The Dancing Detective

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Patsy Marino was clocking us as usual when I barged in through the foyer. He had to look twice at his watch to make sure it was right when he saw who it was. Or pretended he had to, anyway. It was the first time in months I’d breezed in early enough to climb into my evening dress and powder up before we were due on the dance floor.

Marino said, “What is the matter, don’t you feel well?”

I snapped, “D’ya have to pass a medical examination to get in here and earn a living?” and gave him a dirty look across the frayed alley-cat I wore on my shoulder.

“The reason I ask is you’re on time. Are you sure you are feeling well?” he pleaded sarcastically.

“Keep it up and you won’t be,” I promised, but soft-pedaled it so he couldn’t quite get it. He was my bread and butter after all.

The barn looked like a morgue. It always did before eight — or so I’d heard. They didn’t have any of the “pash” lights on yet, those smoky red things around the walls that gave it atmosphere. There wasn’t a cat in the box, just five empty gilt chairs and the coffin. They had all the full-length windows overlooking the main drag open to get some ventilation in, too. It didn’t seem like the same place at all; you could actually breathe fresh air in it!

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