Waltz rushed in. "Is Lala okay?"
A dog growled.
Pain shot through Waltz's ankle. "Cha-Cha."
Jazz danced around Waltz. "He's okay. He didn't die."
As Cha-Cha danced toward the light, did he see a vision of Waltz's ankles? Did that vision lure him back from his near death experience? Like old times, Cha-Cha chewed on Waltz's ankle. Waltz tottered on the leg Cha-Cha gnawed and tried to push him off with the other shoe. "Get him off me."
Laughing, Jazz picked Cha-Cha up. "He's well. Isn't it wonderful?"
***
Jazz walked two strange men out of his office to the door.
They weren't dance students. One wore worker's boots and the other flip-flops, hardly footgear for dancers.
Could one of them be the poisoner? It didn't matter. Jazz was not stupid enough to eat or drink anything offered to him by a stranger, and they were leaving. Waltz wouldn't have to worry about keeping an eye on them.
He had the bar ready for the party. The stereo system played a foxtrot by an English dance orchestra. All the instructors got up and asked students to dance. Jazz's rule required them to dance every dance, each dance with a different student. Many of the students were beginners and didn't dance well. The veterans hated the parties. Waltz could understand the way they felt, but he ached to be on the floor dancing, even with a beginner.
A beautiful woman chatted with Yvette at a table in the corner. Waltz never saw her before. If he didn't have to bartend, he could dance with her.
Despite not being able to dance, he was glad he was the bartender. With him on the job, the poisoner couldn't slip anything into Jazz's drink. Waltz watched the food too, which came from a caterer they used before and trusted. Jazz was his brother. Waltz wasn't going to let anybody kill him.
Jazz carried his drink to the bar, staggering slightly. "Give me another dollop of Scotch."
Waltz dolloped his glass and gave it a quick stir.
Jazz took a taste. "Another little dollop please."
Jazz was adding dollops to an already strong drink and packing a pistol. He raised his glass to Waltz and drank. "Did you take my pistol?"
"You don't have it?"
"I thought maybe you were afraid I might shoot somebody. I thought maybe you took it."
"No, not me." Jazz didn't have his pistol. Good. Waltz's tight body went slack, like a broken guitar string.
"Sure? I may need it."
"No. I didn't take it."
The guy who was out to get Jazz must've taken it. That meant the guy was coming. But why take the pistol if he planned to poison Jazz? The guy must be coming with a knife or a gun, and Jazz had no way to defend himself.
Waltz's body went so tight it jangled.
He should call the cops. And tell them what? That Jazz had no pistol and the bad guy was coming? Tell the Lieutenant that? No way.
Wait. He bet Lala took it. She was smart. You could depend on her.
Lala came to the bar. Jazz put his arm around her. "Lala, go on home. Take the night off. Get a little rest. You've put in a hard week, worrying about money."
"Is okay. I stay for the feast. The caterer bring barbecue ribs. I love ribs."
Jazz peeled back the foil. "Waltz, has anybody but the caterer been around these?"
"No. I kept an eye on them."
Jazz sniffed. "Nice. Those ribs do look good - nice and juicy."
Lala grabbed a plate. "I'm having some right now."
"I'm fixing you a plate. You can take it home and pig out. You can watch a little TV."
"But Jazz."
"I insist. You can spell me next week. We've both been working too hard." He covered the plate with foil. He grabbed Lala's elbow and ushered her out.
Waltz didn't get a chance to ask Lala if she took the gun. He'd have to wonder about it all night.
A half-hour into the party, Gordon arrived, moving gingerly on crutches, out of the hospital only three days after the attack. His boyfriend Ken hovered near, ready to assist.
Jazz rushed over, hugged Gordon, and brought him to the bar. Jazz turned off the music and picked up the microphone. "Sorry to interrupt the dance, but I must announce the return of my good friend, Gordon. Help me welcome him back to the studio."
Jazz started the applause. Gordon got a standing ovation.
Jazz retrieved the microphone. "Welcome back Gordon. The studio will pick up your hospitalization." Everybody applauded. "And I also want to present you with a check for a thousand dollars." Jazz handed Gordon an envelope. More applause.
"I know that no amount of money will make up for the injuries that you suffered, but perhaps it will serve as an emblem of the studio's affection for you. I am so sorry. I can't believe you came down from New York to have this happen. I feel guilty for inviting you down, but I hope you never leave. I here and now offer you a lifetime job supervising instructors. I hope you'll take it." Jazz hugged Gordon. Everybody applauded.
So that was why Jazz sent Lala home. It was a matter of survival. When she heard what Jazz gave away, she'd kill him.
Gordon took the mike. "Thank you, Jazz. You are more than generous. I thank you all for the warm welcome back. You've made me feel much better." He received another tremendous round of applause. Jazz signaled. Waltz started the music.
***
The party was a good one. Even Gordon was having a good time, drinking heavily.
Everybody was dancing. Waltz saw some great moves from his vantage point at the bar. He tried to memorize some of the other dancers' steps. Later he would get a partner and practice them, work them out, get them smooth, steal them.
"Hello, sexy."
Startled, Waltz turned his head from the dancers. "Rachel."
"Don't look so surprised. Jazz fired me, but that doesn't mean I can't come to the parties. The studio is open to the public. I'd ask you to dance if you didn't have to slave away getting everybody drunk."
She danced solo across the room to Jazz's table. She pulled out a chair and chatted amiably. Jazz didn't seem to intimidate her.
A slow bluesy West Coast swing began to play, the kind that Waltz loved to dance. Rachel took Jazz's hand and pulled him onto the floor.
Jazz made a nice target on the dance floor. Would the psycho take the opportunity to shoot Jazz? Would the psycho accidentally shoot Rachel? Waltz scanned the audience, watching for someone with a gun.
Waltz alternatively scrutinized the onlookers and watched Rachel and Jazz dance, admiring their skill. Jazz was smooth as an ice skater. His knees, his ankles, and his feet worked like shock absorbers to avoid any bounce. His feet caressed the floor, at one with it.
Everyone cleared the floor to watch. The audience applauded as Rachel and Jazz performed spectacular moves. Near the end of the number, Jazz led Rachel past him on his left side and sent her into a spin. He spun twice to the left. He undulated into a ripple and shimmied to the last measure of the song. He phrased it perfectly. As the music faded, he allowed his body to sag gradually to the floor. He laid there as though the emotion of the dance exhausted him.
Waltz admired the new move. Nice finish. The audience applauded and whistled. Rachel bowed to the crowd. She turned and applauded Jazz.
Waltz relaxed. The guy missed a perfect chance to shoot Jazz. Jazz was safe for the evening.
He was still on the floor, milking the applause. He was a champion show off.
No. Jazz's drop to the floor left his leg bent under him in an awkward position. Waltz ran onto the floor. He straightened Jazz's leg and kneeled over him. Jazz was unconscious. "Someone call 911."
Jazz was breathing. He had a pulse, though Waltz could barely feel it. "Call 911. Where's Doc?"
Rachel helped Doc to Jazz's side. Doc staggered and stank of whiskey. He bent over Jazz and fell on him. Rachel and Waltz helped Doc up.
Doc mumbled. "It's a heart attack. Or maybe a stroke - or something. Maybe diabetes. Call an ambulance."
Waltz's mind was working in slow motion.
How did the guy poison Jazz? Waltz was watching. The guy did it again, just like he poisoned Cha-Cha. Neither time did Waltz see anybody put anything in their drinks. Waltz let the guy poison Jazz. Why hadn't he been more vigilant?
Jazz was dying. What would the studio do without him? What would Waltz do without him? Jazz always took care of Waltz.
In return, Waltz gave Jazz a hard time. Waltz should've stopped smoking. He should've gone back to school full time. He should've done a better job of watching out for the poisoner. "Don't die, Jazz. I love you."
***
Waltz and Doc followed the ambulance. At the hospital, Doc tried to accompany the medics into the emergency room. The doctor had an orderly turn Doc back and hustle him to the waiting room, where he passed out, snoring in a chair, mumbling and drooling.
How could it happen? It was unbelievable that Jazz could die.
Jazz wouldn't die. It was probably a minor heart attack. Nothing more. It was nothing. It wasn't even a minor heart attack. Maybe he passed out. Yes, that was it. He'd been drinking heavily, for Jazz. The same thing happened to Jazz as happened to Doc.
Doc passed out. The only difference was, Doc happened to be in a chair when he went unconscious. They didn't put him in the emergency room. Jazz passed out while dancing. What difference did it make what you were doing when you passed out? Jazz would be okay in the morning. He would have a tremendous hangover. That was all.
Lala hurried in. She held her hand out for a cigarette. "How is he?"
Waltz shook out a cigarette. "They took him into emergency. Nobody's come out yet."
She blew out smoke. "How is possible for the poisoner to get him?"
Waltz took her hand and patted it. "It wasn't the poisoner. Jazz was drinking heavy. He's not used to that. He just passed out on the dance floor. He'll be okay."
"Here come the doctor."
The doctor shook his head. "It's an overdose of sleeping pills and alcohol."
Waltz's knees sagged. He felt empty - and weak. The same thing that almost killed Cha-Cha. It happened again. How? How did the guy do it? Waltz watched everybody that went near Jazz. At least, he thought he had. He let the guy poison Jazz. It was Waltz's fault. "Is he going to die?"
"He's in bad shape. He's in a coma. The odds are he won't make it."
Waltz hugged Lala. Maybe it wasn't a hug. Maybe he was using her to hold himself up. His eyes welled and he began to cry. He couldn't help himself.
The doctor cleared his throat and raised his voice over the sobs. "There's nothing you can do here. Go home. Get a good night's rest. Come back in the morning. Maybe there'll be a miracle."
Tears streamed down Waltz's face. Lala and Waltz hugged, holding each other up.
Lala pushed him back. "Come on. Let's go home."
They walked toward the door. She stopped when they got to Doc and took a deep breath. "We must take Doc home. He too drunk to drive."
Waltz helped her pull Doc out of his chair. Doc sagged and mumbled. They got on either side of him and put his arms over their necks, but his arms slithered down their bodies like snakes. His knees buckled in every direction. They were dancing with a drunk.
Waltz sighed. "This isn't going to work." He picked Doc up and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of rice. He carried him out and dumped him into the backseat of Lala's car.
Lala opened her car door, eyes stunned, staring at Doc in the backseat.
Waltz reached for a cigarette, then remembered. Jazz hated smoking. Waltz crumpled the package and flung it into the trash can. He'd never smoke again.
And he was going to get the guy that poisoned Jazz. Waltz knew what Jazz would do. He'd hire Hook 'Em and go after the guy. Much as Waltz hated to, he would hire her.
He'd been going at it all wrong. The phone was no way to approach a wiseass. He'd confront her in person. He should've done it to begin with. Maybe they would've caught the guy before he poisoned Jazz.
Yes, he'd approach her face-to-face and ignore her wiseass barrage. No, that was a mistake too. He wouldn't confront her. He'd sidle up to her. Since she did only divorce work, that's what he'd give her.
***
They went in Lala's house from the garage.
Before Waltz could assume his crouching posture, Cha-Cha was on him, nipping at his sore ankle. Waltz pushed at him with his other foot. "Get him off me."
Lala scooped Cha-Cha up and cuddled him. "I no understand why Cha-Cha hate you."
"I don't understand why people love Chihuahuas so much."
"They are one superior dog, bred in Mexico, you know."
"I love Mexico. It produces mangoes, mariachi music, and beautiful women, but it failed with the Chihuahua, the worst dog breed ever conceived, with the exception of the pit bull, which is just a big Chihuahua, a Chihuahua on 'roids, big enough to back up its nasty temper."
"Waltz no like poor little Cha-Cha. Poor little thing." She put Cha-Cha in the garage.
She came back and set out two wine glasses. She plinked one with her fingernail and listened to it chime. "These wine glasses are real crystal. I got eight of them at Goodwill for a dollar." She poured them some champagne. She put a couple of potatoes in the microwave and two filet mignons on the grill.
Waltz sipped champagne and watched her. "It took you awhile to get Doc sober."
"Sorry you have to wait. But you enjoy playing pool on his big table, no?"
"Yeah, it's a great table."
"I pour much coffee into him. He drunk like cockroach. No get him sober. Just less drunk. Enough so he able to tell me of the party." She flipped the steaks. "Is too bad Jazz will die, but why he promise to pay for Gordon's hospital and give him a check for a thousand dollars? He will break the studio from his grave."
Waltz put down his glass. "Do you really think he'll die?"
"Yes. He will die." She pulled a giant bag of spring mix out of the fridge and dumped some into two bowls. She crumbled some blue cheese into each bowl and spooned in sour cream. "What will we do about the thousand dollars?"
Waltz collapsed on a barstool. "I can't believe that we're actually saying the words. I can't believe that we're talking about Jazz dying."
The microwave dinged. Lala split the potatoes and placed them on platters. "Is possible to keep Gordon from the cashing of the check?"
Waltz carried the salad bowls to the kitchen table. "I'll stop payment in the morning."
Lala forked the fillets onto the platters and put them on the table. "Is nice to have you to help. You know these things. We must run the studio now. Jazz would want it."
Lala cut up her potato and mashed it flat with her fork. She slathered it with butter and covered it with some of her homemade salsa. "Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat. You eat at the party?"
"I was too busy. Then Jazz collapsed."
"Pour more champagne. You are hungry. I cook it for you." Lala didn't hesitate when she ate. She was halfway through.
The fillets sizzled. The smell of grilled meat wafted to Waltz's nostrils. He cut off a bit of the fillet. He chewed it. It was tender and juicy. His stomach demanded more. He forked in a big chunk. While he chewed, he fixed his potato the same as Lala's. She was ahead of him, but he was so hungry he thought he might catch up.
They didn't speak while they ate. He should've timed them. It might've been a new world's record. Lala took away the platters and served fresh strawberries with cream for dessert. The sweet tartness of the berries and the richness of the cream exploded on his tongue. What was wrong with him? How could he eat with his brother on his deathbed?
After dinner, he felt much better. Lala was too pessimistic. Jazz would live. He was tough. He would survive - just like Cha-Cha. Alcohol and sleeping pills didn't kill him.
Lala paused at the stereo. "I will play my new tango CD, Amoroso Adultero & His Argentinian Adulterers." She sat on the couch and patted the cushion next to her. Waltz joined her. She leaned back against the arm of the couch and curled her legs und
er her. Her short skirt rode up to mid thigh. "You know, we make much money at the studio if we do it right. We need to cut expenses."
Her legs were long and smooth and her knees had cute little dimples.
"No problem." He knew Lala would want to cut expenses. What did it matter? Jazz would be back in a couple of weeks.
She smiled. Her lips pouted even when she smiled. "I am glad you agree. I see one great future for the studio." She held out her glass.
Waltz clicked it. They drank.
He set his glass on the coffee table. "Jazz won't die. He can't."
Lala pivoted on the couch and slid closer to Waltz. Her skirt moved higher up her legs. If only she wasn't his sister-in-law. No, he couldn't think like that.
She reached toward him. "Take my hand."
Waltz squeezed her hand. It was warm and soft and squeezed back. He could depend on her. Together they would save the studio. Things would be great for Jazz when he got out of the hospital. Waltz blinked back tears. "We'll be okay. Don't worry. We'll cut expenses. I promise. We'll cut expenses to the bone. We'll fire Gordon."
She looked into his eyes, her face close to his. "We will make much money. We will be one magnificent team."
He broke the look and fumbled for his glass, almost knocking it over. He picked it up, thumped it, and listened to the ping. "These are great glasses. I can't believe you got eight for a dollar."
Lala put her lips over the rim of her glass. They pouted around the rim. "Is the same kind the rich people in Guadalajara have. I love to feel the delicate glass in my mouth." She took a sip. "Put it deep in your mouth. Feel?"
The rim of his glass was so thin, it felt like it might shatter in his mouth. "You're right. It wouldn't be the same, drinking champagne from a mug."
"Run your tongue around the rim. Feel the bubbles."
He ran his tongue around the rim. It was cold but the bubbles felt hot as they burst up the glass onto his tongue.
She squeezed his hand and placed it on her breast.
That couldn't be right.
He squeezed. It was right.
He placed his glass on the coffee table. He didn't want to spill the champagne when he got up to go home.
She slithered close. Her lips pouted and touched his softly, like a butterfly, then fluttered away - but they came back, soft and warm.
He felt the softness of her breast. The tango swelled. He felt its rhythm as it climbed toward the one beat to start the eight-beat sequence again.
Drink, Dance, Divorce Page 7
