Free The Franchiser by Stanley Elkin

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    “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