I was going to take Dash down for tacos at Manny's. It was Sunday morning and I'd already read the LA. Times, where I found a lot about the Oscars and nothing about an incident in the parking lot of the Ambassador where a man named Edgar something had died after a particularly bad performance.
The phone rang. I put down the paper, told Dash to be patient for a few more minutes, and answered the phone.
"Peters?" came a voice I thought I recognized.
"Yes," I said.
"Didn't think I'd catch you on a Sunday. Can you dance?"
"Dance?" I asked.
"You know. Fox-trot. Rumba. Waltz. Basics."
"Not so you'd recognize them, but enough to almost get by."
"Good. Good. How about meeting me tomorrow? I think I have a job you'd be particularly suited for."
"I'll give it a whirl," I said.
"I'll give you a call in the morning and set up the time and place," Fred Astaire sang, and hung up the phone.