved white shirt unbuttoned to show his undershirt.
“Who sent you?” he asked.
“Stella,” I said.
“She’s a whore,” he said, voice cracking. “I don’t owe her a goddamn nickel. Chavez sent you, or Albertini.”
I kept my hands behind my head and watched him fumble through the mess on his desk until he found a pack of cigarettes. He managed to light one with trembling fingers and keep the gun aimed in the general direction of my chest.
“I told them I’d pay them a little at a time,” Willie went on. “I’ve got a rich new student and I’ve been in touch with a friend with a lot of money.”
“Luna Martin?” I guessed.
That almost stunned the cigarette from his lips.
“How did you. . she owes me,” he said, trying to compose himself and glancing from time to time at the door to my right.
“My name is Toby Peters,” I said.
“Peters? You’re a. .” he said, looking at the alarm clock on his desk. “You’re an hour early.”
“Eager to dance,” I said. “Can I take my hands down?”
“How did you know about Luna?” he asked suspiciously.
“She’s a friend. She’s the one who sent me here.”
“Luna sent you here for dance lessons?”
“In a way,” I said. “Hands down?”
“At your sides,” he said. “But don’t move. No offense, Peters, but I’ve got some people I owe a few dollars, and they won’t handle this in a civilized manner. You understand?”
“Fully,” I said. “Think you could put the gun down now?”
He looked at the gun in his hand and took the cigarette from his mouth. He placed the gun on the table in front of him.
“Bad start,” he said with a smile as he brushed back his hair.
“I wouldn’t say we hit it off on first sight,” I agreed.
“Well,” he went on, buttoning his shirt. “I was just taking a little nap to get the creative juices evenly divided throughout my body. All body liquids flow to your toes when you’re standing unless your heart and the other organs keep them flowing through the body. That puts a strain on your heart.”
“And the other organs,” I added.
“That’s right,” he said, tucking in his shirt.
Someone or something groaned from behind the desk. Willie Talbott ignored the sound and said, “A dancer needs an even distribution of body liquids and an even disposition.”
“And a gun,” I said, taking a step to my left where I could see around the side of the desk.
A pair of bare feet, definitely female, were clearly visible.
“Miss Perez is recirculating her body fluids,” Talbott said. “Clothes constrict the flow.”
“Makes sense to me,” I said. “She seems to be asleep.”
“She’s concentrating deeply,” Talbott explained, putting the cigarette back in his mouth and coming from behind the desk. I eased farther to the left in the hope of seeing more of the meditating Miss Perez.
Talbott took my arm and guided me toward the door, removing the cigarette from his mouth again to tell me that I was in luck, On Your Toes was offering an introductory special, three lessons for five dollars. Each lesson was half an hour. Payment was required in advance. Results were guaranteed.
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.
