Catch a Falling Knife

windows and hadn’t had girls painted on one wall. The parking lot held a sprinkling of cars. As we entered the lot in Wesley’s car I looked around to see if anyone was taking down license plate numbers. It was too early in the day and I assumed that Eric Hoffman had stopped doing that, at least temporarily, after his daughter had been murdered. I didn’t think Wesley was in any danger of being exposed on the Internet.
    I preceded Wesley into the building and noticed that no music was playing. There was a lull between dancers. That meant I wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of Wesley—and he wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of me. Also, I could make myself heard by the ticket-taker—the same one as the other time I had been there—as I told him that we had an appointment to see Lefty.
    He picked up a phone beside him and pressed a button. After a very brief conversation he motioned for us to follow him and led the way across the room to the hallway where the restrooms were. The few patrons nursed their beers and didn’t look interested in us. Then he went through the doorway to the lap-dance area. I would have really been embarrassed if anything had been going on there, but thank goodness the place was quiet.
    We passed the dressing room; a couple of girls were sitting in front of the mirrors. I didn’t look at Wesley so I didn’t know whether he saw the girls. We came to a closed door. Our guide knocked and we heard “Yeah” from behind it. He opened the door and stood aside for us to enter.
    I went in first. The room was cramped because it contained two gray metal desks at right angles to one another that took up most of the room. At one desk sat a woman not much younger than I was, I would be willing to bet from her wrinkles, but with bleached blond hair. I had stopped applying any color to my hair and had reconciled myself to its natural gray. Her off-the-shoulder top let me see more of her wrinkled skin than I wanted to.
    The occupant of the other desk must be Lefty. He wasn’t as big as the ticket-taker, but almost as heavy, with more fat than muscle. He had a big nose and a wide mouth. He wore a white shirt and a smashing, multi-colored tie. I wondered who bought his ties. He also wore cufflinks. His slicked-back, black hair was neatly trimmed and combed, and made him look like an old-time Italian movie star.
    He stood up and said, “Hello, I’m Lefty,” extending a beefy hand across the desk.
    “I’m Lillian,” I said, shaking his hand. “This is Wesley.”
    He shook hands with Wesley, gave him a quick once-over, apparently dismissed him and turned back to me. “Have a seat.”
    Two wooden chairs were crowded into the space between the desk and the wall. I sat in one and Wesley in the other. The woman was working with a calculator and rows of what must be figures on bookkeeping paper. She ignored us.
    Lefty sat down and said to me, “So you’re a friend of the Shooting Star.”
    I hesitated, not wanting to overplay my hand. “I’ve met her.”
    “Perhaps you can tell me why she didn’t show up last night,” he said, issuing a challenge with the tone of his voice.
    “Did you try to call her?”
    He looked at me, appraisingly. He said, “You don’t look like a cop, unless the police are recruiting from old folks’ homes these days. I know all the local cops, anyway. Here’s the deal; I don’t know anything about her, including her name. She gave me a false ID when I interviewed her.”
    “Her name is Elise Hoffman,” I said, “and she’d dead.”
    “Dead?” Lefty’s eyes drilled into me. “You’re making fun, right?”
    “No. She was murdered Wednesday night.”
    “Murdered? You mean she’s the babe from the college who got herself knifed? Maud, where’s yesterday’s paper?”
    Maud, who had finally looked up when I said Elise had been killed, swiveled her chair around and produced a newspaper from a pile of papers and magazines on the floor. She handed it to Lefty and said, “I told you that girl was bad news. Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”
    This must be the local paper. The story was on the front page, complete with a picture of Elise.
    Lefty skimmed the story, nervously drumming his fingers on the desk. He said, “She was killed not that long after she left here, if it’s really her.” He looked at the picture for a few seconds. “Yeah, that could be her. The mouth looks familiar. I never saw her without a mask and a wig. I wouldn’t forget