Having a guy like Gordon for two weeks would be expensive. How did Jazz talk Lala into it? Waltz glanced at her. Her lips were tight, the pout flattened. Her hand went to her bra, where she kept her cash.
***
Lala watched Jazz return to the office, her face pale, stripped of its usual olive glow, arms folded over her breasts. She forced her arms to her sides and marched toward the office.
The stereo played a tango, the dance of love.
Waltz followed Lala into the office. Maybe he could calm them down.
Lala screamed. "I own part of the studio. Why you hire a fancy dance instructor from New York and no speak to me? You crazy?"
Jazz propped his feet on his desk. He picked up his strawberry slush and took a sip. "I thought you wanted to pump up sales. This guy can improve our staff a hundred per cent. We'll sell far more lessons than the meager ten thousand dollars it costs."
Lala staggered and collapsed in the chair across from Jazz's desk. "Ten thousand dollars." She rubbed her temples. She took a deep breath. "You crazy! You gamble our money. Now this. The studio will go broke."
Jazz smiled. "Calm down, darling. You don't understand. I'm applying the principles of proper business management to our thriving studio."
"Spend ten thousand dollars for dance instruction. You will destroy the studio." She pointed to herself. "I can instruct them as well as this Gordon."
"We can't lose. Gordon's agreed that if we don't like his class, we don't have to pay. At least try one class."
"I no need to try one. Ten thousand dollars - already I no like it."
Jazz spread his arms. "It's an investment. That's what you have to understand. We'll get back our money tenfold." He turned to Waltz, smiling. "I'll leave it up to Waltz. Should I send Gordon back home? If Waltz says so, I will."
Lala went to Waltz and caressed his shoulder. "You no want the studio to go broke, do you, honey?"
Jazz sipped his slush through the straw. "You'll never get another chance to study dancing under the director of the New York City Ballet."
Lala moved behind Waltz and massaged his shoulder muscles, her face close to his. "I teach you anything you want."
Jazz laughed. "I don't doubt that. Waltz?"
"I don't know."
Jazz got up. "Okay. I'll go fire Gordon. The studio's already paid his expenses and I'll give him five hundred dollars for his trouble. We'll save nine thousand dollars. So what if we miss the opportunity of a lifetime." He strode toward the door.
Lala squeezed Waltz's shoulders, her hands warming him through his shirt.
Jazz went through the door.
His head peeked around the doorjamb. "Last chance to train under the director of the New York City Ballet."
Lala turned Waltz and hugged him.
Waltz smelled the perfume behind her ear, felt her breasts against him, felt her cheek caress his. He saw himself in bed with her. No, she was Jazz's wife. Waltz turned his face away. He cleared his throat. His voice croaked. He cleared his throat again. This time his voice squeaked. "Let's try one class."
Lala jerked back. "Waltz. No."
The face in the doorway smiled. "Well?"
Tears rolled down Lala's cheeks. "It will destroy the studio. For me, Waltz, no do this."
Jazz's head started to withdraw from the doorway. "Last chance."
Waltz took a deep breath. "One class. If we don't like it, we'll cancel."
Lala's lips unpouted. "Oh, Waltz. You let Jazz control you. " She turned to Jazz. "You think you can treat me like the rotten mango, but no will be that easy. We will see about this Gordon."
***
Lala leaped into Gordon's class in a pink tutu and ballet slippers. She posed in ballet attitudes and simpered. Each time Gordon attempted to introduce a technique to the class, Lala interrupted, showing the class how to do the move. She taunted Gordon, saying things like, "I bet you can't do this, Gordon," then showing off a move.
Waltz's friends blamed him for not interceding. Waltz couldn't do anything about it. Lala was Jazz's wife. Where was Jazz? Why didn't he step in? If the other instructors understood Lala, they would know that only Jazz could control her - and not always Jazz. Waltz was the scapegoat.
***
Shunned by his friends, Waltz ate dinner alone. He strolled back to the studio, dropped onto the couch in the lounge, took off his street shoes, and picked up his dance shoes.
For a moment, he couldn't believe it.
Somebody painted the letters R and L in white on the toes, backwards and upside down, R on the left toe and L on the right toe.
He could scrape the paint off with a knife, but it would scuff the toes. Maybe he could use nail-polish remover. He'd see. He didn't have time now. He'd get his other shoes out of his car and maintain his dance instructor's dignity.
He opened the desk drawer to get his keys. They were gone. So were his wallet, comb, and mirror. At least the prankster was compassionate. He left the cigarettes.
It must've been Yvette, Rachel, or Armando, probably all of them working as a team. They'd been riding him about his comb and mirror. They were were an obvious tool to punish him for letting Lala disrupt Gordon's class. Maybe they'd have a good laugh and give his stuff back by closing time.
They'd keep it up as long as Lala harassed Gordon. Waltz was going to have to hide his stuff. Yeah, right. They'd find it, no matter where he hid it.
What about his old hiding place, where he hid his cigarettes from Jazz as a kid? He pulled back a strip of loose molding that covered a crack between the wall and the floor, to the left of the VCR. He stuck his hand in. He moved it around, feeling a sizable space between the inner and outer walls.
The problem was, the crack wasn't big enough for things like shoes. He snapped the molding back in place. Nobody would guess it covered a big crack. It was a great hiding place, but the jokers hung out in the lounge much of the time. He couldn't hide anything in the wall without them eventually catching him.
It sure worked when he was a kid, though. Jazz never caught him hiding his cigarettes. Waltz was too fast.
He clicked a button on his watch, grabbed his cigarettes, pulled back the molding, pushed the pack through the crack, and snapped the molding back in place. He clicked the button again, less than three seconds. He was as fast as he was when he was a kid. All that practice grooved his muscle memory.
He ought to put extra keys in his hiding place. He would do that, next chance he got.
What a hassle. He'd have to go around hunting for his stuff, so the fun lovers could enjoy their joke. He'd have to wait until the session ended.
He had fifteen minutes to kill. He assumed his favorite reading position on the couch for chapter five of The Croatian Crow.
I gulped grog like a guppy, three sheets to the wind, four miles south of Margaritaville, depressed as a water balloon under the fifth wheel of a six wheeler. I was through with women.
That's when she walked up, with long blond hair and legs that went on forever. I tilted forward on my barstool and looked down to see how far forever was.
She shoved me upright with breasts that went on forever. "I need your mind right. Focus."
I focused on her breasts.
She slugged a shot of sauce, tense as a dancehall floozy with no dance shoes. She leaned toward me and whispered, her voice deep as a BP oil spill, her breath redolent of whiskey, her tongue tickling my ear. "I hear you're looking for the Chinese Chicken."
I spoke to her cleavage, cleavage doomed to death by jiggling. "You got it all wrong, baby, as wrong as Fred Astaire dancing in water skis. I'm looking for the Croatian Crow."
The back of her hand went to her mouth. Her breasts shrank, cleavage triumphant. She recoiled, her baby blues flashing horror. She gasped and stammered. "The Croatian Crow?"
Waltz read on until the instructors flooded into the lounge, signaling the end of the session. None of them admitted seeing his stuff. He might as well have asked for the Croatian Crow.
r /> He climbed the stairs to the second ballroom where Gordon taught a special class for advanced students. Gordon claimed he hadn't seen Waltz's stuff either.
The one person left was Jazz. If Waltz hoped to get his stuff back, he'd have to let Jazz have his fun. He sighed and went to the office. He set himself for a barrage of abuse. "I left my wallet, keys, comb, and mirror in the desk drawer in the lounge. Now they're gone. Have you seen them?"
Jazz leaned back in his swivel chair. He took a sip of his slush. "Look again. I bet they're right where you left them."
"I double checked."
"Why don't you keep them in your pocket like a normal man?"
"Sorry to bother you." Waltz turned to go. The green of Jazz's drink caught his eye. "You switched to lime?"
"No, I hate lime."
"But you're drinking it."
"The assholes ran out of strawberry. You'd think it was a simple matter. When you get low on strawberry, you order more. It's not rocket science."
"Yeah."
"But that's not your problem, is it? Nothing's ever your fault. You leave your stuff unguarded in a desk drawer, and you're surprised that it disappears. You involve me in the mystery. Leave me alone. Go find your stuff."
Waltz shrugged and left the office. He'd have to teach in his monogrammed shoes. He went back to the lounge and put them on. Let the other instructors have their fun and get it over with. What did he care?
He took a deep breath and marched into the ballroom. Xenia glanced at his shoes and laughed.
He pointed his toe at her. "Clever, hey? I've come up with a new instructional technique. My students can glance at my shoes and remind themselves which foot comes next. I'm going to patent it."
"But they're backwards."
"For me, but not for my students. It's a mirror image thing."
Armando danced by. "Trying to learn the alphabet again?"
Rachel brought her student near. "You'll like this studio. If we see you're a slow learner, we write directions on your shoes."
Just as Waltz thought. Rachel and Armando were among the guilty parties. They were really loving his discomfort.
At the next break, Waltz went to check the desk again. The stuff was back. He held it over his head triumphantly, keys jiggling and clinking. He turned to Rachel and Armando. "Thanks for returning my stuff."
Rachel's face was blank. "I didn't take it. And I didn't mark up your shoes."
Armando shook his head. "Me either."
Waltz smiled at them. What liars. They were almost believable.
***
After they closed the studio that evening, they gathered around their usual table at Club Boom-Boom. Salsa music blasted out of the loudspeakers. Cigarette smoke bloomed over the tables.
Jazz took a drink. "Waltz, Gordon had a comment about your dancing."
A compliment. Waltz's body blushed with pleasure. "What did he say?"
"He said he admired your enthusiasm, but you would never make it as a dancer. You're average and that's all you'll ever be."
The blush faded. "My partners say I'm good."
"You're good for an average dancer."
Lala spun her glass. "Gordon know nothing. I tell you. I know dancing better than Gordon. Waltz have talent. He dance fine."
Good old Lala, nice of her to say. She told him so before, but she had a stake in keeping him dancing. He paid her to coach him.
Jazz glared at her. "You only say that because you like Waltz."
"Yes, yes, I like him, but he is a fine dancer."
"And you hate Gordon."
"No, I hate to pay ten thousand when I can teach as well as him."
"You better not do anything else to stop Gordon from teaching his class."
"What you mean, sweetie? I no do that. I do all I can to help him today."
Jazz turned away, his face contorted. He sipped his drink and stared at the table. He took a deep breath, looked up at Waltz, and spoke in his voice of reason. "Why don't you go back to college full time and finish your degree in computer science? You're good at that and you'll make far more money than you would teaching dancing."
Lala picked up her drink. Her hand shook. "Waltz do okay. You need to stop gambling and spending. Then we all make plenty money."
"Get off that. I'm thinking of Waltz."
"You like to push him around. Leave him alone."
"Okay, darling. You know what's best for him. Why should I care?"
Lala turned to Waltz. "Come on, sweetie, let's dance."
The song was a bolero, a slow sensual mambo. Lala whispered in his ear. "No attend Gordon. I know dancing as well as him. You are good."
"But Gordon's the dance director of the New York Ballet."
"So was Jazz, but I'm as good as Jazz, no?"
"Yes, you are." Still, Gordon's profession required that he judge talent all the time.
"Jazz want to hassle you. He think you poison Cha-Cha."
"I was hoping he changed his mind about that."
"No, he still obsess. I think maybe he is crazy in the coconut."
"Let him think what he wants. I don't care."
Waltz felt Lala's warm breath as she spoke into his ear. "Let us fire Gordon. Why should you take his insults?"
"We can't just fire him."
"Is better for him. Our funds are finished. We no can pay the ten thousand. Gordon will teach for nothing. He is better off to go back to New York now."
The song ended. They returned to the table.
Rachel touched Waltz's arm. "I think you're good, Waltz. Dance with me."
Violins sawed out an irresistible tango rhythm. Waltz pulled Rachel close. Tango required a tight embrace. The gauchos down in Argentina, who invented the tango, knew what they were doing. Rachel melted into him, soft and warm.
To heck with Yvette. He was tired of her constant bitching. Rachel was sweet and sexy. "Go out with me Saturday night."
"I thought you'd never ask, but what about Yvette?"
"She's mad at me, claims I go around flirting with other girls. I'm dumping her, before she dumps me."
"It'll break her heart."
"I doubt that."
The next song was a waltz. They danced it too. It felt good dancing with Rachel. Gordon was crazy. When dancing felt smooth, you knew you were good. Another tango came on. They danced it.
When they got back to the table, Yvette stood up. "My turn."
He led Yvette into a two-step.
She leaned away from him. ""We've got to talk. I'm tired of you flirting with Rachel and all the other girls."
"I'm tired of you harping on that."
"You're supposed to be true to me. I'm your girlfriend."
"Not any more."
"Fine with me." She turned out of his arms and stalked toward the exit.
Waltz walked back to the table and sank into his chair.
Jazz hooted. "Gordon is right. You're so bad that even your girlfriend can't stand to dance a complete dance with you."
"It wasn't my dancing. She accused me of flirting with Rachel. We broke up."
"Another girlfriend down the drain. You'll never learn, will you? The Go-Go-Gonad Kid strikes again. You can't be satisfied with one woman, can you?"
Lala slapped Jazz's shoulder. "Everybody is fickle when he is young. Get off his back."
Jazz stared at Waltz. "True love and fidelity - that's what matters." Jazz turned to Lala. "I've been faithful to my true love, and I know I can trust her. Isn't that right, Lala?"
Lala turned away from him.
Was Jazz suggesting that Lala was having an affair? How ridiculous. Jazz was getting more and more erratic and belligerent, all because some idiot poisoned Cha-Cha. If only Cha-Cha recovered, Jazz would be okay.
Waltz almost laughed. He found himself pulling for the recovery of his archenemy, Cha-Cha.
***
The next afternoon, Friday, in the main ballroom, Waltz and Rachel practiced spins, waiting for Gordon's class. Waltz couldn
't let Gordon's comment about his dancing stop him. He liked dancing and he was good at it.
Jazz sauntered into the room with his usual strawberry slush. "I see you're ignoring Gordon's advice, and still attempting to become a dancer."
"That's right."
"Why won't you listen to me and Gordon? We know dancing."
"In a couple of years, Gordon will be asking me to coach him." Waltz spotted on Jazz and did a double spin.
Jazz sighed. "Not bad. Don't neglect posture. Pinch your shoulder blades together. That straightens your shoulders, giving you better posture and control of your spins. Think of your shoulders turning your body."
Waltz pulled back his shoulder blades and did a spin.
Jazz nodded. "Good. Use a little less effort, just enough to get around. That will give you better balance and better control when you stop. It's the stop that makes the spin. It's like gymnastics. You've got to nail the dismount."
Waltz spun again.
"That's more like it, just enough power to get around. Not too much, not too little."
"Like the fairytale - just right. But how much is just right?"
"You have to experiment. You ought to know. You're the great experimenter. You have to try a little of everything."
"Yes, I must try a little of everything - a little, but not too much. It must be just right."
"That's what I thought."
"What the hell are we talking about? I didn't poison Cha-Cha."
"You know what we're talking about."
"Goldilocks?"
"Yeah, right." Jazz put his slush on the floor. "Watch." He did a languid double spin. It was graceful and effortless.
"That was just right, but you kept your arms by your sides. Shouldn't you have them up?"
Jazz picked up his slush. "Yes, they should be up. I'm showing you how to develop control. If you'd focus on the point, you'd be a lot better off. You've been watching too much Dance of Deceit. It's screwing up your concentration."
"It couldn't be. I haven't had time to watch it lately. I'm recording it."
Jazz sipped. "How far behind are you now?"
"Five weeks."
"You must spend a fortune on tapes. Do you expect to find the answers to life in your silly soap opera?" He turned to go. He stopped and turned back. "Ah, well, maybe you're right. The answers aren't anywhere else. Maybe they're there - another of life's little pranks." He stalked to his office and slammed the door.