Free The Franchiser by Stanley Elkin Page A

folded the slips gently into their hands. He made it sound as reasonable as he could, hinting, though not stating outright, that it was a business proposition. If people thought it would cost them a dollar or two, they were more likely to trust you. He was very careful about whom he approached. Some he asked to go on ahead and others he asked to wait with him, telling them he would be fifteen more minutes at most.
    They came into the lobby of the Great Northern. They held their shopping bags from Stop and Shop and their green parcels from Marshall Field’s.
    “You let in the ones with the slips, didn’t you, Henry?” he asked the night man.
    “Yes, sir,” Henry said.
    “Good,” Flesh said. “I’ll be responsible for these folks,” he told the man. He turned to his group. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I think we’re going to have to use all three elevators tonight. Henry, would you unlock the other two, please?”
    Henry did as he was asked and Ben carefully directed people to specific elevators. “I’ll ride up,” he said to those he had not assigned an elevator, “with you people.” He was the last one in. “That’s all right,” he said, “smoke if you got ’em.”
    The people from the other elevators were waiting for him on the seventh floor. “Good,” he said, greeting them. “Can you hear it? It’s just as I said.” He cocked his head down the corridor in the direction of the ballroom. “Please,” he said, “follow me.” They went in single file toward the music. “Already,” he said, calling back to them over his shoulder as they passed the barber shop, “we’re a sort of conga line. That’s the spirit.” He kicked back with his right leg. He held the ballroom doors open for them.
    The spherical chandelier with its adhesive strips of seamed mirrors spun slow as a device in a planetarium, throwing its romantic galaxies against the walls and ceiling and on the seven or eight pairs of dancers on the big dance floor—focusing purples, greens, yellows, blues, and reds, sliding across shoes, jackets, gowns, and arms, and dilating to wider, indescribable colors. Revolving discs of light around the room lasered the chandelier. Clara danced with a serviceman, Al, Hope, and Jenny with regulars Flesh remembered from his last visit. Three older couples moved expertly to “The Night Was Made for Love.” They were like the surprisingly graceful, aged ice skaters one sees on public rinks. He wondered if they had learned their stuff here. Several people sat along the walls in chairs near the high columns of smoked mirrors. Luis and the Fritzel’s and Don the Beachcomber men were fussing over the meats and hors d’oeuvres at a long linen-covered table. A man Flesh could not account for tended bar.
    The song ended and Clara turned toward the stage, where the sound system was, and led the applause. “Very good,” she said over the applause. “It may seem ridiculous to applaud a recording, but I want you all to get into the habit of clapping for the band, so that when we go on our outings to Pewaukee or the Café of Tomorrow and a real band is playing, you’ll just do it automatically. It’s very important actually. Musicians are human and if they know you appreciate what they’re doing, they’ll put that much more liveliness and effort into their playing. Remember, people, a dancer is only as good as his accompaniment. You people on the chairs,” she said, “now even though you sat out the last dance I want to hear you applaud also.”
    “Why’s that?” one of the seated women asked.
    “That’s a very good question, Mrs. Gringer,” Clara said. “Do any of you students know the answer to that? Mr. Clone?”
    “To show you’re polite?”
    “Well,” Clara said, “it shows that, too, of course, but there’s an even more important reason—Mrs. Lamboso?”
    “Well, if you’re sitting down while everyone else is dancing, they might think you’re a wallflower or too shy