Catch a Falling Knife

we going to do now?” Sandra asked. “We can’t take Winston in there.”
    “We could wait until they come out,” I said. “Donna’s not going to do anything to Mark in the Club. However, I think there’s a chance that we may learn something if we go inside. This is what we’ll do. We’ll go in the side door, which is near the dressing room. Believe it or not, the dancers are real women, with the same maternal instincts we have, and I’m sure they’ll be glad to see Winston.”
    “But places like this are so…sleazy. And the nudity.”
    “He’s too young to be affected by any of that. But I’ll be glad to go in alone and you can stay out here with Winston, if you like.”
    That decided her. Sandra wouldn’t let me go in alone, in spite of the fact that I had been here several times before. We got out of the car and she lifted Winston out, half asleep. His head promptly dropped onto her shoulder. We walked to the side door, which was near where we had parked. I tried the door; it was unlocked. Lefty shouldn’t be so careless. Anybody could walk in.
    We went through the doorway into the hall. We could hear the distant but insistent beat of rock music. The door to Lefty’s office was closed, as usual. I didn’t know whether he was in there and I didn’t want to inflict Winston on him so we went on around the corner to the dressing room. That door was open.
    I led the way inside, where two of the dancers were sitting in front of the brightly lit mirrors, working on their makeup. The music was louder here; another dancer must be onstage. I recognized one of the two sitting here as Cherub. Cherub saw me in the mirror and swung around on her stool.
    “Grandma,” she exclaimed, “what are you doing here? And who’s this?”
    She was looking at Winston, still on Sandra’s shoulder, who had his eyes open now. He looked around with lively interest.
    I said, “Cherub, this is my real granddaughter, Sandra. And this is her son, Winston.”
    Cherub and Sandra said hello to each other. Cherub got up and walked over to Winston.
    “Hi, Sweetheart,” she said, patting his head. “Ain’t you the handsome little boy.”
    “Do you have a car?” Winston asked her.
    “Have I got a car? Sure, I have a cool car.”
    “What color is it?”
    “It’s yellow.”
    “That’s good. Yellow is my favorite color.”
    Winston had made a friend. Sandra stood him on the floor, from where he continued to talk cars with Cherub. Sandra looked uncomfortable, which was not surprising, but I got the impression it was partly because of her dress: she still wore longish shorts and a baggy sweatshirt while Cherub had on a rather spectacular, if abbreviated, sequined costume.
    When I could get a word in edgewise, I said, “Cherub, is there any way of seeing who’s in the audience without actually going out on the floor?”
    “So you’re here on official business?” Cherub said. “Still working on the murder of the Shooting Star, eh? Lefty’s wandering around here, somewhere, up to no good. Let me see if I can corral him. I’ll be right back.”
    Cherub went out the door. The other dancer, who was also intrigued with Winston, said her name was Melanie. Winston asked her if she had a car and soon they were deep in conversation.
    Cherub returned within a couple of minutes, with Lefty trailing behind her. He wore a suit and one of his beautiful ties. He must be hot; his face glistened with sweat. When he saw me he said, “Lillian. What a pleasure.”
    He took my hand in both of his paws, as usual. Fortunately, he had a surprisingly gentle touch or my hand would have been handburger. I glanced at Sandra, who looked as if she was wondering exactly how much time I had been spending here, and I hoped that Lefty’s spectacular tie would impress her. I introduced Lefty to her and Winston.
    To Winston, Lefty said, “Take it easy on the girls, you hear? They’re very delicate,” and to Sandra, “So you’re Lillian’s granddaughter. I’ll bet she looked like you when she was your age.”
    “Better,” Sandra said, modestly.
    “Well, you can have a job here anytime. With that hair and that body, you’d be perfect. You don’t even need a wig. We’ll call you Shooting Star II because you have the same kind of appeal she had. And in addition you’ve got boobs.”
    “Don’t pay any attention to Lefty,” Cherub said to Sandra. “He never head of political correctness.”
    “In this business I’ve always got to keep