A dream you dream alone is only a dream. A dream you dream together is reality.
—John Lennon quoting Yoko Ono, All We Are Saying
“YOU KNOW WHAT, Jack? I had a terrible realization today.”
You finally figured out this hayseed town is dull as dust, and it’s time to go back to the bright lights of the big city?
“Not even close . . .”
I was in my bed, staring at the ceiling. Hours ago, I’d said goodbye to Seymour and Brainert and locked up the shop. Now Spencer was in his own bed—sleeping, I presumed, because he was thoroughly grounded. I took his phone and his computer out of his room. I left him his little AM/FM radio because it was also his clock.
Disciplining my little boy gave me no joy, and it was nights like this—with my mind full of worries and self-doubt—that I was happy to be haunted. The ghost always knew when I needed to talk . . .
“Today I realized I am failing as a parent.”
That’s a truckload of hooey, doll, a pound of baloney with a banana chaser.
“Please don’t tell me ‘boys will be boys,’ because what happened today is more than boyish mischief. After I spent all those Sundays with Spencer, coaxing him in his science project; after we had a serious talk about his not using what he’d learned to solve adult crimes at his school, Spencer defied me. He went off and did what he believed was right, never mind what I thought. He acted silly, stupid, headstrong—”
And mighty brave.
“Brave?”
Sure. The kid was on a mission to find justice for his teacher. Despite knowing he’d be punished, and you’d be angry with him, he stuck to his goal. That’s called courage.
“It may look like that from your perspective. But from mine, my son put himself in a terrible jam and left me a real mess to clean up, on top of the Norma nightmare, the Braydon threat, and the daily business of keeping our shop running.”
Welcome to the circus of life, Penny. As crazy as it gets, it’s still a better place than mine, and don’t you forget it, even if you do feel like a clown in the center ring sometimes, juggling a few too many balls.
“They call it multi-tasking these days,” I told the ghost. “And first thing tomorrow one of my tasks will be handling Spencer’s principal. Too bad I’m not particularly good at handling. Principals or little boys.”
Is that what you think?
“Yes. Sometimes I wish Spencer’s father were still alive to help me with things like this.”
You know what? There comes a time in every young man’s life when he stops taking his marching orders from his mother, even if she means well. Of course, all that changes when a Jane corrals her Joe. Put a ring on his finger and a Joe will be taking orders from a dame all over again.
“You never did.”
No, never did. But truth be told, I would have liked the chance. And if I were Spencer’s father, you know what I’d do right now?
“What”
Take his mother out for a night of champagne and dancing.
I laughed. “Does that mean we’re finally going to Sardi’s?”
Not this time, honey, because tonight you need a little lesson in confidence. I know you can handle yourself in a tight situation. And you do too. You just need a little reminder.
I stifled a yawn. “Is that your roundabout way of saying I’m getting another PI lesson? Because I thought I was going dancing.”
Close those pretty peepers, and you’ll be doing both . . .
“RISE AND SHINE, Penny. We’re almost there.”
I heard a horn honk and traffic sounds and sniffed a miasma of French perfume. It took me a moment to realize the sweet aroma was wafting off me.
I opened my eyes and sat up in the taxi seat. Beside me, Jack smiled as he flipped a quarter, then tucked it into his pocket. He was dressed in a shiny evening suit complete with black tie. His signature trench coat and fedora were nowhere to be found.
“You should be raring to go, seeing as you just had a nap and you’re all dolled up to beat the band.”
Jack wasn’t exaggerating. I was so “dolled up” I felt like a spoiled child’s Barbie on her imaginary prom night—long white satin dress with a slit up the side, white opera gloves all the way up to my armpits, delicate gold-trimmed heels, an audacious neckline that displayed way too much, and a cinched waist that made me look so incredibly svelte I had to remind myself this was only a dream. Over it all I was wrapped in a luxurious ermine cape as soft as a bunny rabbit’s tail.
And did I mention I was literally dripping in jewelry?
“Raring to go where?” I asked. “A precious gems convention? What if I get mugged?”
“Relax, doll, it’s all costume stuff, but very convincing.”
“What if some thug is convinced and I get mugged?”
“I’ll be nearby the whole time.”
I didn’t like the sound of that! “Nearby? How nearby is nearby?”
“Near enough, but I can’t be with you every second.”
“Why is that?”
“You’re going into an exclusive club called the Moondance. No men are allowed. Well, no men who aren’t the entertainment or the staff, anyway.”
“What are you saying?”
“You’ve got to go it alone.”
“But—”
“The Moondance is where rich older dames go to taxi dance with handsome young men while their rich older husbands are out of town or visiting a doxy of their own.”
“Taxi dance? That’s like when a man pays a woman ten cents for a dance, right?”
“Yeah, Penny, and the house keeps a nickel and the dancer gets the same. Only tonight you won’t be waltzing with nickel-hoppers. Exclusive is the word at the Moondance. A single trot around the ballroom is a cool ten-spot—”
“Ten dollars!”
“And the dames are footing the bill.”
“And I’m going to the Moondance because . . . ?”
“Because Billy Bastogne is holed up there with the Tears of Valentino. Ironic, ain’t it? Rudolph Valentino himself worked as a taxi dancer, at Maxim’s.”
“So, Billy is a taxi dancer?”
“He works the dance floor and figures he’s safe from Klaus Bremen and the Germantown gang he owes money to because the joint is man-free.”
“How do you know all this, Jack?”
“Remember Phyllis Harmon, the doll at the Bijoux House of Fashion?”
“The hysterical woman I knocked down?”
“That’s her. Miss Harmon told a whopper to the coppers just like I suggested, only now she wants to get even with Billy Bastogne for killing her friend Thelma Dice.”
“So?”
“So, Phyllis has been helping me, see? Billy doesn’t know Phyllis was at the Bijoux, too. She played all innocent about knowing he was the killer. Meantime she did a lot of snooping on Billy’s pals and talking with associates of Klaus Bremen and his Germantown mob. Turns out, Phyllis came up with a pair of aces.”
“Aces how?”
“Phyllis learned that Billy figured out those Tears are worth more than the measly few grand he owed his bookie, Klaus Bremen. Billy wants to profit from the jewels he killed his girlfriend to get. He sent a message that he wants to negotiate with the mob.”
“How did that go?”
“The Germantown gang decided to cooperate. Klaus Bremen is sending in a woman to appraise the jewels, make sure Billy isn’t pulling a scam. The dame is meeting him at the Moondance tonight.”
“And who is this dame?”
“Her alias is Veronika Von Vimko. She claims she’s a Hungarian countess who lost everything in the war. But I know her from the old days.”
“Old days?”
“Her real name is Molly Shaughnessy and she’s a longtime bunko artist out of Hell’s Kitchen. Molly knows diamonds because she used to con them off rich old ladies with her fortune-telling racket. Old Molly has a few priors, and up until this morning, three outstanding warrants.”
“Had?”
“You caught that? I knew you were sharp.” Jack shrugged his broad shoulders. “Yeah, I dropped a dime on the countess to a police lieutenant I know. Now Molly is in the slammer, an up-and-coming cop owes me a favor, and tonight you get to play Veronika Von Vimko.”
Jack patted the silk-clad leg that peeked through the provocative slit in the gown. “How about that, doll? You’ll be Countess for a Day.”
“Oh, swell.”
The taxi driver rolled to a stop and Jack hopped out and helped me to my feet. I was wearing so much jewelry that when I moved I actually rattled.
I looked around. A clock on the corner told me it was near midnight. We were a few blocks from the New Yorker Hotel. I knew because I could see the iconic red neon sign that still existed when I lived here a few years ago—or decades from now if you want to look at the situation backward.
“That’s the joint,” Jack said, pointing.
The Moondance was obviously a very private club. A blue neon moon, about the size of a basketball, glowed over an ebony door. The name Moondance was nowhere to be found, and there were no other windows or any indication of what was beyond that nearly invisible single door. One could easily walk by this place a hundred times without noticing it was there.
“What do I do?”
“You go through that door, have a few words with the hostess, and buy a hundred bucks’ worth of tickets—”
“Tickets?”
“You know what a ticket is, right?”
“Sure, I get them when I go to the movies.”
“Well, think of this as movie night. A hundred bucks will get you ten tickets. Ten tickets means ten dances and all the champagne you can swill. Dance with a few of the fancy men, look like you’re there to pour a little sunshine into your life.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, don’t look for Billy Bastogne. Act nonchalant. In his eyes you are holding all the cards. He’s desperate to fence those rocks and he doesn’t know how to. Let Billy find you. Make him sweat a little for what he did to poor Thelma Dice.”
“You’re sure I can handle this?” I asked doubtfully.
“Sure I’m sure. Piece o’ cake. And once Billy makes contact, stay glued to him like flypaper. Don’t let him shake you.”
“You know, Jack, you could call that nice up-and-coming police lieutenant and give him another tip. That Billy Bastogne killed his girlfriend and stole her jewels.”
“I could, but for two things. One. I have no evidence. None of us saw Billy kill Thelma, even though we both know that he did. There’s nothing to even connect him with the victim. Our Mr. Bastogne has no permanent address. As far as the world knows, Thelma lived alone. Phyllis won’t talk to the law, and I don’t blame her, so there is nothing but scuttlebutt to link Bastogne to Thelma Dice.”
“And reason number two?” I asked.
“If the cops snatch the Tears, we don’t. That means Syble Zane won’t pay me more than she already has. Anyway, I don’t like to let a client down.”
“Especially one as lovely as Miss Zane.”
“Now, don’t get all catty on me.”
“Fine. Where do I get a hundred bucks?”
“You’ll find a C-note in that purse of yours. I can afford it. It’s Syble Zane’s money. I’ve been keeping our Broadway starlet apprised of our progress on the case, not to mention my mounting expenses.”
Jack smiled so wide the scar on his chin almost vanished. “In you go, sweetheart.”
I swept a hand through my copper hair, loose and long enough to brush my shoulders. Then I pulled the ermine tighter around me and approached the forbidding-looking door.
Behind me, I heard Jack’s call.
“Have a good time, doll. But not too good, if you know what I mean.”