“Jesus,” Luis said. “Holy shit.”
“Goddamn,” said Flesh, “that’s brilliant, Babaloo. Can you lay your hands on some pot?”
“Pot?”
“Pot, yes, some nice good grass. For me. And good stuff. Go into a head shop and have them roll it. Custom. Stitches were taken here once. They followed each other like teeth in zippers.”
“Yeah, well, but like those cats don’t take Diners Club.”
Ben peeled off about a hundred dollars and shoved it into Luis’s hand. He had not been this excited in a long while. “Here, take this. If anything else looks good to you. We’re going first class.”
“First class?”
“All right, I won’t mince words. We’re going down first class. Go now, Desi. Run, boy. Fetch the goose. If you see Al, send him up with the cookies. If they’re stale I’ll have him grind them up on the stage for a sand dance. Is that in our curriculum, Pancho? Can you tell me that, Niña, Pinta, and Santa Maria? Wait, before you go — the sound system. Turn on the bubble machine. Hit the lights, please, Cisco.”
Luis went into the ballroom and turned on their big Wurlitzer equipment. Music poured from the ballroom like an element. Flesh rubbed his hands and went to the small room where Clara was giving her student private instruction in the waltz. He rapped on the door. “Five minutes, Miss Clara,” he said softly, and opened the door. “The Blue Danube” was playing on the portable phonograph. A black man only a little younger than himself held Clara in his arms. One hand was up her behind.
“Hoy,” Flesh said.
“Who the dude?”
“Oh, Jesus,” Clara said.
“Who the dude?”
Flesh pointed his finger at the man. “I am your preceptor. Fred Astaire sent me. I give the Waltz Exam.” He lifted the tone arm off the record and set it down at the beginning. “Ready, begin — da da da da da, da da!”
“What’s this shit going down?”
“Waltz!” Flesh commanded.
“Hey, fuck, you crazy?”
“You, Bojangles, waltz!”
“Please, Mr. Flesh,” Clara said.
“I want to see turns and rolls,” Flesh said. “I want to see three-quarter time with a strong accent on the first beat.”
“Beat? I’ll beat your ass, cocksuck.”
“I’m telling Fred.”
“Mr. Flesh.”
“No, Clara, Fred has to know these things.” He turned off the record player. “Listen, boy,” he said to the black man, “I understand. Miss Clara tried to bring you along too fast. These things take time. She had you dancing above your station. Miss Clara, dear, get Tom the tom-tom.”
“I’ll kill this honky turd,” the man said quietly.
Flesh turned to Clara. “What is it here, a massage parlor?”
“You don’t understand, Mr. Flesh.”
“I understand, I understand. They’ve taken up shuffleboard, nine-hole golf. My dancers sit on seats like catchers’ mitts on big tricycles in St. Petersburg, Florida. They swim laps and play bridge in the clubhouse. They’re into macramé and decoupage and they fold paper to make yellow-bellied sapsuckers and even the ladies have fishing licenses. I understand. Where are you going?” He had turned to the Negro.
“I want my money back.”
Flesh nodded and moved toward Clara. He reached his hand down into her brassiere and plucked out two five-dollar bills. He handed the man the cash. “She cheated you,” he said. “You’ll stay for the gala.”
“Suck my comb, honky.”
“Doesn’t he know about the gala?”
“It’s a party,” Clara said. “It’s for the students enrolled in the public session.”
“I don’t need no funky party.”
“It’s on the house. Five dollars a tit? Good God, man, are you nuts?” Ben shook his head.
“They white tits,” the man said.
“Like hell,” Flesh said, “they’re black and blue.”
Clara was crying. Flesh put his arm around her. “The gala,” he said softly. “Get yourself ready. If I’m not back by nine, start without me.”
He stood by the Oriental when the show broke. He spoke softly to people as they came out of the theater, careful not to frighten them. He wrote the time and address down for them on slips of paper and folded the slips gently into their hands. He made it sound as reasonable as he could, hinting, though not stating outright, that it was a business proposition. If people thought it would cost them a dollar or two, they were more likely to trust you. He was very careful about whom he approached. Some he asked to go on ahead and others he asked to wait with him, telling them he would be fifteen more minutes at most.
They came into the lobby of the Great Northern. They held their shopping bags from Stop and Shop and their green parcels from Marshall Field’s.
“You let in the ones with the slips, didn’t you, Henry?” he asked the night man.
“Yes, sir,” Henry said.
“Good,” Flesh said. “I’ll be responsible for these folks,” he told the man. He turned to his group. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I think we’re going to have to use all three elevators tonight. Henry, would you unlock the other two, please?”
Henry did as he was asked and Ben carefully directed people to specific elevators. “I’ll ride up,” he said to those he had not assigned an elevator, “with you people.” He was the last one in. “That’s all right,” he said, “smoke if you got ’em.”
The people from the other elevators were waiting for him on the seventh floor. “Good,” he said, greeting them. “Can you hear it? It’s just as I said.” He cocked his head down the corridor in the direction of the ballroom. “Please,” he said, “follow me.” They went in single file toward the music. “Already,” he said, calling back to them over his shoulder as they passed the barber shop, “we’re a sort of conga line. That’s the spirit.” He kicked back with his right leg. He held the ballroom doors open for them.
The spherical chandelier with its adhesive strips of seamed mirrors spun slow as a device in a planetarium, throwing its romantic galaxies against the walls and ceiling and on the seven or eight pairs of dancers on the big dance floor — focusing purples, greens, yellows, blues, and reds, sliding across shoes, jackets, gowns, and arms, and dilating to wider, indescribable colors. Revolving discs of light around the room lasered the chandelier. Clara danced with a serviceman, Al, Hope, and Jenny with regulars Flesh remembered from his last visit. Three older couples moved expertly to “The Night Was Made for Love.” They were like the surprisingly graceful, aged ice skaters one sees on public rinks. He wondered if they had learned their stuff here. Several people sat along the walls in chairs near the high columns of smoked mirrors. Luis and the Fritzel’s and Don the Beachcomber men were fussing over the meats and hors d’oeuvres at a long linen-covered table. A man Flesh could not account for tended bar.
The song ended and Clara turned toward the stage, where the sound system was, and led the applause. “Very good,” she said over the applause. “It may seem ridiculous to applaud a recording, but I want you all to get into the habit of clapping for the band, so that when we go on our outings to Pewaukee or the Café of Tomorrow and a real band is playing, you’ll just do it automatically. It’s very important actually. Musicians are human and if they know you appreciate what they’re doing, they’ll put that much more liveliness and effort into their playing. Remember, people, a dancer is only as good as his accompaniment. You people on the chairs,” she said, “now even though you sat out the last dance I want to hear you applaud also.”