“The show must go on and all that?”
“You’re damn right, and thank God she’s a trouper. We put out twenty thousand dollars’ worth of advertising on this opening-TV spots, radio spots, and the press. We’re sold out for three shows, and believe me, they ain’t coming to see no Arabian Room. They’re coming to see Binnie do her belly dance.”
As if taking the cue, one of the two men at the table down front stood up and called out, “Okay, Binnie, that does it for the opening. We’ll take a few bars of the belly dance and then we’ll wrap it up.”
She had come down to the edge of the stage, and both Masuto and the manager turned to watch her. She was not a tall woman, but she had a full, voluptuous figure-without being fat or even plump. She had brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Masuto thought her eyes might be green; at this distance, he was not certain.
“Stillman didn’t hurt it none. Just more publicity. It adds up, like a snowball rolling downhill.”
“I’m sure Stillman is grateful for that.”
“What is it, Officer? You got a bone to pick? The kid’s trying to turn a buck. She pays her own way. So lay off her.”
“What’s your name, manager?” Masuto asked coldly.
“Peterson.”
Binnie Vance was doing the belly dance now. Watching her, Masuto said, “Well, Mr. Peterson, I’m here to talk to Mrs. Stillman. I intend to. So when she’s finished, you will go over and tell her that.”
“Who the hell do you think you are, mister? In the first place, you’re a Beverly Hills cop-”
“Just knock that off, Mr. Peterson. If you knew the law, you would know that I can go anywhere in this county in the investigation of a crime. Now I am provoked and I am tired, so if you interefere with me in any way, I’ll pull you in for impeding the investigation of a crime.”
“You wouldn’t-”
“I would.”
The music finished. Binnie Vance came down from the stage, and Masuto saw her talking to the two men who had remained at the table. Peterson walked down the aisle and joined them. He pointed to Masuto. They talked softly, too softly for Masuto to hear what they were saying, and then one of the two men who had remained at the table raised his voice.
“Bullshit! You don’t have to say one goddamn word to him!”
Binnie Vance tossed her head, the hair flowing around her shoulders; she picked up a light coat from a chair, and walked up the aisle toward Masuto. The three men watched her but didn’t move.
“You’re the Beverly Hills cop?” she said to Masuto, a faint, almost undefinable accent in her voice.
“That’s right, Mrs. Stillman. Detective Sergeant Masuto. I’m the chief of homicide in Beverly Hills.”
“Call me Miss Vance. I was Miss Vance a few weeks ago. Now I’m Miss Vance again. I didn’t have time to get used to the other one.” There was a bitter edge in her voice. It was not a sweet voice. It rasped, and Masuto decided that she had been wise to choose dancing.
“Very well. Miss Vance.”
“How about a drink? I need one.”
“That would be fine.”
“Can a cop drink on duty?”
“I’ll go off duty when we start drinking. I’ve had a long day.” She noticed small things, Masuto decided. She was an alert woman. He also realized that her eyes were green, an unusually vivid green.
“There’s a bar on the main floor,” she said, and when they were on the escalator, she said to him, “Help me on with my coat. You don’t walk around here in a body stocking.”
He held the coat for her.
“What do you think of this place?”
“Interesting.”
“L.A. is the pits for me, but this place gets to me. I like it. It’s wild.”
Masuto nodded.
“You don’t agree?”
“Well, as I said, it’s interesting.”
“That’s a pissy word. They want to knock an act, they say it’s interesting. Here’s the bar. You want a table?”
“If you don’t mind,” Masuto said.
He led her to a table in a corner. It was not a very active bar at this hour. “What will you have?” he asked her.
“A cognac.”
He motioned to a waiter, and ordered two cognacs. She was studying him curiously, a slight smile on her lips. Her lips were rather thin, and she wore no makeup, no lip rouge. The dark skin was sunburned, the underside of her chin much lighter. She was pretty, he admitted to himself, and then revised the thought. Handsome was a better word. Her face was square rather than round, with sloping, flat cheeks and a square chin.
“What are you?” she asked. “Chinese? Japanese? Korean? I hear L.A. is lousy with Koreans.”
“Nisei,” he replied.
“Nisei?”
“That means my parents were born in Japan.”
“Then you’re a Jap,” she said, making the remark deliberately and provocatively.
“If you wish to think of me that way,” Masuto agreed, unperturbed. The waiter returned and set down the two brandies. Masuto raised his glass.
“To you, Mr. Japanese detective,” she said.
“And since we are being ethnic, what are you, Miss Vance?”
“What do you mean, what am I?”
“You weren’t born in this country.”
“How do you know that?”
“By your accent.”
“I don’t have an accent.”
“Ah, but you do,” Masuto said gently. “Ever so slight.”
“All right. I was born in Germany. I left at the age of fourteen, but I thought my English was near perfect.”
“It is,” Masuto agreed approvingly.
“Why don’t you stop being such a hotshot superior Oriental and say what you’re thinking?”
“And what am I thinking?”
“That I must be a completely heartless bitch to be sitting here and talking like this and not shedding one damn tear a few hours after my husband was killed.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“That’s not what I was thinking. I was thinking what an extraordinarily beautiful set of movements you went through up there on the stage. You’re a remarkable dancer.”
She paused, swallowed the retort that was on her lips, and stared at him. “Thanks.”
“I meant it.”
“Okay, but let’s get one thing straight. I wasn’t in love with Jack Stillman. All right, I didn’t hate him, but I didn’t love him. Now he’s dead and I’m alive. What should I do? Wrap myself in mourning? I don’t have to lie to anyone.”
“Not even to me,” Masuto agreed. “Why did you marry him?”
“Can I have another brandy?”
Masuto motioned to the waiter. She sat in silence, playing with her half-empty glass until the waiter put down the second brandy. Then she finished the first, dipped her finger in the second one and licked it off.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she said.
“Try me.”
“You know what I got for dancing last week at the Sands?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Fifteen grand. For five performances. Fifteen thousand dollars. Before I met Jack Stillman in Vegas, I did club dates and lousy stag affairs for peanuts.”
“And he was responsible-for your success?”
“He booked me, and he gave me an image. I can’t deny that.”
“Then you owed him a good deal?”
“So he owed me. It works both ways. He took fifteen percent off the top and expenses.”
“And that’s why you married him, because he was responsible for your success?”
“I was responsible for my success, Buster, make damn sure of that. Anyway, I don’t have to explain to you why I married Jack Stillman. I had my reasons. I married him.”
“No, you don’t have to explain. By the way, Miss Vance, when did you leave Las Vegas?”
“This morning. On the eight o’clock plane.”
“One day of rehearsal here? Is that enough? I don’t know much about such things.”
“With that combo in there, it’s enough. They’re good.”
“Do you have your ticket?”
“What do you mean, my ticket?”
“Your airplane ticket.”