Drink, Dance, Divorce

By Charles Alworth

Someone’s framed womanizing dance instructor Waltz Charleston for his brother’s murder. He vows to avenge his brother and clear himself, but doesn’t know where to start. He hesitates to hire cheater-hating PI Hook ‘Em Harns. No way can she solve a homicide. She only does divorces. Worse, she may be doublecrossing him. Can he trust her? With the cops closing in, he has no choice. He’s broke and she’s the only PI in town who will work on credit.

What readers say about this comic mystery: Wow! What a dance! Even if you’re in shape, you’ll be breathing hard by the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Alworth
• Release date: Sep 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370851652

Book preview

Drink, Dance, Divorce

by

Charles Alworth

Published by Body Fluids Press

Copyright © 2016 by Charles Alworth

First Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Chapter 1

World's Greatest Ballroom Dancer

Waltz Charleston dragged his feet as he searched the dance studio for his older brother, Jazz. Waltz loved teaching dancing, but hated pressuring his students to buy lessons. It made him feel like a used-car salesman. He wished he had a way to avoid it, but he could think of nothing. His older brother, Jazz, controlling family head that he was, had insisted on setting up the appointment with Waltz’s student.

Waltz found Jazz in the waiting room of the dance studio. Jazz’s expression showed that Waltz had no hope of escape.

Jazz placed his arms on his hips. Well?

She’s in the office, waiting for us.

Jazz glared at him. Are you ready to help me sell?

Sure.

Jazz cocked his head. No, I mean really ready. I don’t want you sitting there like a wart on a frog, like you always do, contributing nothing to the sale.

Waltz leaped into the karate-ready position. I’m ready. I’m really ready. I can’t wait to get in there. My whole body tingles with enthusiasm.

Two students walked in. Evening was the busy time in the studio. Jazz grabbed Waltz’s elbow, lifted him to his toes, and hustled him into the main ballroom. Two-step music blared through the loudspeakers. A whining cowboy gurgled out the loss of his true love, the same old sad story. Waltz laughed. They always lost their girlfriends. Why did their girls run away? Was it the hats? Was it the clomping boots with high heels? The beer? The two-timing?

Wall mirrors flashed a confusing array of ballroom images. Two of the instructors danced to the song with their students. Others ignored it and dissected dance steps like scientists analyzed DNA.

Waltz wished he was out there teaching dancing. Instead, he was going to have to put up with a high-pressure sales session with Jazz, bad enough normally, but Jazz was especially irritable these days. What was wrong with him? He was always abrasive, but these days more than ever.

Jazz led Waltz like a dance partner into the teacher's lounge and whipped him around. By reflex, Waltz almost whirled into a spin, as if they were dancing west coast swing, but caught himself.

Jazz shoved his face close to Waltz's. You want to teach dancing, you've got to sell. Take it seriously. Help me. You're her instructor. I can’t sell her without you. She trusts you.

Good, the teachers lounge. They could have this out in private. That's the point. She trusts me. I don't want to sell her lessons she can't afford.

How do you know she can't afford them? Have you analyzed her financial statements?

Waltz sputtered, speechless.

You're a salesman first, a dance instructor second. It's not all fun and games. You help me sell her or I'll fire your ass.

Jazz grabbed Waltz's arm and propelled him to the office. Waltz jigged along like a coin-operated tap dancer.

Jazz stopped at the door. Remember what I told you. I’m not kidding.

He opened the door, shoved Waltz through, followed, and approached Waltz’s student. He stuck out his hand. Xenia, I’m so glad to meet you. I’m Jazz, manager of the studio, Waltz’s brother. He’s told me how talented you are. I see now that you’re beautiful too. He pulled out a chair for her. Come and sit next to me at the desk. Waltz tells me you love to dance. What's your favorite?

Tango. I love it.

Jazz fiddled with his computer. Two-Timing Tango wafted from the fancy speakers, promising romance, creating an image of a handsome gaucho holding Xenia, and gushing with praise for her graceful dancing.

He turned to Xenia. How good do you want to be?

I don’t know. I guess... pretty good.

He took her hand in his. Have you seen some of our advanced students dance at the parties?

Yes. They dance beautifully.

Would you like to be as good as them?

Oh, yes.

You know, to become a great ballroom dancer, you have to commit yourself. Ginger Rogers committed herself.

Ginger Rogers?

She danced in the old movies with Fred Astaire.

Fred Astaire?

Fred and Ginger. They were famous in their day, back in the 40s and 50s. Fred was known for wearing tails, a top hat, and sporting a cane. Ginger wore beautiful gowns – and she was beautiful. You should see one of their old musicals. They were great. They practiced for days before they filmed each number. They were committed. You can't hold back and get good. You've got to know in your body and soul that you're dedicated to Dance. Waltz must know you're into this to teach you proper technique.

He pulled a legal pad out of his drawer. He drew a picture of the learning curve. He showed her how Waltz had to be sure she was taking the full plan so that he could nurture her natural talent.

Xenia glanced at the door. I’m just taking a few lessons to meet some people. My divorce came through last month.

Jazz glared at Waltz.

Waltz knew the party line. Dance lessons weren't an expense. They were an investment in a lifetime pleasure. People needed dancing as much as groceries or houses. Waltz had to convince them of that. The students would thank him later.

He tapped the blue folder on Jazz’s desk. Xenia, I’ve prepared this plan just for you. It’s quite detailed, showing step-by-step exactly how I’ll train you to become a great dancer.

Jazz pointed at the folder. With this plan, in six months you'll be the life of the party. You'll have so many handsome men begging you for dances, you'll have to assign them numbers.

These lessons are so expensive. Can't I pay for them one at a time?

Waltz took a deep breath. Jazz might well fire him if they failed to sell Xenia. You see, Xenia, how I coach a student depends on her intentions. If I know she's going to continue, I know I have time to give her the proper fundamentals. You have the natural ability. You could be as graceful as Ginger, but without a good base of fundamentals, you can never reach your true potential.

Well, let me think about it. I'll let you know in a couple of days. Xenia half rose from her chair.

Waltz glanced at Jazz. Jazz glared at him.

Waltz picked up the folder. Let me show you the plan. It’ll only take a minute.

Xenia stood. Not today. I want to think it over.

Jazz stood. Waltz, let it drop. Can’t you see she wants to think it over? He turned to Xenia. I’m sorry, Xenia. You’re his favorite student. He recognizes your great potential. He’s eager to see you fulfill it. He can’t contain himself when he finds a student with your potential. Please excuse him. By all means, think it over. There’s no rush. He shook her hand. Hey, just a minute. Before you go, watch this. This is great. He eased her back into her chair. He turned, reached under his desk, picked Cha-Cha up, and placed him on the small dance floor in front of the desk. Cha-Cha stood, drowsy from his evening nap.

Jazz returned to his desk and fiddled with his computer. The Fred and Ginger Cha-Cha played over the speakers. Jazz extended his arms like an impresario. I give you the world's greatest ballroom dancer, Cha-Cha Charleston.

World's greatest ballroom dancer? Waltz smirked behind his hand.

Cha-Cha yawned and stretched.

Jazz pointed at Cha-Cha. Dance, Cha-Cha, dance.

Cha-Cha swaggered about the floor, face smug.

Some great dancer. Reeking of beer, he was dancing a two-step to cha-cha music.

Waltz bent over Cha-Cha and sniffed, gauging his beer level. The smells of beer and cologne clashed. Someone must've dipped his bandanna in perfume again. The girls around the studio groomed him, dressed him, and made him into a prancing dandy.

Offbeat, drunk, hardly the world's greatest ballroom dancer, Cha-Cha skidded on the hardwood floor, claws scratching for traction.

Jazz touched Xenia’s arm. He dances like a champion, doesn't he, Xenia?

He sure does. He feels the music. Look at him wag his tail in time.

Waltz shook his head. Cha-Cha’s tail didn't keep him on beat. Like him, it had a tin ear. In fairness to his tail, though, maybe the problem wasn't its lack of musical ability. His tail was drunk, as drunk as he was.

Ah, but a sober tail. What an advantage – a built-in baton. Too bad humans didn't have tails. Did nature not anticipate their utility? Or did nature foresee Fred Astaire and realize the incongruity of white tie and tails – and tail?

Jazz took Xenia’s hand and urged her on to the floor. Dance with him, Xenia. Dance with him.

Zenia began to cha-cha. Cha-Cha pranced and yapped.

Jazz whistled and applauded. He nodded his head at Waltz. Waltz applauded.

The song ended to applause. Jazz gave a last whistle. He's cute, isn’t he, Xenia?

Xenia bowed at her partner. Yes, he's so cute. I love his little bitty cowboy bandanna. I could just hug him. She picked him up and cuddled him. He smells so good, like a little gentleman.

She put him down and patted his rump. He froze, bulbous eyes wide, ears spread like the wings of a buzzard. An attack Chihuahua, he charged Waltz's ankles.

Waltz raised his feet onto his chair, ankle still sore from his previous nipping, his trousers the last pair with intact cuffs.

Cha-Cha missed, teetered, yapped at Waltz's feet, and stopped to scratch.

Jazz laughed. You almost got him, didn't you, Cha?

Cha-Cha fawned like a peasant before a King, writhing in pleasure.

Jazz pointed at Waltz. You go get him. Get him.

Cha-Cha trembled and growled.

Waltz made sure his feet were firmly on the chair. Quit it. You're training him to bite me.

Get him, Cha, get him.

Cha-Cha charged, to no avail. With Waltz’s feet on the chair, the only thing Cha-Cha could chew were the soles of Waltz’s shoes.

Xenia laughed. Cha-Cha glanced at Xenia and wagged his tail. He stretched and yawned. He staggered back into his so-called dance, the music slower, though Cha-Cha kept the same pace, staggering to his tail’s erratic rhythm.

Waltz lowered his feet. He's drunk. You've turned him into an alcoholic.

Jazz rolled his eyes. There's no such thing as an alcoholic dog.

Dogs are like people. I'll bet Cha-Cha wakes up every morning with a hangover.

He complained to you about his hangovers?

I don’t know he has hangovers, but every morning he gives me a clue, guzzling all that Alka-Seltzer.

Maybe you should take him to an AA meeting.

Cha-Cha charged.

Waltz parked his feet on the chair again. Laugh if you want. He's an alcoholic.

Jazz plucked Cha-Cha from the floor in mid-step. Do you need to go to AA? Are you an anonymous alcoholic, sweet baby? Cha-Cha licked Jazz's face. Jazz kissed Cha-Cha's mouth. No. No you aren't.

Waltz felt an impulse to gargle with Lysol.

Jazz put Cha-Cha back on the floor. So you think dogs are like people. You buy that evolution stuff?

I'm not talking about evolution. I'm saying alcohol affects Cha-Cha like it does a human. You shouldn't give him beer. He doesn't know the difference. You're abusing him.

Jazz glared at Waltz. Get your feet off the chair.

Waltz hesitated, then put his feet back on the floor.

Jazz picked Cha-Cha up and held him close to his face. You don't think I abuse you, do you Cha? I give my sweet baby beer cause he likes it. Isn't that right? Everything I do is cause I love you. You know that, don't you?

Jazz placed Cha-Cha back on the floor. He caressed him. Beer won't hurt anybody. Cha-Cha loves it. Jazz patted Cha-Cha's bowl. Cha-Cha lurched to the bowl and lapped up beer.

Jazz and Xenia laughed.

Jazz tilted the bowl. He turned to Waltz. Get another beer.

Waltz hesitated. Jazz knew if Waltz stood above Jazz, Cha-Cha, protecting his master, would attack Waltz's ankles.

Jazz jabbed his forefinger at the mini fridge. Beer.

Waltz rose into a crouch, judged Jazz’s height, scrunched lower, and duck-walked toward the fridge. It was behind Jazz. He could've reached it without getting up.

Waltz kept his eyes on Cha-Cha, watching for an assault.

Cha-Cha studied Waltz and quivered. His ears spread.

Waltz sank lower. Cha-Cha's ears descended along with Waltz.

Jazz and Xenia laughed at Waltz's strange walk. Jazz, though he'd seen it many times, took permanent delight in it.

Waltz's face got hot. He opened the fridge, grabbed a can, and thrust it behind his back toward Jazz.

Pop it, Groucho.

Waltz popped the tab, the odor of beer assailing his nostrils, handed the can to Jazz, and chimp-walked his way back to his chair.

You know, Xenia, Waltz could improve his dancing if he paid more attention to his posture. Jazz and Xenia laughed.

Jazz was distracting Xenia and keeping her unaware that he intended to sell her a bunch of expensive dance lessons. Waltz had seen him do it many times. Jazz gurgled beer into Cha-Cha's bowl, Heinekens, nothing but the best. Granted, Cha-Cha earned it. Drunk or sober, he helped Jazz sell dance lessons.

Cha-Cha watched Jazz pour, left forefoot raised, tail trembling, nose pointing at his bowl.

Jazz smiled. This round is on me. Belly up to the bar. Come on.

Cha-Cha charged forward and lapped up a mighty gulp. He staggered around the room, burped, barked at Waltz, studied Waltz's ankles, fell, and lost interest. Xenia laughed.

Cha-Cha got up and circled, searching for a spot to nap. Cha-cha music still played. Waltz guessed they'd call Cha-Cha's instinctive turning a spin – or maybe something fancier, a pirouette. Yeah, right, Cha-Cha, world's greatest ballet dancer.

Cha-Cha curled up on the floor and closed his eyes.

Waltz watched, ready to raise his feet. It could be a trick.

Zenia stood. I’ve got to go now.

Zenia, watch this. Jazz leveled an imaginary baton at Waltz. Do the note.

Not the note. Waltz hesitated.

Jazz glared at him.

Waltz slumped. He took a breath, straightened, and hit a high note.

Cha-Cha cocked his head. His ears sprang up. He pointed his snout toward the ceiling and howled in tune.

Jazz conducted. He pointed at Cha-Cha. Sing, Cha-Cha, sing. Jazz turned to Xenia. He wants to get into opera.

Xenia applauded. He's so talented. He's adorable.

Jazz rose and lifted his arms, beckoning with his fingers, urging his choir into a rising crescendo. He waved and dropped his arms. Waltz ended the note. So did Cha-Cha.

Jazz bowed in turn to Xenia, Cha-Cha, and Waltz.

Xenia clapped. Cha-Cha and Waltz can sing. They can dance. Your whole family is talented.

Jazz nodded. Yes, the whole family is talented. Cha-Cha and Waltz could probably get their act on TV. But Waltz never wants to practice. Cha-Cha does. He’s much more disciplined than Waltz.

Jazz picked Cha-Cha up, leaned back, and held him at arm's-length. Cha-Cha hung over Jazz's face. You know I love you. You know you're my baby, don't you? I know you do. You understand, don't you? Always together – always. Me and you.

Jazz put Cha-Cha down. Cha-Cha lurched to his bowl and lapped up more beer. His raised his head. He glowered at Waltz. His ears rose and wavered. He gave a halfhearted growl.

Waltz dared not move.

Cha-Cha drank some more.

Cha-Cha, show Xenia how you beg. Beg Cha-Cha. Beg.

Cha-Cha struggled upright but toppled over.

Okay, then rollover.

Cha-Cha rolled over, but no way could he beg, walk a straight line, or bark the alphabet. If he breathed near one, a breathalyzer would flash its all-liquored-up light.

Jazz turned to Xenia. I guess he's drunk. The evils of drink. They laughed.

Jazz rolled Cha-Cha around on the floor. Wake up, Cha-Cha. Wake up. Cha-Cha got up and growled at Waltz. Jazz laughed. Dance, Cha-Cha. Dance. Dance the tango. You're a gaucho on the pampas.

Xenia sat back and watched, smiling.

Cha-Cha pranced around the room, staggering from time to time, his dancing ragged, his timing much worse, dancing his usual two-step, oblivious to the tango music.

When Cha-Cha finished his dance, Jazz would go for his inevitable close. He would sign Xenia up.

In the middle of the dance, Cha-Cha lowered his nose to the floor and stuck his butt in the air, tail curled, posture playful, teasing Xenia. It was Cha-Cha's favorite game. When Xenia reached out to pet him, he would dash away.

Xenia laughed. He's so cute. She bent and patted Cha-Cha's head. Her smile faded. She shrank back.

Butt cocked, tail curled, Cha-Cha stayed, still as a corpse.

Jazz picked Cha-Cha up. Cha-Cha, what's the matter? Jazz put his ear to Cha-Cha’s heart. He massaged Cha-Cha. Something’s wrong. Tears streamed down Jazz's face. I think he’s dying. We’ve got to get him to a vet.

***

Jazz entered the examining room, swaying, holding Cha-Cha in his arms. Oh, Cha-Cha, don't die. I can't stand it without you. You're my one friend.

Waltz put his arm around Jazz's shoulders. He's okay. He just passed out. He'll have a headache in the morning. That's all.

The vet hurried in. Sir, put your dog on the examining table. Sir.

Jazz didn't respond. He hugged Cha-Cha to his chest.

Sir.

Waltz helped the vet pry open Jazz's arms and lay Cha-Cha on the table.

Waltz knew what would happen next. The vet would turn with a puzzled expression and announce that Cha-Cha was passed out drunk. Waltz moved to the door. Maybe he ought to wait in the car.

The vet peeled back Cha-Cha's eyelid and peered inside. He grunted. He sniffed. He bent closer to Cha-Cha and sniffed again.

He held out his hand to the nurse. Charcoal.

The nurse handed him an aerosol can. He sprayed the contents down Cha-Cha's throat.

The vet turned. I suppose you're going to tell me that this dog went on a bender at Fido’s Bar, lured by bar bitches, all in heat. He studied Jazz and Waltz in turn. Who fed this dog beer?

Jazz did not speak. Tears ran down his cheeks.

Waltz glanced at Jazz. I did.

The vet glared at Waltz.

Waltz hung his head. It was a joke.

You idiot! Giving a dog beer – or anything alcoholic. Even if they like it. It's dog abuse.

Waltz backed into the doorway. He's okay. He'll have a little hangover in the morning, that's all.

I don't think so.

He won't have a hangover? After all that beer?

Jazz grabbed the vet's shoulders. You mean he's dead?

He's alive, but he's in a coma. How long he'll last is anybody's guess.

Waltz sank against the doorjamb. Cha-Cha in a coma? How could it be? Beer never put him in a coma before. Aw, he’ll be okay.

The vet glared at Waltz. You think so? You feed him, a Chihuahua, enough beer to kill a great Dane and then you say he’s going to be okay? As though that makes things all right?

Jazz bent over Cha-Cha and hugged him. Poor little Cha-Cha, my best friend. Tears flowed from his eyes. Blood drained from his forehead, mingled with the tears, and dripped onto Cha-Cha.

The vet peered at Jazz's face. Sir, did you know your forehead is bleeding?

Jazz removed one arm from Cha-Cha. He felt his forehead. He examined the blood on his hand. He didn't seem to understand.

Waltz touched Jazz's shoulder. You banged your head on the doorjamb as we left the office.

Jazz examined his bloody hand. I didn't feel it. I didn't feel it at all. I can't believe it. He sobbed.

He collapsed into a chair. Why me? Why me?

The vet pulled up a stool and blotted Jazz's gash. He applied a bandage. That'll stop the bleeding. It's minor.

Jazz pushed himself out of his chair and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He petted Cha-Cha. Oh, Cha. I'm sorry, Cha. I'm sorry.

Waltz's eyes teared. Poor little Cha-Cha. He wasn't so bad. Waltz reached to touch him.

Jazz pushed Waltz away and stepped closer to the table, shielding Cha-Cha. You stay away from him.

I just wanted to comfort him.

Jazz pushed Waltz again. Stay away. Jazz fumbled with the knot on Cha-Cha's neckerchief. He couldn't get his fingers to loosen it. He collapsed onto his chair, sighed, and put his face in his hands. His shoulders shook.

Waltz untied the knot and draped the neckerchief over Jazz's thigh.

Jazz picked up the scarf and folded it, smoothing it on his knee. He dried his eyes with it and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. He stroked Cha-Cha.

Jazz cleared his throat. Is he suffering?

Not at all. He passed out. If he dies, he'll never know what happened.

Jazz gazed at the vet with tearful eyes. Are you sure? He felt no pain? I have to know.

It's like he went to sleep. He felt no pain. The alcohol acts like an anesthetic.

Somebody poisoned him.

The vet glared at Waltz. You got that right. Alcohol is a poison.

Jazz continued to pet Cha-Cha. What if somebody poisoned him? Would he feel any pain?

He just drank too much beer.

But what if somebody poisoned him? With something besides alcohol? It's possible isn't it?

The nurse nudged the doctor.

The doctor glanced at the nurse. Yeah, sure, anything's possible.

Then would he feel any pain?

Depends on the type of poison. Some poisons cause extreme pain, though mixed with alcohol, maybe not.

Can you tell for sure if he was poisoned?

What's the point? He stinks of beer. That's what poisoned him.

If there was a point, if there was a reason to believe he was poisoned, how would you go about it?

I'd have to take samples and have them tested.

Do it. I want to know if somebody poisoned him. And I want to know if he felt any pain.

The vet shook his head. It’d be a waste of time and money.

The nurse poked the vet.

Jazz grabbed the vet's shoulder. Do it!

The nurse poked the vet again. The vet turned to her and shrugged his shoulders. Okay.

Jazz swayed and grabbed the vet's shoulders to steady himself. Do it. I don't care how much it costs.

Chapter 2

She Won't Dance

The next afternoon, Waltz sat at his desk, looking through the big picture window into the ballroom. Three instructors were practicing. I wonder how Cha-Cha's doing.

A fast salsa, Lala's favorite, played over the office speakers. Lala, Jazz’s wife, dipped two fingers into her bra and retrieved her roll of cash, the dull green of the bills set off against her lime-green blouse. Who care? Is just a dog. Jazz should worry more about the studio, before we go broke. How much money he spend at the vet?

I don’t know. Waltz made another halfhearted entry on the computer. He hated accounting work. Jazz made him do it. I thought you liked Cha-Cha. All the girls like Cha-Cha.

I love Cha-Cha but he is a dog. You can always get a new dog. They are all the same. They bark. They scratch. Lala opened the roll and flattened the bills on her desk, patting them smooth. She pulled a red pen out of her desk and, in the right corner of each bill, both sides, put her mark.

Waltz watched her, fascinated by what she was doing and even more fascinated by her body. Her good parts jiggled and tried to burst free of her clothes, even as she sat at her desk. Why are you marking your bills?

He knew why, but he wanted her to talk to him. He wanted to hear her Mexican accent and watch those pouty lips move.

Because, my pretty, I want my money back if someone steal it. Her olive complexion glowed. Her full lips pouted.

They challenged you to kiss them. You wanted to kiss the smugness out of them – but leave in the pout. Even the strongest thief couldn't pry your purse out of your hands.

Her lips pouted again. Bad men can get money out of anybody's hands.

Don't worry. The cops would find your money for you.

Lala fondled another bill and marked it. No way. The police are stupid and corrupt.

He loved the way her pouty lips trilled the R’s. Ah, Lala. That may be true in Mexico, but not here in Texas.

Lala pondered the point. "I no trust them. I will find the bills with my mark. I will do it myself, solo."

Anybody can mark a bill. You ought to list the serial numbers. If somebody stole your money, you could give the cops the list. They'd find your money.

She studied him, face serious.

Waltz loved her serious face. You could still mark your bills and search on your own.

She took some index cards out of her desk and started recording serial numbers.

Just the big bills. No point in recording anything under twenty.

Nobody will take none of my money.

You should be the accountant. Waltz leaned back in his chair. What do you think about Jazz's theory that somebody poisoned Cha-Cha?

He is crazy in his coconut. I bet he pay the vet much money to test for poison.

Waltz entered another invoice. Their cash balance was getting low.

The ancient computer's screen went blank. No surprise. Waltz guessed the hard drive died.

Jazz strode into the office, leaned back in his chair to its usual squeak, and put his feet up on his desk, hands behind his head.

Waltz couldn't stand it. So, is he okay?

Jazz brought his arms down. Of course he's not okay. He's poisoned.

But he's still alive?

He's still in a coma. The vet says he might make it.

Good. I hope so.

Jazz tapped a business card on his teeth. Somebody poisoned him.

It wasn't the beer?

I got the report from the vet. Somebody gave Cha-Cha sleeping pills, knowing he drank lots of beer, knowing the pills and the alcohol would kill him. The vet said he felt no pain, thank God. He said that alcohol and sleeping pills both are depressants, so Cha-Cha just went to sleep. In effect, he just passed out. No pain at all.

I'm glad he didn't suffer. Waltz shrugged. Why would anyone poison an innocent dog?

Jazz laughed – without amusement. You’re asking me?

Waltz leaned forward in his chair. Last night, you thought somebody poisoned him. Why?

I have good reasons. I'm not going into them now.

But who would do it? And why?

Lala pulled her cash box out of the desk drawer, unlocked it, and recorded more serial numbers. A monster that hated Jazz might do it. With such a one as Jazz in charge, plenty of monsters here at the studio wish to do him harm.

Jazz slammed the card down on his desk. I'm going to get the lowlife scum that did it.

Waltz’s eyes went back to Lala, recording serial numbers. You know who did it?

I've got an idea who it was. Yes. Jazz picked up the card and waved it around. And I've got a secret weapon.

A card? A card is a secret weapon?

That's right. I'm going to hire a private detective. Jazz consulted the card. Hook 'Em Harns. Lala, have you heard of her?

Lala shook her head. I hate police. They always take the bite.

Jazz's eyebrows went up. The bite?

Yes, you know, the bite. She looked to Waltz.

Waltz loved the way she talked. You mean... a bribe?

Yes. They take the bribe.

Jazz laughed. Texas is not like Mexico. Besides, this is a private detective.

That mean what?

She works for herself, not the public.

Yes, yes. Is the same in Mexico. They work for themselves. They take the bribe.

This one's honest. Jazz turned to Waltz. "You heard of her?

Nah.

I've heard good things about her. I've got her number. Jazz tapped the card on his desk and handed it to Waltz.

Ah Jazz. Why do I have to do all the stuff that's beneath you? He put the card on Jazz's desk.

Jazz slapped the card into Waltz's hand. Because it's beneath me. Do it.

Waltz slammed the card down on his desk.

Lala stuffed her cash back in the box and locked it. She cradled it in her arms. What is the price of this detective?

Jazz shook his head, got up, walked around Lala's desk, and caressed her shoulders. He massaged them. His manner showed he possessed her. Stop harping about money. I'm going to get the creep that poisoned Cha-Cha. I don't care if we go broke.

Lala's fingers tightened on her cash box. Is a dog. I no understand why you must pay for a detective. Forget it.

I love Cha-Cha.

You waste much money. Our cash is small. We will lose the studio.

Jazz removed his hands from Lala's shoulders. I have to get the creep that poisoned Cha-Cha. Don't you understand? I love Cha-Cha. You don't know what love means.

For sure. I married you.

The squabble was about to take off into one of their famous fights. Waltz interrupted. It doesn't make sense to hire a detective. We don't have much cash. Besides, she could never find out who did it.

Jazz scowled. I can't see any reason why you wouldn't want to hire a detective. His voice was a whisper.

I don't see how she could do it.

But you're not a detective, are you?

No.

So it makes sense that you wouldn't know how she could do it, right?

Yeah, yeah.

So hire her.

Waltz picked up the card and threw it at Jazz. It caught the air, veered away, and fluttered to the floor. You hire her.

Jazz watched the card as though it had the answer to something that was bothering him. Only three of us were there. Me, Xenia, and you. Xenia adores him.

Waltz's gut flopped. Are you serious?

Jazz's face reddened. You never picked Cha-Cha up. You never even petted him.

How could I? I would've lost an arm.

You were always complaining about him. Claiming he bit you. Claiming he tore your pants.

Waltz jumped to his feet. Sure. I complained about him. Because he did bite me. He did tear my pants – and you laughed. But I didn't poison him.

So are you saying that Xenia did it?

Well... no... but... plenty of people could have poisoned him. People were in and out of your office all day, playing with him. Rachel was, just before we closed on Xenia.

So you didn't do it?

No.

Then you shouldn't object to getting the detective. You should want her to clear you. Hire her.

Waltz's gut flopped again. He sat and struggled to breathe.

Jazz slapped the card back on Waltz's desk.

Waltz picked it up. Hook 'Em Harns, Domestic Investigations.

To hell with Jazz. Screw the private detective. Waltz’d go to the cops. They were honest. They served the public. They worked free. Lala would like that.

***

Waltz swallowed. I'd like to report a crime.

The cop clicked his keyboard. Go ahead.

Waltz smoothed his hair. Somebody tried to kill my brother's dog.

A dog? Did you say a dog?

Yeah.

They were fighting dogs? The cop placed his fingers on his keyboard.

What do you mean?

The cop leaned back. You know. Making the dogs fight. Betting on them.

Oh, no. Nothing like that. Waltz laughed. He's a Chihuahua.

Can't help you.

But my brother thinks I did it.

Tell him you didn't.

The phone rang. The cop answered it and jabbered cop jargon. He hung up. His eyes returned to Waltz.

My brother's mad at me. You've got to help.

The cop's fitted and starched uniform crackled as he moved. I can fill out a report, but nothing will come of it.

Nothing will come of it?

Right. So your brother's dog is dead? So what? Get your brother a new one. They got lots of them at the pound.

He's not dead. He's in a coma.

"He's not dead? You want us to investigate the attempted murder of a dog? Attempted murder? How can you know somebody attempted to murder him – a dog?"

Because we took him to the vet. He passed out.

He passed out?

"He drank too much beer, but the vet tested his body fluids. Somebody gave him sleeping pills. Somebody tried to kill