Drink, Dance, Divorce

by Charles Alworth

  Jazz slung another dart. "They make friends and enemies fast in the gay bars. Some of those guys are screwed up as hell. You can never tell what some crazed gay might do."

  "I can't believe that."

  "Believe it. I took him around all the gay bars. I've seen them in action. It has nothing to do with the studio."

  How hardheaded could you get? Waltz leaped out of his chair. "So you fired Rachel for a reason so flimsy you won't tell it. Okay. Nothing new about that. But you ought to at least recognize that somebody's out to get you. You ought to take steps to protect yourself and the studio."

  The phone rang. Jazz picked it up and listened, making a few terse replies. He hung up. "That was the cops. They'll be here in half an hour to question us about Gordon."

  "That's great. When they catch the guy, they'll also have the guy who poisoned Cha-Cha."

  ***

  The lieutenant picked a truncheon off the desk and unwrapped it, the plastic crackling. He wadded up the plastic and tossed it in the corner. He slapped the truncheon in his hand. "So what can you tell me about the attack on Gordon Hogan?"

  "I think somebody has a vendetta against my brother, Jazz. First, the guy poisoned his dog - "

  The lieutenant whapped the truncheon against the side of the desk. "Not that tired story again."

  "Listen. My brother loves his dog. Somebody poisoned him to hurt my brother. Gordon is a stranger to town. He came a week ago. His one connection in town is my brother. Someone attacked Gordon to hurt my brother."

  "So someone wants to hurt your brother? Looks to me like they would cut off his toe."

  "What other reason would someone have to attack Gordon?"

  The truncheon went tap, tap, tap against the desk. "Somebody who knows him. Like your brother. He and Gordon have any arguments?"

  "No. They're great friends. This visit is a reunion for them." Waltz lit up and took a big drag.

  "Put that out."

  "Yes sir." Jazz didn't have an ashtray in his office. Waltz cocked his foot across his knee. He hated to snub out a cigarette on the suede soles of his dance shoes.

  "I said put it out."

  The heel. Part of it was rubber. That would work. He mashed the cigarette on his heel. The wastebasket was behind the lieutenant. Waltz held the cigarette in his hand. He would throw it away later.

  "So your brother hasn't argued with Gordon?"

  "No, besides, my brother was in Vegas this weekend. He didn't get back until Monday at noon. He couldn't have attacked Gordon."

  The sneer enlarged and seemed headed for the lieutenant's ears. "How convenient. How common. Arrange to be out of town while your confederate does the crime. Have you any idea how many alibis like that I've seen?"

  "A lot, I guess."

  "Who else had something against Gordon?"

  "Nobody."

  "How about your sister-in-law, Lala Charleston?"

  "She didn't have anything against him."

  "I thought you learned your lesson last time. Lying to the cops is not a good strategy."

  "I'm not lying."

  "Strange. Several people told me she disrupted his class, and she was mad as hell at him because of all the money he was charging the studio. They said she swore to stop him from teaching his class."

  "Well, yeah. But she didn't have anything against him."

  "So despite the fact that he was taking a lot of money from the studio, money that she didn't want him to have, she was very fond of him and wouldn't do a thing to harm him. Right?"

  "But she wouldn't hurt him."

  "Would it interest you to know that she has no alibi?"

  "She wouldn't hurt him. I'm telling you."

  "So your brother and your sister-in-law are kind and pure and wouldn't hurt a fly?"

  "That's right."

  "Where were you Sunday night at seven?"

  "You don't think I did it?"

  "You established that your brother and sister-in-law didn't do it. You're the other logical suspect. Answer the question. Where were you Sunday night at seven? Poisoning another poor dog?"

  "I was in my apartment."

  "Anybody with you?"

  "No."

  "Can anybody testify that you were there?"

  "No."

  "You had any disagreements with Gordon?"

  "I barely know him."

  The lieutenant grabbed his truncheon, and slammed it on the desk. "What are you? Some sort of pathological liar?"

  "I'm telling the truth. I have nothing against him. It was the greatest day in my life when he came here. He's director of the New York City Ballet. Do you realize what that means?"

  "Wow. New York City. Ballet. Tights. Pink tutus."

  "I knew he would help my dancing. It breaks my heart that he can't continue."

  The lieutenant pointed the truncheon at Waltz. "I heard that he said some unkind things about your dancing. I heard that you were upset. I heard that you swore you'd get him."

  "I swore that I would prove to him that I could be a great dancer. I said nothing about getting him."

  "That's not the way I hear it. I also hear that your brother thinks you poisoned his dog."

  "I told you that when I came to the station."

  "That's now been corroborated by several other sources. I should have arrested you for poisoning your brother's dog. It would have saved Gordon Hogan a lot of pain."

  ***

  If the lieutenant couldn't hang the crime on Waltz, he was going after Lala. Waltz couldn't allow that.

  He'd have to hire a detective. Not Hook 'Em Harns. He'd pick one out of the Yellow Pages. No, too risky. Jazz said Hook 'Em was the one honest detective in town.

  Her honesty didn't matter. She only did domestic investigations.

  So what? He'd pay her double. That would do the job. She was in business to make money.

  The cops remained in both the office and the lounge. Waltz couldn't get to the phones. He went upstairs to the practice ballroom. Lala was dancing solo to a mambo.

  "Lala, let me borrow your cell."

  Lala emerged from her dance trance. "I have only a few minutes left. Much expensive."

  "I'll give you ten dollars."

  Lala strode to her purse and pulled out her cell. She held out her hand until he placed a ten in it. She handed him her phone and glanced at her watch. "I'm timing you. You have ten minutes."

  Waltz went down the stairs and out to the street. He dialed the number.

  Hook 'Em Harns answered. "Hello, Lala."

  "This is not Lala. I'm on her cell. This is Waltz Charleston. I called the other day about a poisoned dog."

  "I remember. I don't do dogs."

  "Don't hang up. This is not about the dog. Someone attacked one of our dance instructors. They robbed him and cut off his big toe."

  "Whacked off his big toe?"

  "That's right. Strange, isn't it?"

  "I do domestic investigations. I don't do toes... oh, I see. His wife cut it off and he wants to file for divorce."

  "No, that's not what - "

  "He's looking at this the wrong way. These days, it's customary for the wife to cut off her husband's dick. Your friend's lucky. He has a loving, caring wife. To be upset over a small matter like a toe - to file for divorce over that - he must be a psycho. He should see a psychiatrist."

  Waltz ran his hand through his hair, heedless of the wave. "I'm serious. Stop screwing around. The cops may charge me - or my sister-in-law. I want you to investigate. I'll double your usual fee."

  "I do domestic investigations. Give me something to work with, like a custody dispute over the toe."

  Waltz hung up and cocked his arm to fling the phone under an eighteen-wheeler. He remembered it was Lala's and caught himself. The eighteen-wheeler rumbled on.

  He hated Hook 'Em Harns and her cool sarcastic attitude. Screw her.

  He could do a better job himself. He'd start by questioning Gordon.

  ***

  Waltz got ba
ck from the hospital before six. Jazz hadn't returned from dinner. Waltz selected his favorite tango, "Cheating Gaucho," and turned the speakers on low.

  Gordon couldn't remember anything about the attack. The doctors thought the attacker knocked Gordon out and then cut off his toe. Even if Gordon saw the attacker, the concussion would erase Gordon's memory. Gordon would be unable to identify his attacker.

  Gordon thought somebody at the studio might have attacked him. He gave Waltz photos and serial numbers of the stolen items and asked him to keep a lookout for them.

  Jazz ambled in, pushing a toothpick between his teeth.

  "I talked to Gordon at the hospital. He said he didn't criticize my dancing."

  Jazz leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. One slipped off. He seized his pants at the knee between his thumb and forefinger, his little finger in the air. He lifted the errant leg and placed it carefully on his desk. "You stay there now. Don't go running off again." He kept his face serious, almost grave. He had a great poker face.

  Waltz laughed. Jazz could be incredibly funny sometimes.

  Jazz smiled. "Legs. You know how they are. They have a mind of their own sometimes."

  Waltz picked up Jazz's dice and rolled them across the desk. "Gordon said he didn't criticize my dancing."

  "You went to the hospital?" Jazz looked at the dice. "Snake eyes. You lose."

  "As soon as the cops got through questioning me."

  "Why?"

  "The cops think either Lala or I attacked Gordon. I have to find out who did it, or both of us need attorneys."

  Jazz put his hands behind his head and leaned back. "No sweat. The cops will find the true culprit and you'll both be off the hook."

  Waltz relaxed - then remembered. "Gordon said he didn't criticize my dancing."

  "So Gordon said that, did he?" Jazz shrugged. "I'm not surprised. One thing you have to understand about Gordon. He's a nice guy. He's so nice that it creates a problem for him. He knows his dancing. He can see immediately what someone's doing wrong and knows how to fix it. But he has trouble criticizing anybody directly. He's too nice. He always tells somebody else, like me, somebody that he knows will repeat it to the person."

  "You sure about this?"

  "Of course. I was his hatchet man in New York. He has to have a hatchet man. He says I'm the best hatchet man he's ever had. That's the only way he can operate. He's a strange guy."

  ***

  Waltz spent every free minute that evening talking to people about the attack on Gordon. Armando claimed that Jazz was a con man and many people hated him.

  Jazz promised Armando an instructor's job and part ownership of the studio if Armando took thousands of dollars worth of dance lessons. Armando had to threaten a lawsuit to get the job. Jazz refused to give him a share in the studio.

  Jazz also conned Olivia. Armando wasn't clear on the details, but he heard that Jazz sold Olivia a lifetime membership and refused her the lessons she had coming.

  Lala had her own theory. Jazz owed the Vegas mob a huge gambling debt. The mob poisoned Cha-Cha and cut off Gordon's toe as a warning to Jazz. Waltz pointed out that Jazz owed the money, not Gordon. Why wouldn't the mob cut off Jazz's toe?

  Without his toe, Lala explained, Jazz couldn't teach dancing and earn the money to pay the mob, so they maimed Gordon. Jazz could continue work and wouldn't have to pay Gordon his ten thousand dollars. Jazz's earnings and the ten thousand could go to pay off the mob.

  Waltz dismissed Lala's theory. Maybe she was trying to throw suspicion off her. Besides, Jazz knew the cops suspected Lala and Waltz. If the mob was after Jazz, he wouldn't let the cops go after Lala and Waltz.

  None of Gordon's stuff showed up. Waltz wasn't surprised. The culprit wouldn't be stupid enough to flaunt the stuff at the studio where someone might recognize it.

  Waltz learned one other thing. He wasn't suited to be a detective. He had no knack for getting information out of people. Armando and Lala volunteered their information. Of course, most of the others probably knew nothing, but Waltz couldn't tell if they knew nothing, or if they knew something and were lying about it.

  ***

  Waltz did everything he could think of to find out who attacked Gordon. One day, and he was out of ideas. He began to suspect everybody.

  He came in early on Tuesday to watch Dance of Deceit. Maybe if he let his mind wander while he watched it, he'd get an idea for the next step in his investigation.

  He picked the top video off his stack and shoved it into the VCR. The Deceit theme, a slow waltz, played.

  The announcer's voice intoned, "Dance of Deceit, a story of betrayal and despair in the town of Despond as Portia Diamond-Despond and her children face the seething passions of their unfulfilled lives. In today's episode, Abby discovers the identity of the father of Jennifer's baby. But first, this word."

  Waltz managed to watch two episodes before Jazz came into the lounge with his strawberry slush. Jazz hovered over Waltz, watching, slurping.

  Waltz turned his head. "You're annoying me."

  "What? Oh. What did you say? I was engrossed."

  "Cut it out. Go away."

  "How far behind are you now?"

  "Get out of here."

  "Tell me."

  Jazz wouldn't leave till he got in his shots. Waltz peered at the stack of tapes. "Six ... no, wait." The stack was growing fast. He had to buy a new VCR for his apartment soon. "Seven tapes. Huh. I thought I had six. Episodes fly. Now get out of here."

  "Seven? What are those tapes doing, breeding?"

  "Please leave me alone."

  "I want to watch the program that solves the mysteries of life. The program that is the ancient guru on top of the hill. Where you go to get all the answers. Why should you hog something like that? I want enlightenment too."

  "Okay. So it's cheap melodrama. Worthless. I'm wasting the best years of my life. I should be reading Dickens and Shakespeare. I agree with you. Go away."

  "No. I'm serious. If I was ever confused about anything - anything at all - I'd watch Dance of Deceit myself. It's got all the answers." Jazz slurped up some slush. "Luckily, I'm not confused." He pivoted and walked away.

  Waltz got up and inched his head around the doorjamb. Jazz went into the office. Waltz returned to the couch and stretched out. They were about to reveal the father of Jennifer's baby. Waltz's money was on Aidan, with Landon a possible dark horse.

  ***

  Hardly had Lala begun her daily exhortation to sell, when Jazz stepped in front of her. "Lala has convinced me that somebody is after me. I'm canceling tomorrow's party. We can't afford to give this madman another opportunity to strike."

  Lala grabbed his arm. "We no can do that. We make plenty money at the parties. Nothing bad ever happen in one of our parties."

  "Nobody ever poisoned Cha-Cha before. Nobody ever carved on an unconscious instructor before. Who knows what might happen at the party?"

  "Sure. Somebody is out to get you. Somebody want to destroy the studio. If we don't have the party, we move one step closer to the poor home. That is what they want."

  Waltz held up his hand. "Wait a minute. Jazz is right. With all the strange things happening at the studio, why take chances?"

  Lala turned to Waltz. "Gordon is alone and defenseless when the madman attack. The madman is a sneak, no? He no have the guts to try anything at the party."

  Waltz shrugged his shoulders. "Let's cancel one party. It's not much money. By next week, the cops will catch the guy. We'll celebrate the capture at the next party."

  "We go broke. Is what this guy want. We no cancel the party." Lala turned to Jazz. "Please, Jazz. Think again. For me. Have the party."

  Jazz studied the floor for a while. "You're right, hon. We can't let a couple of stupid incidents interfere with the way we run the studio. The party is on. For Lala. Meeting adjourned." Jazz walked toward the office.

  Waltz followed him. "Why take chances?"

  Jazz plopped into his
desk chair.

  Waltz did not take his chew-out chair. It preconditioned him to defeat. He remained standing. "Can't you see you're taking a risk? Somebody's out to get you."

  Lala screamed, ran to Waltz, and clung to him.

  He put his arm around her. "What's wrong?"

  She half turned and pointed at a package on her desk.

  Jazz went to her desk and picked it up. "Yuck!" He turned and dropped it in the trash basket.

  Waltz held Lala as she sobbed. "What is it?"

  Jazz wiped his hands on his pants. "Maybe you should take a look."

  Waltz released Lala, went to the trash basket, and retrieved the package. He held it up, a toe, a bloody, rotting toe.

  Lala gagged, held her hand to her mouth, and scurried from the room.

  Waltz sank into Lala's chair. "There's a note." He unfolded the paper and read it. "You're next."

  Jazz's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Who's next?"

  Waltz read the address. "You are."

  "Throw it away."

  "We can't. It's evidence. The cops will want it. We can't have the party now. This guy is crazy. We don't know what he might do."

  "He doesn't know what I might do." Jazz lifted his leg onto the desk and pulled up his pants. A holster strapped to his ankle held a small pistol. Its chrome finish gleamed under the desk lamp.

  Waltz leaped out of his chair. "Jazz, no. This is not the OK Corral. This guy is not going to stalk up Main Street with a pistol holstered on his hip. He's a poisoner, a sneak. When he attacks, you won't even see him. You won't be able to gun him down."

  Jazz put his foot on the floor and pulled his pants over the pistol. "How could he poison me? I'm not going to eat or drink anything unless I know where it came from. He'll have to come at me and I'll be ready for him."

  "You've got to get rid of that gun. It's dangerous. Somebody could get hurt."

  "My little pistol is staying with me. Nobody will get hurt but the guy who is coming for me."

  Chapter 5

  Terminal Dance

  The next morning the phone blasted Waltz awake at nine. He grabbed the receiver, dropped it, picked it up, and managed to get it to his ear. He heard Jazz's voice. "Get over to the house now."

  "What's wrong?"

  The phone went dead.

  Maybe something happened to Lala. The vendetta wasn't against Jazz. It was against her. Waltz dressed and rushed out to his car, realizing he hadn't combed his hair. A few minutes later, he knocked on Lala's door. Jazz opened it.