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magazine says they’re the world’s greatest dancing couple. That might cost as much as four bucks for the good seats. Or we could go to the Musart and see She Lost It at Campeche . Even the best seats are only a buck each. The show’s been going on for almost a year and the ad in the paper says it’s ‘hot as a firebomb.’ What do you think?”
    â€œShel,” I said, reaching for the door. “Go for the culture even if it costs a few bucks extra. Mildred will appreciate it.”
    I was through the door and standing in the anteroom when I heard Shelly say to himself, “Hot as a fire bomb,” and I knew where Mildred Minck would be on Saturday night.
    I made my way back to No-Neck Arnie’s garage and told him to fill up the Ford with gas. He tilted his body to the side to look at me, and I proved my good faith and financial standing by showing him a twenty-dollar bill. Arnie filled her up.
    â€œTook almost a full tank,” he said as we stood near the pump amidst the aroma of gasoline.
    â€œGreat,” I said. The best way to handle things was to keep the tank full since the gas gauge didn’t work. It had broken within minutes of my buying the car from Arnie. Arnie had advised me not to have it fixed because it wasn’t worth the expense. Fundless, I had agreed. I had learned since then that you can get used to almost anything, a wife leaving you, a war, various beatings, back pain, but the tension of never knowing if your gas tank is full or empty is too much for a reasonable human to have to bear.
    â€œArnie, I want the gauge fixed,” I said, getting into the car.
    â€œSuit yourself,” he said with a shrug as he rubbed his always greasy palms on his greasy overalls. “It’ll cost.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œMaybe five, maybe more. Maybe even ten.”
    He leaned on the car, foot on the running board, and examined the vehicle as if he had never seen it before. “Maybe ten.”
    â€œThen let’s get it fixed,” I said, starting the engine.
    â€œCame into a bundle, huh?” he said with a grin of wonderfully uneven teeth.

    â€œGot a new client,” I explained. “Eleanor Roosevelt. I’m getting a nice fee for finding out who kidnapped the president’s dog.”
    Arnie gave me a sour look as I pulled slowly away. “Come on,” he said wearily. “Never kid a kidder. You know what I mean?”
    I knew what he meant, but I had never known Arnie to be a kidder. As far as I could see, he had no sense of humor except when it came to repairs, and then he was laughable. I stuck my head out of the window and called back, “I wouldn’t kid an old friend like you, Arn.”
    Then I shot forward into the street, almost hitting a Plymouth driven by a gray man who looked like a broom handle. I gave him my best grin, turned on the car radio for a little music, found Fred Waring and His Pennsylvanians, smiled up at the morning sun, and headed for Burbank and Jane Poslik.
    Fred Waring kept me company down Hollywood Boulevard, and through the hills. I listened to “Rosemary” and was about to get the news when I found the street where Jane Poslik lived. It was about two blocks off Burbank Boulevard on a residential street. Hers was one of the two-story brick apartment buildings nestled together for protection on a block of single-family frame houses. It was the kind of street where nothing happens during the day because everyone is working or the families are too old to have little kids.
    Jane Poslik lived in the second floor apartment, but she didn’t answer her bell or my knock. I tried to look through the thin curtain on the window near the door, but nothing seemed to be moving inside. So I went downstairs and knocked at the door of a Molly Garnett. There was no answer but I could hear something moving inside, so I ham-fisted the door.
    â€œMolly Garnett?” I shouted.
    â€œShut