in front of a fire plug. I didn’t see the face of the person getting in the car, but I did see his or her gloved hand. It was clutching what looked like a leatherbound ledger book. The car door closed with a slam and the driver screeched out of the space and down the street.
Talbott wasn’t moving. I got down on one knee and turned him over.
The hole in his shirt was black and the blood that stained his chest was thick. No doubts here-Willie Talbott was dead. I went back over the roofs and followed the trail Talbott had taken to get to his apartment.
In the garage turn-around Astaire was leaning back on the front fender of his car, his arms folded. He stood up, looked beyond me, and saw no Twinkle-Toes.
“I thought I heard a shot,” he said.
“Talbott’s danced his last bad samba,” I said. “He’s dead and I think the killer got away with Luna’s appointment book. Let’s go.”
“Where?” he asked, opening the door.
“To my car,” I said, going around the hood and heading for the passenger side.
We got in and closed the doors. Astaire started down the narrow driveway.
“Needless to say, I have some questions, Peters,” Astaire said, turning right when we hit the street. Behind us a small gathering of neighbors on the sidewalk looked up at the building where Talbott lay dead. One of them was pointing.
“I probably don’t have very good answers. I’ll take my car, go to the cops, tell them what happened. I’ll leave you out of it. You’ve got nothing to tell them that I can’t. The way I figure it, Talbott got the appointment book and went out the bathroom window. I think he figured that if he could get five hundred from you, he might be able to get a lot more from someone whose name was in that book. That someone was waiting for Talbott on the roof, was familiar with Talbott’s exits, shot him, took the book. Of course, I could have it all wrong and the bulldog and Saint Bernard you took apart just caught up with him and were in a bad mood, but they didn’t know about the appointment book, at least I think they didn’t.”
“So?. .” asked Astaire.
“We’ve got two dead dancers,” I said. “And no idea who killed either one of them.”
“I’m going with you to the police,” Astaire said as we headed back toward Los Angeles.
“What’ll it get you? Some very bad publicity? Who is it going to help? I’ll tell you what. Give me a couple of days and if the police or I don’t turn anything up, I’ll set up a meeting between you and a homicide detective. Three days.”
“You said ‘a couple.’ That’s two.”
“Okay, two days. Then you can go to the police and ruin your career.”
He drove me to my car around the corner from the now-ownerless On Your Toes Dance Studio and I headed for the Wilshire Police Station, which was a long way from Venice. My behind was sore. My stomach was upset. I’d lost a witness and let the killer get away. My jacket was torn and my ex-wife was marrying a movie star. I took off the jacket and placed it on the passenger seat. Exhibit A. I was not having a good day.
I parked behind the Wilshire station in a spot reserved for patrol cars and went through the rear door, passing a pair of uniformed police, one too old, the other too young. A wartime phenomenon.
“Russ,” I said to the older cop. “How are things?”
Russ paused, and his young partner, who I didn’t know, looked impatiently at his watch.
“Remember my kid, Charlie? You met him at Sonny’s bar a couple or so times?” Russ asked.
“Sure I remember him.”
“Just got back home. Wounded, but safe. Arm won’t move great.” Russ demonstrated how his son’s arm would be moving. “But what the hell. He’s back in one piece and for good with a Purple Heart.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“Russ,” the young partner said.
“Right,” Russ said. “Gotta go, Toby. Say, you know what’s gnawing at Phil? He’s got a bug up his ass the size of Tarzana.”
“No,” I said, and Russ and his partner headed for their car.
I went down the damp, dimly lit corridor, past the downstairs meeting and interrogation rooms and up the badly worn stairs. Then past the squad room, where shrill nervous voices and deep bored ones came through the closed double doors along with the smell of stale food. My brother was back in his old office at the end of the squad room. When he had been promoted to captain, he had moved into an ugly brown square across from the squad room. The captain’s office would have been enough to drive a monk nuts. He had gone back to his closet-sized office after his demotion for failure to deal effectively with the local business people. He seemed to be happier back with the boys, though it was hard to tell when Phil was happy. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him smile.
The squad room was busy. A thin kid who needed a shave was seated next to Jay Buxbaum. The kid was probably Mexican. He had an accent. He was pointing to his own chest and saying, “You really saying I did this thing? That what you’re saying?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” said Buxbaum, evenly settling his three hundred pounds back in his chair.
At another desk near the window, two detectives, Winslow and Ho, were leaning over a pale man. They were whispering. The pale man was shaking his head. I nodded at a detective named Ponsetto and made my way to Phil’s office. I knocked and he said, “All right.”
I took that for a “come in.”
Phil had his back turned to me and was looking out the window. Phil never took the time to look out windows. There were too many criminals out there who needed a good hit in the head and there was too little time to get to them all. Besides, the view from Phil’s window was a brick wall five feet away.
I stood in front of his desk. He didn’t turn to face me but he did say, “Sit down.”
I would have preferred to stand, but I didn’t want to remind him that I had been spanked by a giant Indian. I sat. Phil continued to look out the window for about two minutes. Then he sighed and swiveled in his wooden chair to face me. He put his hands on his desk and looked at me.
Phil was nearing two hundred and fifty pounds. His hair was gray and getting whiter by the week. His neck was thick and his collar was open, the blue tie dangling awkwardly down his shirt.
“You okay, Phil?”
He looked at me without blinking.
“Phil?”
“I like my work,” he said. “I didn’t like being a captain. But where you’ve got a vacuum, it has to be filled.”
“Have you been drinking, Phil?”
“No,” he said. “But I’ll probably have a couple of beers when I get home. The vacuum is the captaincy. It’s been filled by the all-damn-knowing chief of police. Do you know who the new captain of the Wilshire is? You want to guess?”
“No,” I said.
“Guess,” Phil insisted.
“Perkily from the Hollywood,” I tried.
Phil shook his head. I tried to think. I came up with six more names, all of which got me the same response.
“Claudette Colbert,” I said.
Phil held up a hand to show that he was not to be trifled with.
“I give up,” I said. “I mean, I’m enjoying the game but I’ve got something I’ve got to talk to you about.”
“Cawelti,” he said. “That son of a bitch on the take is my boss.”
John Cawelti, he of the plastered-back, bartender-combed red hair and bad complexion, had, when the chance came, tried to nail me for everything from stealing the collection money at St. Vincent De Paul’s to murder. John Cawelti and I had a long and rotten history.
“Shit,” I said.
“I’ve asked for a transfer. I don’t think they’ll give it to me. Steve’s asked for one too. He might get his. I can retire early, but. .” He let it trail off and sighed. “Okay, Toby, what do you want?”
“Something that’ll make you look good,” I said. “A third-rate dance teacher named Willie Talbott was shot on
