“Bob, I see the good ladies have made sure you’re going to be dancing,” Lettie said.
The crowd laughed.
Willow hoped her stash of vote tickets, and a perfectly timed casting of them, would
ensure Con danced. He stood just a few feet away from her, rummaging through his pockets.
She had a hard time not staring at him. He was so easy on the eyes.
Lettie led the crowd in a countdown. “Ten, nine—”
“Wait!” Con dashed to the podium, waving a bill around.
“A man who likes to flash his cash for charity.” Lettie clapped. “Stop the timer.
What can I do for you, Con?”
“Ten bucks says I’m out.” Con held it out to Lettie with a big grin on his face.
Lettie leaned across the podium with a big grin. “More money for charity! Oh, but
this is bad, very bad, for Clint. This puts him in fifth place. Clint, where are you?
Start digging in your pockets for the animal shelter or you’ll be dancing.”
“Not so fast!” Willow’s heart raced as she seized her opportunity and stepped forward.
“Twenty dollars for the animal shelter and twenty-four votes for Con.”
The stunned look on Con’s face was worth every penny. As if she were a traitor. And
yet he was amused at the same time. The curl of his good-natured grin almost stopped
her heart—it was so strikingly like Jack’s.
“Clint, you owe Willow one for this, you old codger. I expect to see you in her shop
buying a pound of candy for your wife.” Lettie banged the gavel. “Start the timer.
Five, four, three, two, one!”
The buzzer sounded. The crowd cheered.
“Zero!” Lettie turned to Con. “We’re good sports. And we play fair, especially when
we’re trying to raise as much money as possible for a good cause. Before I pronounce
your sentence, do you have any more money you’d like to donate to get out of dancing?”
Con pulled his pockets inside out and shook his head, hamming it up shamelessly. “Hey,
Aldo, help me out? Lend me a few?”
“I’ll throw in another twenty.” Aldo grinned.
Con relaxed and did a victory punch in the air. “Yes! Family.”
Aldo waved a bill around. “To make sure he dances.”
Con stopped in his tracks and his face fell. The crowd roared.
“Anyone else have an opinion they’d like to throw some cash at?” Lettie looked around
the group of growers.
“Ten for keeping him in!” someone else called out.
“I’ll go five!”
“I have twenty tickets that say he’s dancing,” Sheryl the mail carrier said. “And
I want to see a tush push!”
Con made a comical shocked face and slapped his hands on his butt as if he was tucking
it in and keeping it firmly in place. “A what?”
Bob White came up, slapped Con on the back, and stuck his butt out. “It’s a country
line dance move, city boy.”
“That is
not
what I’m talking about!” Sheryl called back. “Pull that big old butt in, Bob. Don’t
listen to him, Con. Nora will show you how it’s done.”
Lettie banged her gavel. “Con, it’s official—you’re dancing! The rest of you boys,
get on up here.”
Shane handed his drink to Willow. “Hang on to this for me. I’ll be back for a victory
drink.”
Con, Shane, Bob, and the two others made their way to the front of the podium, looking
sheepish and uncomfortable.
“There are only a few rules,” Lettie said when they were assembled. “No intentionally
bad dancing. Some of you may not be light on your feet, but you’re going to have to
try. This is for charity and we expect you men to fight to win.
“If our judge taps you, you’re out. The decision of the judge is final. No arguing.
Got it?”
The men pretended to grumble but nodded their agreement.
“Good. Unlike the men last year”—Lettie gave Bob a stern look that got a good laugh—”who
gave no instructions to the ladies, we women have risen above and brought in an expert
to show you boys how it’s done. Our very own Nora Renner has taught country line dancing
for twenty years. Follow her and you shouldn’t have any problems.
“Where’s Roger, our disc jockey?” Lettie looked around. “There he is.” Lettie smiled
at him. “Nora? Ready?”
Nora stepped out to the front of the crowd and took a small bow.
“Take it away.” Lettie clapped and stepped away from the podium.
* * *
Jack loved to dance. Yeah, it was a bit embarrassing to be a big, bad assassin who
liked to trip the light fantastic. But what could he say? He considered dancing an
athletic endeavor. He felt Willow watching him as Nora gave the men brief lessons
on how to dance the tush push, Cotton Eyed Joe, and the Cowboy Boogie. Jack didn’t
need lessons, but Con probably did.
The men lined up, Jack and Bob in the front row and the three others in the back,
with Nora at the front, back to them, calling out steps and leading.
Jack was debating whether he should throw the competition and get out when a blow
to the back of his right knee with a steel-toed boot from behind took his breath away
and nearly felled him. His leg immediately went numb.
Damn,
Jack thought, fighting to stay on his feet.
A direct hit to gallbladder point 31.
There are points on the body that if struck properly can kill a person instantly.
Striking others, like gallbladder point 31, causes temporary paralysis. As a karate
expert, Jack knew them all. Unfortunately, so did his opponent.
It took a master to hit 31 with paralyzing precision. And an expert to stay on his
feet once struck. The Rooster had caught Jack off guard.
This time.
Game on,
Jack thought, resisting the urge to fight back and wishing he weren’t under orders
not to assassinate in public. So the Rooster was trying to draw him out before a crowd,
was he?
Jack preferred a good, fair fight. Which was one reason he’d spiked the Rooster’s
drink. Any minute now that XTC would start taking effect. Then it would be game over
for the Rooster.
While Jack waited for his drug to do its magic, there was only one sure way to live
through the evening—swallow his pride and get out of this damned dance-off. He pointed
to his newly bum leg and limped toward the sidelines, imploring the judge, a local
woman, a friend of Lettie’s whose name he didn’t know, “Hey, I’m about to die in here.”
The crowd booed and yelled at him to stay in.
“Con Russo!” Lettie’s stern voice boomed like the wrath of God over the loudspeakers.
Or, more accurately, like his angry mother’s. “Stop hamming it up and trying to worm
your way out of dancing. That was just a light tap. No more being a baby. The men
in this town do not wimp out.” She shook her head condemningly. “Do I have to repeat
the rules? No intentionally bad dancing. This is a fight to the death.”
She didn’t know how accurate she was.
Lettie held the mic close. “Now man up! Get back in there, and stay in, until the
judge tells you to get out.”
Man up? That was a low blow. No one told Jack to man up or questioned his courage.
If he weren’t undercover, he’d show them what a real man could do with a well-placed
karate chop.
A cheer rose from the crowd. The judge smiled and shrugged, looking like,
What can I do?
So that’s the way it’s going to be. The judge is just a figurehead to do Lettie’s
bidding.
“Sorry about that, buddy,” Shane said without the slightest hint of contrition in
his voice. “My bad. I’m not much of a dancer.” He flashed Jack a victorious look,
as if he was relishing the thought of delivering a lethal deathblow in the next set.
Jack felt like a boat that was dead in the water. Dead on the dance floor—oh, the
indignity. “One more move like that and I won’t have a leg to stand on.”
The crowd laughed.
“That’s the spirit. Apology accepted,” Lettie answered for Jack. “Can’t fault a man
for not being an expert dancer, can we, ladies?”
The ladies shrieked. Someone whistled.
Jack decided in that instant that Con was usually a good dancer, when he had two functioning
legs, who picked up moves quickly. It fit with Con’s metro image, so what the hell?
Jack was running with it. Well, as well as he could with one limp leg. For now, he
was going to have to heavily compensate with some splashy arm movements and butt-wiggling
boogies. Until his leg woke up, his footwork was going to suck. He only hoped he was
lithe enough to dodge the Rooster’s blows.
Jack had to drive Kennett and get him to dance harder. The more he exercised, the
faster the drug would flow through his system, and he’d topple off his feet to his
defeat.
Next to Jack, even with two good legs, Bob was struggling to keep up. The judge tapped
Bob on the shoulder.
“Bob, you’re out!” Lettie said into the microphone. “Get off the floor.”
Bob looked stunned. “What? I didn’t even hit anyone like Shane did. And the music
hasn’t even started. We’re still learning the steps. Don’t I get a second chance,
too? I want that TV.”
“The game began the minute you took the floor. You’re simply not as pretty as Shane,
Bob.”
Bob pointed at Jack. “But Con’s a hop-along casualty! He’s dragging one leg. Let me
stay in for him.”
Jack shrugged like a good sport, rotated his hips, doing a sensual boogie move, and
took a step toward the edge of the dance floor. “Good idea.”
“Not so fast, Con.” Lettie’s mic squealed with feedback and everyone jumped. “We all
know how eager you are to get out of this. But you can’t fake your way out with the
old bum-leg trick.
“It’s time to take this to a vote. That was a pretty hot boogie, even one legged.
What do you think, ladies? Is Con still in?”
The ladies whistled. “Con’s in. Bob, you’re still out. No arguing. The crowd’s decision
is final.”
Bob left the floor with semi-good grace, grumbling only slightly. “That TV would have
been awfully nice in my study.”
Nora taught them a turn. Jack had to grab his right leg and swing it around manually.
Which got a big laugh from the crowd. He was aiming for the Rooster’s crotch. Everyone
knows a blow to the jewels will take a man down. Sadly, Jack’s aim was off and the
bastard jumped out of the way. Next time, Jack would have to make an adjustment to
his swing.
The two other men turned the wrong direction and were tapped out of the competition.
But Kennett, that big ox, was still on his feet. Jack should have known someone with
Russian ancestry, with their notorious tolerance for alcohol, would have developed
a resistance to drugs as well.
“Looks like we just have two nice-looking young men left to compete.” Lettie winked.
“Wonder how that happened?”
More laughter.
“All right, you two,” Lettie said. “Move in closer together. This looks like it’s
going to be a head-to-head competition. We’re going to need to see you side-by-side
to choose a winner. Remember—style points matter. I think it’s time we put those moves
to music. Nora?”
“We’ll start with an easy one, gentlemen. Cotton Eyed Joe.” Nora motioned for Roger
to start the music and counted down the beat as the song began. “Five, six. Five,
six, seven, eight!”
Kennett came out swinging, literally swinging, his arms at Jack’s neck, aiming for
the lethal pressure points there. Jack leaned back on his good leg just in time. Kennett
missed jabbing him directly in bladder point 10, a knockout point, by that much.
“Someone’s exuberant!” Lettie called out as Jack kept up with Nora only by doing a
one-legged hop and moving his limp leg around by grabbing it with one hand and dragging
it around. “Shane’s winning points with his extreme arm movements.”
“Quarter turn to the right!” Nora called.
Shane swung around, doing a karate kick. Jack ducked just in time to miss taking one
to the head.
“A little less leg next time,” Nora said.
“If I had any less leg,” Con said, “I’d be on the floor.”
The crowd laughed.
“I was talking to Shane, Con. Just follow my lead.” Nora led them in a stomp, stomp,
stomp move.
Jack’s was more of a stomp, drag, stomp.
Kennett ignored her instructions. He swung around again, going freestyle, jabbing
and parrying with Jack, going at his weak side, looking to hit the nearest lethal
point as Jack limped around like a pirate dragging a wooden leg.
The crowd laughed at his antics, unaware Kennett was trying to kill him before their
eyes. Jack couldn’t fight back unless he wanted to kill the Rooster outright in front
of everyone. Which was against orders. Besides, Jack didn’t need an inquiry. And he
most especially did not need Willow to see him kill someone.
Roger the DJ was quick to jump on Kennett’s change-up of the dance routine. He switched
up the music, and before Jack knew what was what he was dragging his leg through the
Cowboy Boogie to “Footloose.”
The good thing about the Cowboy Boogie—there was a lot of boogie, rotating hips, in
it. Jack rolled his hips like a Chippendales dancer and seized full advantage, making
the ladies scream and forget about his lack of footwork. Style points for him.
But the “Footloose” song lyrics drove him crazy, calling out his name, Jack, seemingly
every other line. He had enough on his mind without having a song scream out who he
really was. He should have heeded the song’s warning and gotten back. But being him,
he ignored it.
Now, not only was his leg numb and, of course, the Rooster was still trying to kill
him, but his feet were killing him, too. Those damned Italian leather loafers had
rubbed his heels raw. They weren’t meant for dancing, especially sockless. Each move
was torture, giving him another blister that stung. So when the song directed it,
he kicked off his Sunday shoes in time to the music. Oh yeah, and one might have been
intentionally flung at Kennett’s head.
The Rooster dodged it and looked at Jack with murder in his eyes.
Jack felt a tingle in his leg and grinned back. A real tingle, as in his leg was waking
up. Finally. Time to take this competition up a notch and strike when his opponent
least expected it.