Chapter Thirteen

Dancing at the Moving

Picture Ball

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.

“Fred,” I called in a loud whisper.

“Keep it down, Toby,” Barry said.

I looked for Phil and Steve and couldn’t find them.

Astaire turned when I called again. He saw me and said, “Toby?”

Rita Hayworth turned toward me, teeth white, lips red, puzzled. The orchestra began to play “Lovely to Look At.”

“Carlotta Forbes did it,” I said. “She’s here tonight. She’s after …” but Astaire couldn’t hear me over the music.

“Now,” said the guy with the clipboard.

And Hayworth and Astaire flowed onto the stage to wild applause.

“Barry?” I asked.

He nodded and let me pass.

I pushed my way through dancers, comics, and novelty acts, all waiting, all trying to be quiet. No Carlotta. I looked onto the stage where Astaire and Hayworth seemed to float about an inch off the floor. And then I saw her. Carlotta was in the wings on the other side of the stage. She had a big purse in her hand and her hand in the purse.

“I’ve got to get to the other side,” I whispered to an old guy in a cap who was working on the rigging. “Fast.”

“Flat goes clear to the back wall,” he said. “Either go out and around, or you go right across the stage. Lots of people out there.”

Carlotta’s hand was slowly coming out of her purse. I was pretty sure of what was in that hand. I looked around for Phil. Nothing.

I tore off my jacket and tapped the shoulder of a curly-haired guy just about my size. He was whispering to a pretty blonde in a big purple-and-white turban. The guy turned to me. It was Cornel Wilde.

“I need your jacket,” I said.

“My …”

“Police,” I said, pointing to my empty holster. “Hurry.”

Wilde looked at the blonde and then turned to me, taking off his jacket.

“Anything I can do to help?” he asked.

“Pray,” I said, putting on the jacket and taking the hand of the blonde girl.

“Wait,” she squealed as I pulled her toward the stage.

“We’re gonna dance across that stage,” I said. “We’re gonna save Fred Astaire’s life.”

The blonde turned to Wilde, who said, “Do it.”

I pushed past the guy with the clipboard, took a deep breath, and danced the blonde out onto the stage, doing my best to imagine I was Fred Astaire.

There was a rumble of confused conversation in the audience.

Astaire and Hayworth swirled around and Astaire gave me a questioning look. I nodded toward the far wing and he turned his eyes toward Carlotta, who was definitely taking something out of her purse. I kept dancing. The look on Carlotta’s face might have said a lot of things. I thought it said, “This is my lucky night. I’ve got them both out there.”

But it was hard to imagine what Carlotta was thinking. She was about to murder a movie star on stage, in front of a few thousand people, to cover up another murder. There was no chance of her getting away with this. And then I realized what she was doing. It was her relationship to Luna Martin she was covering. She didn’t care if she was dragged away in cuffs as long as no one could suggest a relationship to Luna.

I turned, more or less to the music, and the blonde beamed at the audience and guided me through the couple of dozen feet across the stage.

“Light and lead me,” she whispered like a ventriloquist through clenched teeth.

I nodded and looked at her.

I was dancing with Betty Grable.

We had almost made it across the stage when Carlotta, her back to the people in the wing, came out with the gun. Almost, but not quite. I wasn’t going to get to her in time. My best bet was to get Astaire and Hay worth down and hope Carlotta missed. I danced toward them and was about to throw myself onto Astaire and Hayworth when I heard a scuffling over the music and saw my brother grab Carlotta’s wrist, pull the gun from her hand, and pull her back into the shadows.

I was in the middle of the stage now, with Betty Grable in my arms. The lights were in my eyes but I could feel the people out there. Suddenly, somehow, Astaire and Hayworth orchestrated a partner-change and I found Rita Hayworth in my arms. She smelled like the few good memories of my battered life.

The audience went wild with applause. Astaire and Betty Grable went twirling past us.

“You’d better have a goddamn good explanation for this,” Hayworth said with an enormous smile. “And don’t step on my toes.”

I don’t know what I did for the next minute or so. I know I didn’t step on Rita Hayworth’s toes. Then, mercifully, the music stopped. She led me to the front of the stage. Astaire and Grable were there. We all joined hands and bowed. The audience went wild.

The lights were coming up as the curtain slowly lowered in front of us. I looked for Guiseppi Cortona. His seat was empty.

“Explain,” said Rita Hayworth, her hands on her hips when the curtain was all the way down.

The crowd was still applauding wildly and asking for more.

“Toby is more or less my bodyguard,” Astaire explained. “I think he just saved my life.”

Betty Grable took my hand and said, “I’ve got to get ready for my number. I don’t know what this was all about, but I think it was fun.”

And she was gone.

“Mr. Astaire, Miss Hayworth, please clear the stage for the next number,” the guy with the clipboard said, looking at me.

We moved offstage and as I passed Cornel Wilde I handed him his jacket. He patted my shoulder and moved onto the stage.

“Rita,” Astaire said, taking one of her hands in both of his, “trust me.”

She looked at me, shook her head, and said, “Well, it was an experience I haven’t had before.”

And she was gone.

The orchestra had already started its next number.

“Best dancer I’ve ever worked with,” Astaire said, hands in his pockets as we watched her move away through the backstage crowd. And then he turned to me: “Toby, is it over?”

“Almost,” I said. “I’ve got to go. I’ll send you a bill.”

“You were pretty good out there,” he said.

“I had a great teacher,” I answered and moved past Barry Lorie and the other guard.

I went through the stage-door exit, down an alley, and back to Wilshire. I didn’t want to run into Phil. He’d want me to give a statement and help make sense out of what Car-lotta might be telling him.

If he got her talking, there was one big piece of the puzzle she couldn’t help him with. Carlotta had murdered Willie Talbott and her husband, but she hadn’t killed Luna Martin.

I was hungry. I was tired. I had just danced with Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth on the stage of the Wiltern Theater and I was on my way to do something I didn’t want to do.