law against it, huh?”
“Men spend three hundred and more a year on golf club memberships, don’t they? And buy lessons from the pro, besides the balls and caddy fees and tips. They do it because golf is fun and an asset to a man professionally and socially. Well, so is dancing fun and a professional and social asset.”
“Uh . . . put it that way . . .”
“I’m no cheap little sex tramp. When I go into that private room with a student, I’m a professional woman selling a commodity that has value. A lot of my students are mature men having business contacts with women, and you’d be surprised how dancing helps. I don’t mean just getting by in the crowd, as the average man does when he barely manages to stay off his partner’s feet. I’m speaking of the man who can lead a woman out into the ballroom, instantly adapt himself to her degree of skill, then take command of the situation with so sure a touch that she unhesitatingly surrenders herself to his direction.”
Of course I knew it was what she told all the boys, her sales talk, but even at that Shona’s silky voice did things to my skin.
“What was Westburne taking?” I asked. “The ten easy lessons, the advanced rumba deal, or the king-sized annual course?”
“There’s still another one. Just as golf clubs sell life memberships, Sheldon’s will enroll a student permanently. The life member is always in practice, always the first to know the latest steps, is always welcome in any Sheldon’s studio in any major city of the U.S.A.”
“What’s that cost?”
“Three thousand dollars, and my cut is twenty-five percent.”
“Seven hundred and fifty bucks,” I already reckoned.
Shona nodded. “That’s it, and I had him all lined up. He’d promised to sign on the dotted line. He was going to bring his check last Wednesday night.”
“Other words, you’re willing to spend fifty bucks locating the buy because he’s worth seven hundred and fifty to you?”
“That’s it, Mr. Moran.”
TWO
I STEERED over onto Fourth, past the Poinsetta Apartments. Should have been P-o-i-n-s-e-t-t-i-a but the landlady couldn’t spell. I’d lived there for the last three years and still had the apartment key on my chain.
So in the next block I nosed the Chev into the Tiki-Tiki Club parking lot. Shutting off the motor, I twisted in the seat so’s to face Shona. Sure, she’d told a cold-boiled, business tale. But she’d a hot sexiness, too, and it made me feel as if I’d swallowed a corkscrew that stayed stuck in my throat.
I asked, “Did Westburne make a verbal contract with you in front of witnesses?”
“No, we talked in the practice room.”
“Then all you’ve got is your word against his. He’s probably changed his mind and ducked out. You can’t hold him. Might as well hang onto your fifty bucks.”
Her voice went husky. It slurred, “You find him, Mr. Moran. I’ll handle him from there on.”
“What makes you so sure? . . . Never mind answering that yet. Tell me while we catch a drink here.”
“Wait’ll I fix my face.”
She dug into her mesh purse. I switched up the dome light, watched while she mended her lipstick. Her mouth was a bit too big for prettiness, but in my experience that’s a sign of a passionate nature. Her hair was chestnut colored, so thick she struggled to drag a comb through it.
The corkscrew turned against my tonsils. Maybe I’d have to take the insane risk of sticking around ’Diego long enough to locate Westburne, if that’s what I had to do to make the grade with Shona.
We went in through the Tiki-Tiki’s side entrance, into the Hawaiian Room. The place makes a play for Navy brass. Officers on shore duty come in there and soak up the tropic atmosphere of fishnets, palm fronds, an electric waterfall behind the bar. Then a nice feature of the place is Babe, the well-stacked “Polynesian” hostess from Lemon Grove that I used to romance before she married the club bouncer, Nick Alession.
Babe guided us to the quiet corner booth, and over by the bar stood Nick bugging his eyes out approvingly at Shona . . . slitting them when he saw me. On her wedding night Babe must have confessed her past to the guy. No other reason why he’d suddenly taken to hating me.
Nuts to Nick. I’d picked here because if a few drinks made Shona playful, it was only a lurch and a stagger to my apartment. I watched her settle into the booth, and when she dropped the fur cape off her shoulders my appreciation went up ten points. Sm-o-o-th. The bald commander at the table nearest our corner thought so, too. He stared until Shona gave him the eye right back, and a smile to go with it.
It doubled me up how the commander got gray to his gills, swinging his attention fast to the middle-aged dame across the table who was probably his wife. We ordered gin-and-quinines from the grass-skirted waitress.
I said, “The more you tell me about this Westburne bird, the faster results you’ll get. No sense wasting my time and your dough digging up stuff you already know about . . . so, shoot.”
“He filled this in at the front desk,” She opened the purse and slid a pale blue card across the booth.
It said: SHELDON SCHOOL OF THE DANCE. . . . Enrollment application. There were a lot of spaces below that, most of them blank. The filled-in part told me that Alan J. Westburne was a white American male, 51, residing at No. 21, 2814 Los Gatos Street.
He hadn’t committed himself on the angles that’d really help me . . . nothing here about his occupation, employment, references. “Shutmouth bastard, huh?”
“He paid cash,” Shona explained. “That on the card is for credit references.”
“People dance on tick? What’s the country coming to?”
“Well, parents that bring in kids for tap and ballet lessons pay a little down and the rest on time. Mr. Westburne wasn’t so closemouthed. He told me a lot about himself.”
We had time out while Grass Skirt served the drinks.
“Card here’s dated February 12,” I noticed.
“Uh, huh. Lincoln’s birthday, a Friday night. The advantage of Friday night is a new student gets to meet all the instructresses, pick out the one he likes, and Westburne picked me.”
“I could put my finger on a couple of reasons.”
She said, “The other girls have those, too . . . I was a little extra nice to him. I just came out here from Minneapolis because I didn’t want to take another of those winters. Being new here, I had to build up my own following. And, well, it’s supposed to be a half-hour lesson, but a man Mr. Westburne’s age isn’t in shape to take a solid thirty-minute workout. We rested and talked and I asked him the usual questions. In a diplomatic way.”
“What way is that?”
“Why, instead of asking where
