Stanley Elkin - The Franchiser

He had not looked at the books but had a pretty good notion of how things were. He could tell from the music — or lack of it — that business was bad. In the old days he could stand in the Office of Admissions and hear fox-trot, bossa nova, cha-cha, waltz, polka, rhumba, and tango rhythms coming from record players in the private instruction studios. It had been like being in a bazaar where many tongues were spoken. Now only the “Carousel Waltz” wafted through the thin wallboard of one of the private instruction studios. After sitting a moment he got up and went back into the Office of Admissions.

“For God’s sake,” he told Luis, his Latin rhythms instructor, who was working the switchboard, “it’s like a morgue in there. Why isn’t there any music in the ballroom?”

“Overhead.”

“Suppose the phone rings? If there were music the caller would hear it in the background. He might think something’s happening here.”

“I got that FM you brung last time. It’s tuned to this all-music station, just like you said. If the phone rings I turn it on.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t a good idea. Suppose there’s a commercial? I think we should go back to the old system.”

“Sure, Mr. Flesh. What do you want to hear?”

“What is it, you do requests? I don’t care. It’s too quiet. Turn on the stereo. Where’s Clara?”

“Clara’s still back there with the waltzer.”

“And Hope and Jenny? Where’s Al?” Al was his other male instructor.

“Jenny and Hope are around somewhere. I think they’re doing each other’s hair for the gala. You want me to get them?”

“No, the phone might ring. How many do we expect at the gala tonight?”

“Gee, Mr. Flesh, I can’t say. There’s the Fishers, they’ll be here. Runley said he was coming. Johnson and—”

“You can name them? My God, you can name them? It’s bad as that? That’s terrible.”

Luis nodded.

“Where’s Al?”

“Al went to get cookies for the gala.”

“Cookies.”

“It’s pretty quiet, Mr. Flesh. The old people stay in their condominiums. Those buildings got social directors who teach them the steps. A lot are afraid to come downtown. It’s different times, Mr. Flesh.”

Flesh nodded. “Here,” he said. He took his Diners Club card out of his wallet. “Run down to Fritzel’s. Have them make up a tray of sliced turkey. Get roast beef, too. Rare. Tell them rare. Make it so we can serve at least fifty people.”

“There won’t be no fifty people, Mr. Flesh,” Luis said.

“They can take what’s left over in fucking doggy bags!” Flesh roared. “I’m feeding fifty people! The gala’s at nine, right?”

“Nine, yes, sir. Nine.”

“It’s not yet eight. All right, give the guy ten bucks. Let him bring the stuff over and set it up for us. When you’re through at Fritzel’s, cross over to Don the Beachcomber and have them do us some hot hors d’oeuvres. They deliver?”

“No, sir, and Don the Beachcomber ain’t no take-out joint either, Mr. Flesh.”

“Luis,” Flesh said, “I got five people working for me — you, Clara, Al, Jenny, and Hope. One is off somewhere buying cookies and two are having their hair done. Now if a busy guy like me with a hot commercial property like the Fred Astaire Dance Studio can let his personnel crap around on company time, Mr. Beachcomber can send someone in a rickshaw with the hors d’oeuvres. Here, give him twenty bucks. I want the stuff at nine-thirty. Liquor, what about liquor?”

“We ain’t licensed, Mr. Flesh.”

“I ain’t selling, Trini, I’m giving it away. Martinis. Scotch. Bourbon. And plenty of ice. I don’t want to run out of ice.”

“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.”