“How important?” Marty asked.
I told him. And I told him fast. Marty has been known to charge by the minute.
“Not bad,” he said. “Cash up front.”
“Cash up front,” I repeated.
Astaire nodded.
“You say nothing more to the police without me present,” Marty said. “Nothing. Not a word. Don’t even cough and above all don’t fart.”
“Not a fart. Not a word. Not a sneeze.”
“You’ve got the idea,” Marty said and hung up.
One hour and twenty minutes later Astaire and I were in Martin Leib’s Cadillac, heading back to the Monticello for Astaire’s car and my Crosley.
Marty had taken a check from Astaire and pocketed it. He was breathing fast and heavy. “Desk clerk at the Monticello confirms that Forbes called you, Toby,” Marty said, adjusting his tie in a useless attempt to get comfortable. “Even by chance heard a few words of the conversation.”
“Lucky for us,” I said.
“Well,” said Marty, “I doubt if they’ve got nearly enough to get a bill on any of the murders on either of you. I’ll call the commissioner and get him to keep sitting on this.”
“You know the commissioner?” Astaire asked.
Astaire and I were in the back seat. Marty’s neck was too thick and his body too heavy to face us when he answered, “Well indeed, but Rusty and I don’t roll in the same circles. We occasionally deal, though. I’m known as one of the best if not the best shyster in the business. Call to the commissioner is free if I get a personally autographed photo.”
“Consider it done, Mr. Leib,” said Astaire.
“You’re a fan, Marty?” I asked.
“I was bitten or at least kicked in the can by Terpsicore when I was a child. Wife and I are good enough to compete in the ballroom regionals and we’ve got a couple of ribbons.”
I couldn’t imagine all three hundred and fifty pounds of Marty Leib waltzing around a dance floor.
“Weren’t for you,” Marty said, looking at Astaire in his rearview mirror, “Toby would be back in the Wilshire lockup playing ‘Camptown Races’ on a toilet-paper kazoo. I had to walk out on a cash-paying client facing a major fraud charge.”
“Why don’t I give your client an autographed photo too?” asked Astaire.
“Harley is not a dance fan,” said Marty, pulling into the parking lot at the Monticello. “I’m sure he would be close to ecstasy and agreeing to any terms I might have for conducting his defense were he to be given an autographed photo of Rita Hayworth.”
“Man has good taste,” said Astaire. “I’m sure I can manage that.”
Astaire and I got out of the car and Marty rolled down the window to say, “Mr. Peters has my office address. It’s Leib. L-e-i-b not L-i-e-b. And ‘Marty’ not ‘Martin.’ ”
“Got it,” said Astaire.
Marty drove off with a wave.
“I’ve got to get to a rehearsal,” Astaire said, looking at his watch. “Then I’ve got to explain all this to my wife. What are you going to do?”
“Locate my car, grab a sinker and coffee at a diner, and find a killer,” I said. “I’m a veteran,” I told Cotton Wright as he slouched toward us. “So is my friend.”
Cotton saluted, took our stubs, and went in search of our autos.
“Careful, Toby,” Astaire said, touching my arm.
“Do my best,” I answered.
He got in his car and drove away. Cotton brought the Crosley.
“Someone shrunk your car,” he said, easing his way out from behind the steering wheel.
“Rain, maybe,” I said, giving him a half dollar and climbing in.
“Rain doesn’t shrink metal,” he said. “If it did, I’d be one of those pinheads in the circus.”
It made sense to me.
Ten minutes later I was at Mack’s Diner at the crowded counter exchanging smiles with Anita, who brought me a tuna on toast and a coffee.
“Trust me with this,” she whispered, placing the sandwich in front of me.
“I’ll trust you with a lot more,” I said. She patted my hand and went off to a calling customer.
The Negro guy sitting next to me drinking a bowl of vegetable soup piled high with Saltines examined my sandwich without turning his head. Twenty minutes and two coffees later the lunch crowd was thinning out, the Negro had gone, and Anita came over to sit. She wore little makeup and her uniform was a size loose. She caught me looking and said, “Keeps the big hands away.”
“I remember,” I said.
“Came to say the fantasy’s over?” she asked.
“Came to say we should try making it real.”
“Sounds good to me,” Anita said, pushing a stray curl back behind her ear. She cast a glance around the diner to check that no one was looking at us and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. She tasted like coffee. “You’ve got my number?” she asked.
“On a napkin near my heart,” I answered.
“You know, this might be fun.”
“Already is,” I said.
I dropped a dollar on the counter and stopped at the pay phone just outside. I had a stack of nickels and used most of them to reach the number I wanted. When she answered and said hello, I hung up.
I had a long day of driving ahead of me.
Chapter Twelve: I’m Gonna Dance Out Both My Shoes
The Mozambique looked like it was designed by an alcoholic art director who had worked one too many B pictures with Jon Hall. The green walls were covered with bad paintings of jungle animals and trees but it was hard to see them. The lights were always down and dim at the Mozambique, to give it atmosphere and to cut down on the cleanup. The bar was long and dark wood. There were half-a-dozen tables and four red-leatherette booths. Beyond the tables was a platform on which Lou Canton sat at a piano, playing “After You’ve Gone” for a weeping woman who was nursing a drink at one of the tables.
“Wow,” screamed Sidney, the ancient cockatoo, when I moved to the bar.
“Wow to you, Sid,” I said, sitting on a stool.
Lester Gannett, owner and bartender, rushed over to me. “Pevsner-”
“Peters,” I corrected.
“I don’t care what your name is now. Just get the hell out, okay? Last time you were in here my tenor was murdered and I had five hundred dollars’ damage from a riot you started. Time before that, when you were still a cop, your partner jumps on the stomach of a customer.”
Lester’s complexion was bad. He needed some sunlight and decent food.
“I think you’re getting scurvy, Lester,” I said.
“I’m not gettin’ scurvy. I’m gettin’ scared. Pev. . Peters. Come on.”
“Gotta talk to Lou,” I said. “I owe him money.”
“Give it to me. I’ll give it to him. I gotta tell you the truth here. You make me nervous.”
“How’s Jeannie?” I asked. Jeannie was Lester’s teenage daughter. Last time I had been in the Mozambique, Jeannie had been picking up sailors and getting them to buy drinks from dad.
“Fine,” Lester said with a sigh. “She’s startin’ college up in San Francisco. Okay. One drink. One drink. On me. You take care of your business with Lou and you get out. Pepsi, right?”
“You got it, Lester. How’s Lillian?” Lillian was Lester’s wife. Before the war Lillian had played the customers
