Drink, Dance, Divorce

by Charles Alworth

  As they entered, he pointed at the old storeroom. "Look at this combination office and apartment I've built."

  She glanced at it. She held out her hand, palm up. "Let's have the money."

  He reached into his front pocket and pulled out his billfold. He extracted a wad of bills and placed them in her hand. "It's only three hundred. I'm sorry. It's all I have. But I'll get more."

  She stared at it. Her face showed disappointment. "Thanks so much." She folded it slowly and tucked it into her jeans pocket. "You had it all along."

  "You didn't notice, did you? A small flat wallet creates a much better profile in the front pocket. I must have the drape."

  "Why didn't you pay me back at the trailer?"

  "I wanted you to see my new digs."

  "You double crossed me again."

  "It was just a little trick. I had to get you here." He grabbed her arm and escorted her into the office. "I'm proud of this. I built it myself."

  "You, a carpenter?"

  "I don't deface library property. They still allow me in. I checked out a book on carpentry. You can learn how to poison somebody from a book. You can learn anything."

  She walked through the office and into the apartment. "Nice. Fit for a king. How can you afford this?"

  "Lease with an option to buy. A lot of people went broke operating it as a bar. I got the place cheap."

  She stopped and studied his face. "You got the insurance money, didn't you?"

  "No, that went down the drain when I turned in the video. I have my own business. I fix computers. I go to people's houses. I have no overhead. I teach dancing in the evenings, Rachel and me. This place has a bigger and better dance floor, and it's one-story. We won't have to carry Lala across the plank next time."

  "There won't be any next time."

  "Things are going well. I have most of my old students back, now that they know I'm not a murderer. As owner of the studio, I pocket the whole fee, not just a chunk."

  "Congratulations. I'm glad you're doing well. I could've been rich. Instead, I'm homeless. But don't worry about me. I'm very resourceful. I know a good bridge."

  Waltz took her wrist, pulled her to the bar, and turned on the "Fred and Ginger Cha-Cha."

  Cha-Cha trotted out from behind the bar onto the dance floor, coat glistening, muscles rippling.

  "How darling." Hook 'Em perched on a barstool to watch. "He's dancing."

  "It's more an illusion of a dance. Of course, all dancing depends on illusion."

  "What dance is he doing?"

  "Some call it cha-cha."

  "How cute!" She picked Cha-Cha up and placed him on the bar. She whipped her bandanna out of her back pocket and tied it on him. "He looks great. He's lean."

  "I've got him on raw grass-fed meat. He likes buffalo best, and sometimes a little goat. No beer. He hasn't slipped once. He's the best recovering alcoholic ever."

  "That's wonderful."

  "He hasn't attended one AA meeting. He doesn't need to. He does well on his own. Of course, it's easier for him. He has no money - and I hid his opener."

  She picked Cha-Cha up and put him on the floor. He ran to his bowl, clamped it in his jaw, carried it to Hook 'Em, and set it at her feet.

  Waltz slapped the bar in disgust. "I can't believe it. He's been dry eight months, and now he wants beer." Waltz grabbed the bowl and put it on the bar. "Don't enable him. He can't handle it."

  Cha-Cha growled at Waltz.

  "That's funny. He never growls at me or bites me any more."

  "He's a good boy." Hook 'Em kneeled and patted him. "Aren't you a good boy?" Cha-Cha charged at Waltz and bit him on the ankle.

  "Ouch." Waltz fended Cha-Cha off with the left toe of his shoe, the one with the white R. "Get his leash, over there behind the bar."

  Hook 'Em put the leash on Cha-Cha, laughed, and pulled him back. She picked him up and petted him. "Don't you hurt that wimp, you mean thing you."

  Waltz couldn't believe it. Give Cha-Cha a fancy bandanna and an adoring new girlfriend and he was ready to start guzzling beer again and chewing on Waltz's ankles. Waltz pointed at the storeroom behind the bar. "Put him in there."

  Hook 'Em deposited Cha-Cha in the room and closed the door. "You're safe now, Wimp."

  What was the average lifespan of a Chihuahua, twelve years? Cha-Cha was five. Maybe Waltz could survive seven years. But - what was the average lifespan of a Hook 'Em? Maybe he'd better not do this.

  He had to. Annoying as she was, she was his best friend. She saved his life. And he screwed her out of her fee. "Hand me that drill, there on the bar. Follow me." He led her back to the door of the apartment. He picked up the sign and screwed it to the door, Harns Domestic Investigations.

  "You're not homeless anymore. The apartment is yours, rent-free, until I pay you off at twelve hundred a month."

  "What?"

  "Office, too. There's no zoning. They can't kick you out no matter what you do."

  "I don't think I want a roommate - not you, anyway."

  He patted the sign. "I can't take it down. Those are permanent screws."

  "It's permanently screwed?"

  "No, I'm permanently screwed."

  "There's no such thing as - "

  He pointed across the hall. "You won't be my roommate. I'm going to build a separate apartment for myself. It'll be across the hall from this one, but don't worry. You can bring in a locksmith to install the finest locks, on me. You'll be the only one to have the key."

  She reset her hat. "I don't know..."

  He nodded toward the dance floor. "Look at that floor. It draws students like flies. I'll feed you plenty of dancers who want divorces. You'll feed me your new singles who want to meet someone through dancing. We'll get rich. I'll set up your website and email to run through my special spam-removing program, guaranteed to screen out sadists and penis-enlargement ads."

  She smiled. "Excellent, I was beginning to take those penis-enlargement things personally."

  "The bad thing is you're going to have to paint the outside of the building. That's part of the deal. I'm thinking about burnt orange, with maybe a slogan of some sort in white, something snappy, like Hook 'Em Aggies."

  She stomped the floor. "You got me kicked out of the library. You must supply cable TV."

  "Agreed."

  "You take my stake outs."

  Waltz hesitated. "As long as it doesn't interfere with my teaching."

  "I got one tomorrow night. You relieve me at nine."

  "I got a student at nine."

  "It's important. I got a gig with a band. Change her to another time."

  He knew he shouldn't do it, but he owed her. "Well... okay, but forty dollars an hour against my balance."

  "Forty! I can't make any money like that. Thirty."

  "Well, OK."

  "Interest at twenty-two percent."

  "That's as much as a credit card."

  "I know."

  Waltz stomped the floor. "No way. I'll go one percent, no more."

  "I got to have twenty-two."

  "Then the deal is off." He grabbed her arm and urged her toward the exit. "Come on. I'll take you back to your trailer."

  "Okay, one percent."

  "I owe you a hundred-and-one thousand. That includes your expenses. One percent on that, not one percent of half the insurance money, eight hundred thousand. I never agreed to screw the insurance company. That was you and Lala."

  "Hmm."

  "No, not hmm. One percent on hundred-and-one."

  "What else?" She paused. "Let me think."

  "No thinking. That's enough."

  "Dance lessons."

  "You want dance lessons?"

  She nodded.

  She'd expect him to dance with her. He'd have a lesbian partner. He hesitated. He owed her. "Okay."

  She propped her elbow on one hand and her chin in the other. "Let me think."

  "No more thinking. It makes me nervous. That's the deal. He went behind the bar and
flicked a switch. "Come outside."

  They went out front. He took her near the big neon sign. "Watch. It's not so clear in the sun, but you can see it."

  The sign blazed a big red Honkytonk and underneath blinked blue, blue, blue: Drink, Dance, Divorce, Drink, Dance, Divorce.

  Waltz mimicked a harmonica: ta-DA! "The Divorce is for you and your business."

  "Hook 'Em!" She threw up a two-handed Hook 'Em sign.

  He grabbed her arm and ushered her back into the ballroom. He went behind the bar, reached down, and clicked his mouse. Music filled the Honkytonk.

  She tilted her head. "Tex Hank has a CD?"

  "Didn't you know? It's big. Been on top of the charts for months. It's called Tex Hank, the Yodeling Masochist. It's got his new hit single: 'Lashed by the Bullwhip of Life.'"

  "Tex Hank, on top of the charts. I can't believe it."

  "He's got you to thank."

  "Me?"

  Waltz read from the CD case. "Videos taken by a private eye in a Texas divorce, gone viral on YouTube, rocketed Tex Hank to country stardom. Music historians proclaim him the greatest masochist ever in country music."

  "Wow, the greatest masochist ever in country music. That's saying a lot! Let me see that." She grabbed the case and studied it. "Other cuts include 'You Ran Me Down With Your Double-Wide and Repossessed My Heart,' and 'Just When I Thought You Loved Me You Showed Up Without Your Whip.' She put her hand over her heart. "Raw emotion - that's what makes a good country song. I can hardly wait to hear those."

  "This one's still my favorite. Shall we dance?" He held out his arms.

  She stepped into them. Slow, slow, quick, quick. Slow, slow, quick, quick. They two-stepped around the floor to "I Cheated on My Baby."

  About the Author

  I'm a former ballroom dance instructor and accounting professor who's finally seen the light. I've given up such frivolities and taken up writing about my favorite subjects: murder, revenge, divorce, and dance. I live in Austin with my imaginary friend, Cuddles.

  Thank you for reading Drink, Dance, Divorce. If you enjoyed it, please leave a review on Amazon. I'm currently working on a sequel entitled Dance of the Yodeling Masochist.

  I love hearing from my readers. Write me here: charlesalworth@gmail.com.