Dance Hall Reels
Thomas Stultz

Number twenty-four started to run through badly. The number was a paper sign pinned on the back of a dancer as he jacked his partner along the ballroom floor, taking full advantage of the space the other dancers left them. Number twenty-four, and twenty-five, ended up alone amidst the circle of clapping contestants and onlookers. Silently they danced, twisting and jerking—caught in a grainy sixteen-millimeter projection, pulsing on a stained wall of a one-room studio. The picture weakened as the setting sun eventually fought its way through the drawn curtain of the sole window. Smoke from baloney frying in a pan wafted across the beam, blurring 25 just as her partner lifted her up above his head. 24 drops her down, swinging through his legs inches above the floor, then pulls her upright into a quick spin. There’s jazz on the radio, the tune matches the dancers’ rhythm at chance moments amid the pops from the baloney and the clacking of the projector.
Archie, satisfied with the crispness of his meat, piled it onto a plastic plate and sopped up the grease with three slices of white bread. The projector spun out the end of the reel, slapping a little tongue of film for a few revolutions before Archie snatched the projector’s cord from the wall with a tug of his foot. Laden with his plate, a bottle of whisky and a paper cup, he took a few shuffling steps to the jazz before plopping down on the couch for his 7 p. m. breakfast.
Laid out on a milk crate, used as a coffee table, was the base of a pool cue wrapped near the bottom with duct tape. He kicked it back and forth with a bare foot, and before it fell to the floor he snatched it up, crossed the worn carpet and used it to prop open the window. A humid ocean breeze thick with the smell of the docks crept in the screenless opening. The air was laced with dead ocean life, choked amongst the polluted waters of the piers. Still, it was fresh to Archie's nose over the funk in the studio.
A trophy, topped by a gold-plated miniature couple, wobbled on a bookcase near the window. It was the only one of a dozen left, won from the very contest he had just watched. The case used to be filled, and as he poured another two fingers of whisky he lamented pawning them all over the years—some for a drink, a meal, the last for a few packs of cigarettes. He’ll be in another dance tonight, but for this kind there won’t be a number pinned to his shirt. He’ll comb back his hair in the pompadour he loves, drink down half the bottle to get the band playing in his head, and zip the .38 in his jacket pocket. If only the judges in this life won’t be harsh, as they were with number twenty-five—Linda, his wife, he’ll keep on dancing this dance.
Last time he was cruising in his Delta beater he noticed a joint that looked good to hit. A one-room bar made from the receiving area of an old warehouse, with a stained red drape closing off the back. Looked run down. He even went in during the day and had a whisky with a pony beer chaser. Old broad with a beehive behind the bar, he appreciated her for that. Linda used to wear one until she found it got in the way of their moves. Only about three or four other patrons in the place, but he noticed the package counter across the way had a swinging door business. The bar was just a few blocks down from a waste management plant, and as the trucks left for the morning all the crews made it their ritual stop, and back again in the afternoon. Not much cash over the bar from the drinkers, but the counter sold enough in beef jerky to pay the rent—never mind the booze profit. The place wasn’t open late because it was open early. It was there in the morning for guys getting off the skeleton crew at 7:00 am, also an oasis in a dry-bed of industrial parks for those who needed it when they woke up. He cruised by on a Thursday at 10:00 p.m. Light on inside, but the accordion bars were across the door, lock open and hanging from the hasp—just there to say we’re closed. What’s left except the broad inside counting up the money? He knew how to do it. Get himself inside just before the receipts went into the safe, and he’d have himself a fifth of Brandy to celebrate another few weeks of rent and baloney. He’d been waiting for a Friday—Payday for the haulers.
The sun setting gently and another whisky, lets run the reel one more time. He stretched into his black dance shoes—after all, what’s robbery if it ain’t just another dance? Now let’s just be-bop down to the Delta.
He had to keep himself high, run through trouble that might happen: The Delta refusing to start? Get the sweet jazz popping in his head and he could run a flat mile—take the bus home, the Delta wasn’t under his name. Cops? He never hit joints along regular cruising routes, only cop he ever ran into was an off-duty, piss drunk at the bar. The guy got excited to help and tried to slip out his gun, but his heart started up pumping all that booze that rested in his gut right upstairs. Archie noticed his wobbly feet, and he put himself inside of them just like he was his dance partner. He gave him a side-flip like they were doing the Lindy Hop, except he didn’t leave his hands in to catch him. Archie thought it was just a toughie who packed his own, wanting to go up against a would-be-robber who only brandished a sawed off pool cue and patted his jacket pocket like it concealed a piece. Didn’t even know it was a cop until he searched his wallet for his cash and found his badge. He cringed at the sight of it, but the cop’s thirty-eight has been in his service ever since. And behind the bar? Wouldn’t put it past the broad to have a .22 or some kind of ladies’ machine—nothing like the shotguns and Mac 10’s he’d seen lately. This Friday night was going to float by. Such an easy job, his only worry was that some other Joe wouldn’t be cleaning it out before he got there.
A little radio tuning in the Delta and he was in luck. Duke Ellington on the left side of the dial. This piece was a little somber, straight big house jazz, but he didn’t mind a little peace. He had plenty of tapes back home when the job was done.
Pulling up around the corner everything was square. The bars weren’t drawn yet, but he didn’t hear the jukebox’s squall, thank god. That thing was packed up with Honky-Tonk for the haulers and Polkas for the night crew. He checked the thirty-eight, and zipped it into his sharkskin jacket. It was too small for him now, but knew it looked just as good as one he'd have bought back in the forties. The rear-view mirror gave him his eyes—too much, and he pulled out a comb and brought down the duck’s ass of his pompadour to give himself a little more cover. He snapped a little rhythm to himself and bolted out of the Delta, performing a couple of steps on the way. At these times he got himself so pumped up on the beat in his head that he practically sang out his demands when he got into the joint.
Almost quiet at the front- something stirring in there. He told himself to keep up an eye, and then he was in.
There she was in all her glory, blue gelled fluorescent light from the back-bar tracing a glow around her, lighting up her gray beehive for all it was worth. Cigarette burning between her back teeth as if it were a piece of hard candy she was about to chomp down on. He noticed the counter across from the bar was dark behind him, and the register drawer hung out, empty. It was good to have the money in one place. He bopped right up to the bar, unzipped his jacket pocket, and put his palm around his rod. She looked pissed off. He knew she was a cranky one, a few decades of pouring and listening would do it to anyone. He thought she might be a little surprised- but she just worked the cigarette around to the front of her mouth and sucked. Archie gave her that moment, then went to work.
"Baby, I got something to tell you and I don’t want you to take it personally." Work into it nice and easy Archie, don’t give her a heart attack.
Smoke streamed out of her nostrils and without letting the cigarette slip she knocked her head towards the curtain.
"Party’s in back. I ain’t servin nobody up here," she spoke around her cigarette.
A cymbal and a kick drum started a rolling beat, and applause began to stutter. Archie felt his grip lock around the pistol and he whipped his head towards the red curtain.
Noise from an amplifier, squelched down to a thin white voice.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to swing night, down in the park." Alto sax notes filled the back room, quickly backed up by a trumpet- the curtain stirring, concealed activity brought to life. Archie heard a dozen or so chairs scraping back, and the floor began to vibrate under his heels.
The matron behind the bar swiveled back to her business. Archie released his grip from the pistol, zipped it away in his pocket. The door swung open behind him, and from around his back strutted a young couple. The guy was in cuffed Levis, white cotton shirt with a big collar. His hair dyed black, and greased up to a point where it dripped. The girl, in some thrift-store poodle skirt and bobbie socks peaked over her shoulder as they moved around him. Gave him a smile as she was pulled through the curtain.
Archie followed them through, stepped into what used to be a receiving dock wall to wall with a painted-up crowd. Further down to the end somebody knocked together a low stage where a combo just began the set.
All the kids around him, posturing and preening—their get-ups were trying to be authentic, but they weren’t all the way there. They looked like they got their ideas from costumes in a movie about Archie’s old scene. Beyond that, they all looked dirty—like that was a part of the look.
The girls had faces powdered to a clean whiteness, in order to sharply define the spidery black eye lashes and bright red lips. Tattoos everywhere, even on the ladies. He saw pairs of dice, slinky black cats, and a kid near the door who stopped everyone on the way in with a blue flame-job running up both arms. They were trying to look the part, but they more resembled pissed-off vets, convicts, and whores who stumbled into a jook joint through the side door during prohibition.
There was a certain seediness to the whole big band ballroom life back in Archie’s day. They went out for lewd, wild dances copied from blacks and zoot suited Mexicans. Those dances full of steps thrown like sexual advances, moves their white fathers would never dream of doing, and that was the point. Where they danced were in neighborhoods full of the culture the dancing sprang from, where they weren’t supposed to be. Along with it came late nights. Smoking, pulling from bottles of this or that in the john. Archie would blow reefers with the band—but never during a competition, Archie took them seriously after Linda began taking him seriously.
Linda and Archie met at the clubs. Attracted to each other enough to become dance partners, then danced together enough to become lovers. What started as a little rebellion and some good times, became a passion. Archie and Linda were good. Started making some money in marathons and contests, travelling from Atlanta to Kansas City to Birmingham. They became known in the South. Linda said their life was like a dance move—your partner above you, behind you, up in the air twisting. Crazy, but he was always there holding her hands, ready to catch her. They told them they were the best, and Archie knew it was time to step it up.
They made a big move out to Los Angles. Linda was scared at first, but Archie held her hand, told her to close her eyes. Spun her around and let her go—said, "Darlin’ —home is where the dance floor is. That’s where we live now sugar. When you stop spinning, open your eyes and I’ll be there. It don’t matter if you’re spinning in Atlanta, or here in el-ay, I’m there when you open them."
Archie liked the band’s beat, closed his eyes to it for a moment with a head nod, letting his head get lost. When he opened them he shot out his arms, as if Linda were about to fall into them. Another couple sauntered around him in the doorway, and he watched the girl slip a twenty to the pasty kid with the flames. He wrapped it around a huge roll of the same. The kid noticed Archie staring, and gave him a smile.
"S’okay pops. Don’t worry about the cover, we’re loving your look—just don’t have a heart attack out there tonight." He gave the thumbs up, and Archie moved inside. The sight of so much cash had Archie pawing his pistol through his jacket. His eyes started combing the place. One fire exit in the back, and a crowd of kids that weren’t watching anything except their feet trip through half-assed dance steps. The only muscle was the Flame-job’s partner, an Asian guy about 250 pounds, mostly fat. Nothing the thirty-eight wouldn’t scare off.
Archie moved through the crowd circling the dance floor, drawing stares. Most of them smiled, and slapped the backs of their buddies, pointing out Archie’s getup and age. Left of the stage, Archie found a makeshift bar and planted himself. He watched the kids dancing. Some just going through the easy motions like the syncopated two-step that starts a Lindy. They must have picked it up from a twenty-an-hour dance instructor, but couldn’t afford more lessons. A few felt bold enough to hit their own moves; a bold breakaway by one girl twirling her skirt up around her waist gave Archie a laugh.
He side-eyed the cash that kept pouring over the bar into a wine-chilling bucket. That with the take at the door would make a very good night. The longer he waited, the more he’d purse. Besides, the band wasn’t bad for a five-piece. It wouldn’t hurt to stick around for a while.
The band stopped after their third song, and the trumpet player blew a solo. It was good; the blower had Archie swinging his hips and throwing floor steps where the off-beats dropped. A curvy girl, the one so bold with her skirt on the dance floor, leaned back on the bar with a fresh Manhattan. Archie brought his look up from her chest and gave her a wink while he stared. As Archie used to say to the boys, all the points on that girl line right up. She had a white blouse, open low, tucked into a pleated skirt. Blue scarf knotted around her throat; hair caught up in a single fox tail in back. Richie Cunningham's little sister out to get laid.
"Hey Daddy, you going to dance?" she asked.
"Not without a partner, and I haven’t had one in thirty years," he offered an explanation, seeking to excuse himself.
"You’ve got one now," she shot back.
Technically he was out on the job, and he always felt a little invincible when he had the music playing in his head. It was all around him now, booming out live from the stage. This little girl mistook his energy for a yearn to dance, and maybe it wasn’t a mistake. What the hell, Archie felt good. Below his waist his legs skipped to the rhythm as he talked, and the motion made him forget his years. He had moves two generations old that would put these kids to shame. He took the drink from the girl, slammed it back and lost the plastic cup in one motion. Then he twirled her out.
The band started up a popular cover. A song some punk outfit recorded whose theme was the zoot suit riots in LA. He heard it over the radio, the DJ calling it swing when it was really just jump blues. The theme of the song bothered him. The riots were just that —faces cut with razors, police batons across skulls. Roaming mobs from the Navy and Army bases stomping street kids for the hell of it. They danced to it all the same, like the band was singing about a sock hop. Linda and Archie missed all that back in Atlanta in ’43. They moved to LA just after it began to settle.
The floor filled up quickly. The kids loved the tune. Sure, they danced to Benny Goodman, but they weren’t about to forget how old they really were. There wasn’t much space at first, and Archie had to hold her close. He took the opportunity to find out her name.
"It’s Lola," she sassed, daring to grind her hips right up against him.
"Really? Lola’s my aunt’s name. Nobody names little girls Lola anymore."
"I did. It used to be Beth. Who cares anyway? Look at me," and she pushed back a bit, swaying like a snake.
Archie did and he couldn’t help taking the invite to rest his eyes awhile on her pin-up sized breasts.
"Do I look like a Beth to you? Come on, show me what you’ve got."
Archie snapped her out and back, stepping back twice every time she twisted back into his arms. He kept it up, moving in a circle. It was an old ballroom trick, and soon the other dancers stepped back and gave Archie all the maneuvering space he needed. A few times guys made faces, but when they caught sight of Archie, they cleared out to see what he’d do. Once Archie had enough room he started throwing his floor steps, a hand holding Lola’s so she’d stay in time. Archie was way past the age to do any acrobatics, and he kept himself on the floor. Most of those moves required little strength for the man, just precision and timing to help his partner land. It was really closer to ju-jitsu than dancing on his end. The Blue Flame Job left the door to the Asian and came to the edge of the floor. Lola gave him a wave, and he shot back a sneer. Archie caught it, and gave Lola a gentle side-flip. She landed well, Archie pulling her in and nodding towards the Flame Job.
"That why you ain’t got a partner? Your man too busy working the door?"
"Yep." Lola replied, then did a one-armed breakaway into a series of very sexy moves. "I love to dance."
"We’ve got that in common."
"I just can’t stand sitting all night, so I hit the floor when I want to. Benny doesn’t like me to dance with other guys."
"I’m with him on that, too."
Archie held her out and saw her profile. Her hair was tied up in a style straight from his day. With the lights low and flashing, along with Archie’s eyes fading from drink and age, he could squint up, and watch Lola become Linda. He closed his lids and just felt her with his hands, feet moving beneath him. He might have just arrived in LA, Linda and he sweating through their first night out on a new floor. This night he felt as if the black and white reel he’d watched so many times came to life right in his arms. Just stepped right off the screen. He let his feet step through, and his mind wandered back fifty years.
Archie was impressed with LA in the forties. Linda was overwhelmed. They hit the spots, stepped on some toes but they had the talent to back it up. Things picked up, and they started finding pay at late night opportunity dances. They even took third in a marathon, but it wasn’t quite enough to pay the bills. Archie took work in a factory not far from where he was dancing right here in the nineties. He knew Linda, his girl. He wasn’t worried about a thing except her happiness, so he let her step out on her own to places they knew well. Sometimes he’d get off the second shift and he’d find her, twirling with another partner. He’d watch them for a while, moving closer until he’d finally catch the guy’s eyes. Archie cracked his lids to see the young crowd moving around him. Lola’s boy Benny was on the edge of the floor, doing the same thing.
These cutters usually got the picture after Archie gave them the eye; Archie got it now from Benny, but he wasn’t going to give up his partner just yet. Archie was just dancing. He didn’t have any designs about Lola except to have her swing with his steps. But he knew that cutters sometimes weren’t so honest. One too many times he’d find her with the same partner, Jim "Hinky" Jones. He’d made it clear to Hinky how he’d felt about the situation. He threatened to end his dancing with a broken kneecap, ‘just like the coloreds did down in Atlanta’. He told him on the sly, not wanting Linda to get involved. But Hinky kept picking her up, hands on her ass while Archie, arriving late, couldn’t stop it until it was too late. Too many nights with him away from the floor must have got to Linda. Archie didn’t blame her for the dancing, although he suspected more was going on for Hinky to keep coming around despite his explicit threats.
The Band swept its tempo down into a slow number, and Archie kept his hold on Lola.
"You're too good! I've never seen moves like you've got." Lola breathed, panting slightly from exertion. Archie saw Benny called away from the floor, having to make change at the door.
"Been doing it a long time Lola. Used to do it for a living, you could say."
"With the way your feet fly, I believe it. You make much money?"
"At marathons mostly. You kids ever have them?" Archie asked.
"Nope."
"A joint would put up the prize money, get a few hundred couples to pay the entry fee. Last couple still on their feet takes first prize."
"I've seen them on television sometimes," Lola said. "Groups of dancers with numbers on their backs. They're leaning against each other, looking like they're about to drop."
"Yeah, one of those old dance hall reels."
"Did you used to win them?"
"I've gone for days on my feet, but like I keep saying, it's been a long time," Archie explained, squeezing his eyes shut again, remembering.
One of Archie's last dances with Linda was a televised marathon. Linda and he entered several, a year before, back in Atlanta, and were in a few in LA. This last one was big. After 20 hours, only a few couples were left: Linda and Archie, some celebrity couple from New York, and Hinky and his date. Thirty hours into it Linda began to weep. She wasn't up for it, her stomach hurt. Archie might have left off, not being able to stand seeing Linda in pain, but over her shoulder, Hinky still danced, smiling. Two days and six hours into the event, Hinky dropped, and Archie finally let Linda lie down. The couple from New York won, but Archie wasn't dancing for the prize. An ambulance took Linda away. It wasn't uncommon for marathon dancers to leave the ballroom in this manner. Some were dragged right off the floor. Linda was admitted to the hospital, and never came out.
Archie tightened his grip with the memory, and Lola thought he was losing his balance, tired.
"You all right?" She asked above the music.
"Fine darling, fine. Just remembering some times gone by."
Benny returned from the door, the traffic had almost stopped coming in, and he left the Asian muscle in charge. Benny started waving him in off the floor, but Archie kept Lola's back to him, and breathed in her young scent. Their feet moved with the band, but Archie’s mind went back again to when he was with Linda.
Archie spent weeks with Linda in the hospital, watching her go over the edge. She told him it wasn't his fault, the doctors found that she had been ill for quite some time. The marathon just brought it out of its hiding place. He'd hurry over to the hospital after work, the dance clubs forgotten while she lay sick. One night Archie found Hinky at her bedside, stroking her hair. Once again, work kept him out a bit too late. The proof of his suspicions kneeled at his wife’s side, whispering soft words. Archie let it be. He didn't say a word to Linda, or confront Hinky right there in the hospital room as he burned to. He knew he'd catch up to him later. Linda didn't need to get riled up when there was still a chance she might dance with him again.
Days later she did. She begged him, and he lifted her out of her bed, IVs plucking out of her arms. Archie danced her around for just a moment when Linda, with just enough strength to hold Archie's neck, sighed out her last breath into the hollow of his throat. He barred the room’s door with a chair, and despite the knocking of the orderlies that began late in the night, he kept moving her around in his arms until the morning.
Archie never went back to that dance hall, or any other around LA. He didn't want dance, just enough booze to forget he ever did. This habit crept into his job, and then it became his job. He hustled joints for work; paid off in sandwiches and beers. He slept in backrooms, under cars or anywhere out of the rain. He stumbled into a tavern, a decent one because most of the working-class places were sore at the sight of him. The room was full of strangers, except one, playing pool in back. Hinky. Archie sobered up within one glance of him. Archie was suddenly full of memory. Hinky was due. Hinky didn't recognize Archie in his disheveled state. He even flipped him a quarter to fetch him a beer. Archie slipped a pool-cue into the men's room, broke it in half and waited in a stall. Hinky wandered in, and Archie started with his kneecaps. Reason, whether from drink, loneliness, or sadness, left him. He didn't stop until Hinky lay almost still, blood and brains on the tile. He pulled Hinky's wallet, slipped the club up a sleeve, and stepped out over the body. Hinky must have just gotten paid; Archie had a handful of cash, and he went straight to one of those workingman's bars, this time a customer instead of a lackey. After three shots of whisky, he calmed himself down to think. He checked his conscience, remembering a limp-bodied Hinky, fingers twitching slower and slower, blood fanning out under him. Nothing there. But way in the back, over a quiet, jumping beat, Linda twirled, eyes closed. Waiting for him to catch her. He smiled with the ease of which he took care of Hinky. He had a wad in his pocket and a tune in his head. He just found himself a new job. He worked it tirelessly, as if it were another marathon, and it lasted for the next forty years, right up until this dance with Lola.
The band slowed the beat, and then stopped for a break. One man with a pair of turntables took over for them. Archie let go of Lola's hands, but she grabbed his wrist and led him over to the edge of the dance floor, right up to Benny.
"Oh Benny! Did you see us out there? I never flew like that before." Lola beamed.
"Yeah baby, you looked good. Real good. Pops here had his hands in the right places, didn't ya?" Benny asked. He slid a hand across Lola's ass, and then grabbed her from behind in a bear hug.
"I know what I'm doing. Your girl here is right on time too," Archie leveled back
"He sure does, Benny," Lola spoke over her shoulder. "We ought to set him up with us. I'm sure he could give dance lessons, or just liven up the place. He used to be a star back in his day." Lola exaggerated for Archie, wanting to win Benny over.
"Dance lessons? Sure." Benny kissed the top of Lola's head. "I'm sure he'd love to show some moves to all the ladies round here. Wouldn't ya, Pops?"
Archie watched Lola, still part Linda, ensconced in the blue flames of Benny’s arms. Benny stared, running his hands up and down Lola, his smile saying it's mine, all this is mine. Archie suddenly became tired, and he rubbed his eyes, erasing Linda from Benny's arms.
"Hey," Lola shouted, as if just remembering to correct some wrong. "I never found out your name with all that dancing."
Archie needed a drink. The canned music from the speakers suddenly hurt his ears. His legs began to groan and spasm, and he needed some fresh air. The fingers in his pockets detected only the jingle of coins, not enough to get a highball, even from their plywood bar. He faced Lola for the first time head on. She grinned wide in anticipation of an answer, her bucked front teeth showing a wide gap. Her hand was busy behind her fishing out a cigarette from Benny's shirt pocket.
"My name is Jim Jones, little lady. But you can call me Hinky," Archie piped up. Pushing his pains away, slowly unzipping his heavy jacket pocket, where more than just change lay. "Hey Benny, why don't you let me buy you a drink, seein how I occupied so much of your lady's time on the floor tonight." Archie slid his hand inside the pocket, fingers on the grip, which was warm from his body heat. Lola had just lit up with a match, her eyes crossing across her nose to guide it to the end of her smoke. Benny straightened up, letting his hands drag across Lola's breasts.
"Yeah okay, Hinky. Let's have a martini, huh?" Benny replied, and to Lola, "Get over by the door and keep Samoan Sammy company for a while, me and Hinky are going to go have a drink."
Lola waved goodbye, but Archie grabbed her one last time.
"Thanks for the dance," Archie told her, " And for suggesting some work. I'm flattered about it all, but I think I'm just going to stay where I belong."
"Oh yeah, where’s that? She asked while grabbing Archie’s hand.
"Back on those old reels."
"See you in black and white then." She turned and swung her hips through the crowd, headed for Sammy at the door.
Archie put an arm around Benny, steering him over to the bar.
"Looks like you take a hell of a lot at the door for this kind of thing. I got to put it to you, this place is packed and swinging." Archie said as they nudged there way to the bar. "You leave your man Sammy holding all that?"
"Leave my wad with Sammy? Hell no. This gig is mine pops. I’ve probably pulled in more tonight than you make in three months my man," Benny gloated.
"I hope so, son."
The bartender high-fived Benny with his free hand when they pushed up, the other full of bills he was counting out from the overflowing bucket.
"Three shots of whisky," Archie belted out, and they were quickly poured. The boys lifted up their glasses, and threw them down. Archie made like he was going for his wallet, right inside the pocket of his sharkskin jacket. 

Thomas Stultz <mailto:tstultz@yahoo.com> is a Chicago resident, and a graduate of Columbia College's Fiction Writing Department. He currently works as an Editor for Business Wire, and is a monthly contributing writer for The Roscoe Village Neighbor. His work has been previously published in Fading Echoes Press magazines Tales of Double Danger, and Classic Tales of Pulp Fiction. At the moment he's looking for an agent to represent his 'historical hardboiled' novel, Inkwings.