Smart Moves (21 page)

“God. It worked. Did you see that, Toby? Four of them.” He held up his pike in one hand and hitched his sagging tights with the other.

“I’m proud of you, Shell,” I said.

He beamed and adjusted his glasses, and we headed down the street in the opposite direction of the department night raiders. When we got to a street busy enough to draw traffic, there were no cabs. We started back toward the theater, Shelly in a state of heroic bliss, me in a sullen anger and sore feet. It isn’t easy to walk on a city sidewalk in thin, flat-heeled shoes that curl up at the toe.

A few cabs passed. One had a pair of passengers, the other slowed down. The cabbie took a good look at us, shook his head, and pulled away. The streets weren’t crowded but what pedestrians there were steered out of our way. We were either victims of a time warp who might attack them in confusion, a pair of drunks on the way home from a tasteless costume party, or something more frightening that they would prefer not to deal with. Like true New Yorkers, the people we encountered acted as if we weren’t there and managed to maintain their conversations or straight-ahead concentration without letting us know that they saw us.

Twenty minutes later we slouched up the street in front of the theater, like last-place finishers in a marathon for the improperly clad.

Shelly had left his state of heroic bliss to join me in sullen silence after three blocks of walking. He limped about five paces behind me as I tried to open the door to the theater. It wouldn’t open. Shelly groaned but I didn’t look back as I headed for the alley. By standing on a garbage can, I managed to reach the fire-escape ladder and pull it down. We clanged our way up two flights to the window. It was open. I climbed into the darkness followed by the heavily breathing Shelly, who rolled on the floor with a thud. I was groping my way in search of a light switch, when the door of the room flew open and a man stepped in and snapped on the lights.

“What are you two doing?” Jake said in disgust, his cigarette bobbing in his mouth. He was no longer in uniform. A flannel shirt dangled almost to the knees of his worn grey pants.

“Coming back for our clothes,” Shelly said.

“You walked out on the show,” Jake said in disgust.

We stood before him, two sentries who had failed to protect the west gate of the castle.

“We were chasing the killers,” Shelly explained.

“Killers?” said Jake. “Clothes are where you left them. Pile the uniforms neatly on the table. I’ll put them away.”

“The ones who killed the man in the audience,” I said.

Jake took the pike away from Shelly, who looked as if he were going to protest but changed his mind.

“Man killed …?” Jake began and shook his head as he coughed.

“The guy with the knife in his back,” I said. “You couldn’t miss him. How many guys were out there with knives in their backs tonight? I mean, was it the usual count of corpses or are we behind on our quota?”

“You two don’t belong in show business,” Jake said, finally removing what was left of the butt and pointing his finger at us. “At least not on the legit stage.”

“There was no corpse?” I asked.

“No corpse,” Jake said. “I helped clean up after the show, just like always. I’ve got the feeling I would have noticed a dead man.”

Shelly wasn’t even listening. He was frantically getting out of his costume and into his familiar oversize, not quite clean suit. I was changing, too, but not as quickly. Someone had simply come in after we left, quietly removed Povey’s body, possibly smiling at the mildly curious who glanced away from the stage. But why the hell would they bother to remove the body, I thought as I changed and Jake hurried us along. The best answer I could come up with was that the killers had come back for Povey after they led us on a chase to that empty street. They didn’t want him found, didn’t want publicity, didn’t want added protection for Robeson. They had something to do, and the corpse of Gurko Povey in the hands of the police would make it a little harder than they would like.

I didn’t know why they had killed Povey, but he was dead. My job was to see to it that Einstein and Robeson didn’t join him. Povey scared the hell out of me when he was alive, but at least I knew who he was. Now I was down to a name, Zeltz, without a face to go with it, and Walker, whom the FBI had told me to stay away from.

When we were finished changing, Jake followed us through the dressing room corridor, into the empty theater, and out of the building. Back on the street we said good night to Jake, who grunted and coughed and faded into the night. Getting a cab with normal clothes on was no problem. Back at the hotel, I checked for roaming Carmichaels, predatory Pauline Santiagos, and unidentified assassins, but it was late and the lobby was empty, except for a man and woman whispering earnestly on a sofa under a potted fern. Back home in California it would have been a palm, but the conversation would have been the same. Their heads were together. The man, who was thin and wearing a dark suit, was trying to convince the woman of something, probably to go up to his room. The woman was serious, head down, telling why she couldn’t go but listening just the same.

Shelly dragged himself across the lobby. I told him I’d be right up and headed for the public phone booth near the lounge where I’d met Pauline the first time. I dropped a nickel in the slot and asked the operator to give me the number of the May house in Princeton. She made me drop most of my loose change in before putting the call through. I let it ring about fifteen times and then gave up. I scooped up the change, fished out my original nickel, and asked the operator to get me the FBI office. With a war going on, the FBI should be in business 24 hours a day. They were.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” came a deep female voice.

“I want to leave a message for Craig and Parker,” I said.

“Special Agents Craig and Parker are on assignment,” she said. “Can someone else help you?”

“No, just get in touch with them or give them a message when they call in. Tell them to call Toby Peters. They know where to find me.”

“I’ll give them the message, sir,” she said, and hung up.

I was tired when I stepped out of the phone booth, tired but not ready for bed. Another crisis stood in front of the phone booth. Her name was Pauline Santiago. She was dressed in serious black with a black sweater that looked good on her. What didn’t look so good was the firmness of her jaws and the fact that her hands were folded tightly before her, as if she were next in line at Shelly’s office.

“We’ve got to talk,” she said as seriously as I had known she would.

“I’ve got to get some sleep,” I said, letting my eyelids droop and trying to force a yawn.

“This is serious.”

“A man was murdered tonight,” I said, putting my hand on her clenched fists and whispering, “with a big knife in his back. That man tried to kill me. I’ve been chasing his killer through the night in a ballet costume. I’m tired.”

“This is New York,” Pauline said seriously, a quiver in the corner of her ample, red, and rather nice mouth. “People get killed and wear ballet costumes all the time. I’m pregnant.”

I let go of her hand with sudden fear that even the slightest touch might impregnate her again.

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, looking around to see if anyone had heard us.

My mind was busy shuffling the cards of death, destruction, pain in various parts of my body, and consideration of my next step in trying to protect Einstein, Robeson, myself, and Shelly while finding the killers. A bouncing baby boy or girl or both just wouldn’t materialize.

“It can’t be me,” I said, pointing to myself to make clear to her who “me” was.

“There’s no one else,” she said, leaning forward, “no one. My mother said I should get this settled. My mother said we should decide as quickly as possible when we plan to get married, because she needs to give Nathanson’s at least two weeks’ notice to get the small banquet room. I don’t know if you’ll want any of your friends to come from California, but …”

“Let’s sit down, Pauline,” I said, gently taking her arm and leading her to the Tap Room, which in an era of patriotic good will was staying up all night to keep our boys in uniform and the millions who supported them drunk for a few hours so they didn’t have to think about bombs, bullets, and blood. We stepped in and looked around for someplace we could have a little privacy. It was easy. There was no one in the bar except a bartender, who sat behind the bar reading a book called
Cross Creek
, and Charlie the piano player from two nights ago, sitting alone at the bar playing with a slice of lemon, and the two of us. We moved to a table as far from bar and piano as possible. The bartender, a burly old guy with a thin mustache, put down his novel, sighed, straightened his little black bow tie, and came around the bar toward us. He limped, not much but enough to keep from looking jolly. Charlie looked back at us over his shoulder, looked at his lemon as if asking it for advice, decided with citric certainty that he had to go to work, and shuffled off to the piano after dropping the last of the lemon in an empty glass in front of him.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked, as the piano started playing behind us.

“Gin and ginger ale,” said Pauline, on the point of tears.

“Ballantine ale,” I said.

“Check,” said the barkeep and limped away. I watched him as Charlie began playing “After You’ve Gone,” which I took as a hint.

“Well,” said Pauline.

“They’re planning a second Louis–Conn fight,” I said. “Army emergency benefit relief. Conn almost won the first, but I don’t think …”

“Marriage,” Pauline insisted.

“It’s Sunday, right?” I asked.

“It’s Sunday.”

“Pee Wee Reese is getting married today,” I said turning to look at the bartender, who was bringing our order.

“No,” she said as the drinks were placed in front of us.

“You said gin and ginger,” said the bartender.

“Right,” I told him. “The ‘no’ was for me.”

“Good,” said the bartender, turning his head to Charlie at the piano, who was now playing “Ramona.” “That song always gets to me, I don’t know why. You wouldn’t think songs would get to a bartender, but they do.”

“Are you married?” I asked, as the couple who had been talking in the lobby came into the Tap Room, possibly lured by Charlie’s piano.

“Naw,” said the bartender. “I’ve been a bartender all my life. I better go see what they want. Give me a wave if you want refills.”

When I turned to Pauline this time, her eyes were fixed on me with burning accusation. Bette Davis and George Brent, that was us.

“Well?” she said as I took a gulp of cold Ballantine’s.

“No, not too well,” I admitted, putting down the glass. “How old are you, Pauline?”

“I … thirty-five,” she said, lifting the glass defiantly to her lips.

I figured her for at least forty. It was a lie I could understand. I could even understand the lie about her name, about the husband at home. I could even understand the lie about being pregnant.

“It’s too soon to know if you’re pregnant, Pauline,” I said. “If I’m the prospective dad.”

“No it isn’t, she said, her voice rising enough so that the semi-guilty couple at the table across the room turned to look. “My doctor said …”

“What’s his name? I’ll give him a call later.”

“It’s Sunday,” she said, putting her red-painted but bitten fingernail in the drink and then pulling it out to taste it.

“I’ll call him Monday, then. What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have a phone,” she said with an I-dare-you smile. “He doesn’t believe in them. Against his religion. He’s a … a …”

“Quaker?” I supplied.

“Yes,” she said, “a Quaker.”

“Okay, where’s his office? I’ll go there Monday morning if I’m still alive and walking.”

“He’s very busy.”

“I’m sure he can work in a couple of seconds for a prospective pop.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

Charlie at the piano was playing “Tara’s Theme” from
Gone With the Wind
. The bartender was reading his book in the amber darkness, and the other couple was sitting silently. I wondered whose move it was at their table. Pauline thought it was mine at ours but I didn’t answer. I went back to my Ballantine and almost finished it. Pauline had only tasted a fingernail of her drink.

“You don’t believe me,” she repeated.

“Pauline, I’m almost fifty,” I said. “I’ve been a kid all my life. I have no sense of responsibility to anyone but my clients and a few friends. I had a wife once, a lot like you, a beauty, a good woman. She threw me out. How do you think it’s going to work out for us when I find out in a week or two or ten that there isn’t any baby? We get married and what do you get? A new last name, and that’s it.”

“Mary Louise Peters,” she tried softly.

“Pevsner,” I corrected. “Mary Louise Pevsner, that’s my real last name.”

She thought about that for a few seconds, while Charlie got carried away and started humming along with the piano. Then Pauline sighed, took a real drink, and looked up at me sadly. Her eyes were large, brown, and nice, but they sagged. She wasn’t beautiful. I wasn’t beautiful. The couple across the room wasn’t beautiful.

“You wouldn’t marry me even if I were pregnant, would you?” she asked, almost too quietly to hear.

“I don’t know. I guess … I don’t know.”

Behind us the couple applauded, not for me but for Charlie, who had ended his song with a rippling flourish.

“So I just go back home to my mother and a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Stick with Shredded Ralston or Wheaties. Cheerios are just a fad, like jazz and the war. They’ll be gone in a year.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be gone in less than a week,” I said, finishing off my glass of ale. Charlie was now belting out “Where Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?” complete with “woof-woofs,” which the two happy couples were supposed to help him with. No one helped him. “Come on,” he called, “let’s all join in.”

“You feel like woof-woofing?”

Pauline shook her head. I took that for no and got up to pay the tab. The other couples got up too. They didn’t look much like woof-woofers. Where was Shelly when someone really needed him? I paid the bill and took Pauline’s hand as we walked out of the Tap Room. The piano and Charlie’s voice went on serenading himself and the bartender.