Drink, Dance, Divorce

  He kept one hand against the hatch and slammed the ramp back into the compartment. He jumped away from the hatch and slammed it shut. He headed toward the front of the van. He'd be glad to get back inside out of the rain.

  Hook 'Em blasted the bike's horn. "Get on back."

  She thought he was going to ride that thing? He laughed. She might be crazy, but he wasn't. He held up his hands and backed away. The rain slapped his hands and pounded his face.

  No way would he get on that belching monster with her. Not in a downpour. He wouldn't put his life in her hands.

  She screamed. "Get on - now. I'm not losing her because of you. Get on!"

  "No way."

  "Get on!" She raced the engine.

  "I'll wait here. You can come back and pick me up."

  "If you stay here, our deal is off." She tightened her slicker around her neck.

  He hesitated.

  "Good luck with your new dick." She eased the throbbing monster away from him.

  She was leaving him alone in the rain, facing a murder charge. He raced alongside, his shoes splashing in ankle-deep puddles, and jumped on the back. She pulled one of his arms around her waist, then the other. "Hold on. Keep your head close to me. Follow my body."

  She hit the gas and the bike screamed down the street. The engine roared like a punk rock band at two in the morning. The hood of his slicker caught the wind, popped off his head, and jerked at his neck. An irresistible force tore at his body, trying to fling him off the bike to the street. His arms squeezed Hook 'Em's waist. His stomach leaped to his neck and scrambled to jettison itself. He closed his eyes. If they hit something going at such a speed, they'd skid at least a hundred yards. The pavement would grind his knees to nothing. He'd never dance again.

  He forced his muscles to relax. Why fight it? He was going to die. They'd charge head on into a Lone-Star-Beer truck. His world would become the smell of hops, the tickle of foam, the cold chill of beer, and the sound of crashing bottles, as they surged into the truck, heedless of the laws of physics and the trajectory of the universe. He wouldn't have to worry about a murder rap. He would be at one with a truckload of glass fragments, beer, foam, and Hook 'Em.

  They slowed. He wasn't dead. They stopped. He opened his eyes and peeled his face off Hook 'Em's slicker. The bike vibrated like a massage chair to the gentle throb of potato-potato-potato. They waited for the light to change.

  They hadn't rocketed into an immovable object. They were alive. He relaxed his grip. Rain ran down his face and gushed off his hair down his back. He pulled up his hood. He should get off. It was better to face possible death in the future than certain death riding Hook 'Em's Harley. He lifted his foot.

  The bike howled forward, jerking him backwards against his arms. He squeezed them tight and held on against the incredible surge of power. His hood caught the wind like a parachute, choking him. He couldn't free his grip on Hook 'Em to deflate it. He was going to choke to death.

  He thrashed his head side to side, hoping to spill the air out of the hood. Finally the air whooshed out one side. He took a deep breath. He concentrated on keeping a tight grip on his wrists without squeezing Hook 'Em too hard, fighting the tremendous power of the engine. It sucked them along in a vortex of energy and vibration and yowling - a black hole hurtling to doom.

  He wasn't wearing a helmet. He rode a giant howling motorcycle and he wasn't wearing a helmet. They were ripping along at eighty-five and he wasn't even wearing a helmet. When they crashed - and they would - and he was thrown screaming into an oncoming truck, he needed to cradle his head in his arms. He had to remember that. Arms first, then scream. Arms first.

  They stopped at another light. He stuffed the hood into the neck of the slicker and wiped the rain out of his eyes. He reset his grip. He had to be ready for the next acceleration.

  He raised his head. He kept it close to Hook 'Em. He didn't want it snapped back again. The rain was back in his eyes. He wanted to wipe them, but he wasn't letting go of Hook 'Em. He blinked them rapidly. They cleared. He could see over her head.

  The green Honda waited four cars in front of them. The light changed to amber in the cross street. He moved his head closer to Hook 'Em, down behind her head. He had to be ready. They eased forward with the traffic.

  They stopped at another light. The potato-potato-potato throb had a nice rhythm to it. It would make a reasonable two-step. You could fit some lyrics to it. He moved his face forward, against Hook 'Em's neck, his head partly under the brim of her cowboy hat, sheltered from the rain.

  They eased forward with the traffic. Waltz relaxed.

  The Honda turned right across two lanes of traffic.

  They exploded forward. Hook 'Em eased to the right. They raced along between two lanes of traffic. Water shot up on either side of them. They careened through a tiny gap between two cars to the right. The sudden move pulled Waltz to the left. He tightened his grip. They swerved through another gap to the right and screamed into a skidding right turn in front of a car. They cut it too close. The driver screeched his brakes and honked.

  They turned too late. Hook 'Em's muscles tightened. He peeked over her shoulder. They were heading toward the median. They might have made it on a dry street.

  Arms first. Cover the head. Arms first.

  They fish tailed in the water, scooping a wave over the median. Momentum pulled him left as they swerved to the right. They were heading straight toward the median. When they hit that, they'd rocket into the air and collide with the eighteen-wheeler in the oncoming lane. He closed his eyes and braced for death.

  They remained upright. He opened his eyes. They missed the median by inches. Hook 'Em gunned it and they passed cars so fast it made Waltz dizzy.

  If they caught that stupid reckless cheater, Waltz would never ask for anything again. He wanted to catch her with her lover and make sure her sweet loving husband got his divorce. He wanted to drag her in the gutter in the ankle-deep water. What was wrong with her, skidding across two lanes of traffic like that?

  They slowed down. Waltz could feel Hook 'Em relax. The motor sound eased to a sedate potato-potato-potato. Hook 'Em felt good, firm but with the softness of a woman. She wasn't wearing a bra.

  They dipped down and then up and into a parking lot. They stopped. The engine sighed and went quiet. His ears rang. Hook 'Em jammed down the kick stand. They tilted to the left and Waltz slid off. His knees buckled. His legs felt like rubber. He backed away from the bike, stomping his feet, willing his legs to get back their spring.

  He was alive. Alive. And whole. He could walk.

  The rain had stopped. He saw the stars. He took a deep breath.

  The parking lot surrounded a large, wooden frame structure. A neon sign towered above the road glaring a big red Honkytonk and blinking blue: Drink, Dance, Drink, Dance.

  ***

  Water drained from Waltz's hair down the back of his neck into his shirt. His shoes squished each time he took a step, leaving damp shoe prints in the entrance. The monograms glared, whitened by the rain, waterproof, L, R, L, R.

  The woman at the door stared at his appearance. "Three dollar cover. We've got a live band tonight."

  Hook 'Em turned, cowboy hat damp but otherwise as dry as a Longhorn skull bleached in the desert sun. She raised her eyebrows.

  She expected him to pay her cover. Why did he have to pay? Couldn't she charge it to her client? He guessed it was a woman's reflex. The guy always paid.

  Ah. He saw. She wanted it to seem like they were on a date. They were undercover. He fished out his billfold.

  They entered the ballroom. Hook 'Em nodded toward the men's room. "Comb your hair."

  Waltz's wave was perfect before she forced him to highball through a squall on a Harley. He would have combed it without her telling him. He knew how to groom himself.

  She wasn't the drunken Croatian Crow detective, cynical but incorruptible. She was his mother the PI. He stomped toward the men's room, his shoes squishing.
>
  He gawked at the mirror. His hair spewed from his head like Old Faithful. He combed his hair and dried himself as best he could with paper towels and the air dryer.

  He walked onto the dance floor and pushed at it with his foot. Nice solid hardwood. A dance floor as big as a basketball court. He liked a big floor with room to move.

  They didn't have much of a crowd for a live band, but it was late on a Tuesday night, and the place was outside the city limits. Amazing to have a live band on Tuesday night. You'd think they'd lose money.

  Smoke swirled toward the ceiling. Desire for a cigarette stabbed him. No need to buy a pack. All he had to do was take a deep breath. He took one. He had to breathe. Jazz would understand.

  The speakers blared. "Here's one I wrote myself."

  A large sign propped against the stage proclaimed, Tex Hank and Tex's Twangers. In front of the Twangers stood Tex, a cadaver with a spangled white Western suit flapping from his emaciated frame, everything white except his cowboy boots. They were royal purple.

  A white cowboy hat with a spangled band matching the boots loomed low over his face, revealing cheekbones and a Lone Star longneck. His left arm moved, and his face became cheekbones and a microphone. The Twangers began to play.

  Hook 'Em sat at a table near the dance floor. Waltz slid into a chair.

  Hook 'Em patted the chair next to her. "Sit here. You're blocking my view." She nodded at a table twenty feet away, where the wayward wife sat and watched the band alone.

  A couple of Lone Star longnecks set on the table.

  Hook 'Em glanced at his hair. "Much better."

  Thanks a lot. He knew how to comb his hair.

  She got up and held out her hand. "Let's go. That's a good two-step."

  "You want to dance?"

  "Maybe if we dance, it will make it rain." She beckoned with her forefinger. "Come on. I want to see how it feels to dance with a pro."

  "My shoes are soaked."

  She snapped her fingers. "Come on. We're undercover. We got to make this look good."

  Waltz had never danced in wet shoes. He hesitated. She snapped her fingers again.

  He marched onto the floor. He knew how it would turn out. He'd have to wrestle her around the floor while his shoes squeaked and caught. He stepped into her arms.

  His shoes didn't stick. The floor had loads of wax on it. He churned out a steady slow-slow-quick-quick to the Twangers' hypnotic rhythm. Two-step was classic ballroom dance, a moving combination of foxtrot and jitterbug. Tex's sad lament pounded its way into Waltz's bones.

  Tex leaned back and let flow his tale of woe, woe unjustly dispensed by some malevolent force outside himself. "I cheated on my baby and I got drunk every day. I don't know why she left me cause she never would say. In memory of my baby, I will swig my only beer, as slowly from my eye seeps another lonely tear. It dribbles down my nose and from its end it flops, as I stare at the bar into my puddle of teardrops. Yoda leda loda lady whoooo."

  Poor Tex. It was so easy to lose a girlfriend. And they wouldn't even tell you why they left you.

  Hook 'Em spoke in Waltz's ear. "Tears on the bar. Right. He cheated on her. He deserves everything he got. If he was standing in front of me right now, I'd kick him in the balls. And drown him in his puddle of tear drops."

  Waltz felt an urge to turn sideways. He pulled her closer to smother a possible kick. He decided not to mention his sympathy for Tex.

  Waltz started out with simple moves, following Jazz's credo, "Never out-dance your partner. If you show her up, it makes you both look bad. Partner dancing is about teamwork. Feel her out. See what she can do and stick with that. It's not about showing off with lots of spectacular steps. It's about dancing well with your partner so both of you can enjoy it, so you look good together."

  His shoes squished and the monitor slid around his ankle as he turned. The monitor didn't affect his dancing as badly as he thought it would.

  Hook 'Em had a good feel for the music. And she moved well. She must've hung out in a lot of dance halls. She had no trouble following as they did basic turns around the floor, so he led some underarm turns. She followed them as well. Waltz was sorry when Tex gargled his last mournful note.

  They returned to the table and drank beer. The wife was still alone.

  Hook 'Em peeled at the label on her bottle, allowing the pieces to fall to the table. Waltz picked them up and placed them in the ashtray.

  She peeled some more. He put them in the ashtray. She smiled.

  Waltz studied Hook 'Em. "Well?"

  "What?"

  "Aren't you going to do some detecting?"

  "I am."

  "When?"

  "Now. I'm doing it as we speak."

  "I think I'll quit teaching dancing and become a detective. All you're doing is dancing and drinking. Easy job."

  "I never said it was hard. Who wants a hard job? Is teaching dancing hard?"

  "Well... no. It's fun."

  "You see?"

  "To teach dancing, I have to do something. You're not doing anything."

  "I'm detecting. You can't see it because you're not a world-class detective."

  Waltz sipped his beer. "Yeah? What are you doing?"

  Hook 'Em leaned over the table and beckoned for Waltz to lean toward her. "I'm making a video of the subject."

  Waltz studied her. "Where's the camera?"

  She banged her beer on the table. "It's not embedded in my boobs."

  Waltz raised his eyes.

  "It's in my hat, behind the band."

  Waltz peered at her hat. "I can't see it. It's tiny."

  "Miniaturized. The subjects have no idea what I'm doing." Hook 'Em nodded toward the wife. "I'm surprised. She hasn't done anything yet. I wonder when she's going to make her move. I wish she'd get on with it."

  "Maybe she's not interested in picking anybody up. Maybe she just likes to drink beer and listen to the music."

  "Ha." Hook 'Em drummed her fingers on the table and considered the wife. "She was watching us two-step. I bet she'd like to dance with you. Why don't you go over and ask her? I could get some shots of you dancing."

  Waltz put down his beer. "Set her up? When she's not doing anything?"

  "Sure."

  "No way. It's cheating. It's unethical."

  Hook 'Em slugged down some beer. "So you think she's here for a drink? To listen to Tex's Twangers? You know good and well she's here to pick somebody up. She's the cheater."

  "We don't know that. I thought that was what we were here to find out."

  "Her poor husband works nights for a pitiful paycheck that she blows in honkytonks, money she should spend for food and health care for little Johnny and Mary."

  Waltz laughed. "Little Johnny?"

  "Little Johnny is a musical prodigy and begs for piano lessons they can't afford. Little Mary is small for her age due to malnutrition. They could be happy and healthy if she wasn't playing around. I guess you think that's ethical."

  The wife was a bad mother. Still.

  "Well? Do you think that's ethical?"

  "No, but if you're right, why don't we wait till she picks somebody up? You can get your pictures and your job is done. And you've done it right."

  "I've been doing this a long time." She pointed her longneck at the wife. "I know she's a cheater. I can tell. But sometimes it takes several days to catch one. Why don't we speed the process up?"

  Waltz shook his head. "It's not right."

  "The results will be the same anyway."

  "No."

  "I'll have time to get you a passport and you can fly down to Rio, before it's too late."

  "I'm not flying down to Rio. No way."

  "Lala told me you were quite the ladies man. I can't see that at all. You're a wimp with no guts."

  "Lala told you I was a ladies man?"

  "Don't panic. She seemed impressed." Hook 'Em gulped some beer from her longneck. "Not me."

  "You can't goad me into doing this. I don't need t
o prove I'm a great ladies man."

  Hook 'Em leaned forward. She stared into his face. "Maybe you ought to think about this. Texans get pissed when you murder your brother. The death penalty is very popular in Texas - right up there with fighting and fucking."

  She leaned back and tilted her head, gazing upwards. "They strap you to a gurney and jam a needle into your veins. They shoot a drug into you. It stops your breathing. It's like they hold a giant pillow over your face and smother you."

  She leaned over him, arms propped on the table. "You'll be in that pale-green room, jerking and shaking around trying to get a breath that won't come."

  She straightened, closed her fists, and tensed her muscles, like a wrestler showing off to his fans. "You'll be all alone in the cold little room. Through the picture window, your audience will be watching you sucking and jerking."

  She sucked in her cheeks, jumped, and jerked, like a guillotined chicken. "The straps will hold you down and your body won't be able to do anything but suck for air and jerk and dance until it stops sucking and dancing forever."

  She collapsed on the floor, gasping, twisting, jerking.

  Lala would be there crying while she watched him jerk and suck to death, his dying body thrashing a herky-jerky death dance. He bet that Hook 'Em would come to watch. She'd point and jeer and smirk and make fun.

  Hook 'Em slung off the arms of the waitress and several male patrons who lifted her to her feet. "I'm okay, goddamnit. Haven't you ever seen anybody break dance? Go away."

  She brushed herself off. She plopped into her chair and took a nonchalant sip of Lone Star. "What's it going to be?"

  She was right. That's what it would it be like, being put to death, knowing it was all over, knowing that he could do nothing but let them strap him to the gurney and jam the needles in his veins. The poison would flow and he would jerk and thrash and die.

  The woman was a cheater. Hook 'Em knew it. Waltz knew it. They'd get pictures of it either way. Why not speed up the process? Why not get Hook 'Em on his case as fast as possible? "Okay. Okay. I'll ask her to dance." He lurched to his feet. It might be his next-to-last dance. His terminal dance would be the herky-jerky dance in the pale-green room. His knees buckled.

  He couldn't keep his knees from buckling. He couldn't even make them buckle in time to the music. He'd never be able to get a two-step going. He kept picturing himself strapped to the gurney, sucking for breath, dying - dying - really dying. He didn't want to die.