Polkacide (6 page)

I was reaching for the door handle,
and I stopped and frowned at him. "How do you plan to tell one way
or another?"

"I'll put an accordion in your hands
at Polkapourri," said Eddie. "All you have to do is get on stage
and stand there with it."

"Just stand there?" My frown deepened.
"And not play?"

"You got it, Lot." Eddie chuckled.
"Just stand there on stage with the accordion. Play or don't play,
it's all the same. You walk away with fifty bucks."

"But how will that prove
anything?"

"Because after one week back
in the polka life, I don't think you'll be able to resist playing."
Eddie finished drumming with a roll and thumped his thumbs on the
wheel. "And I think you'll play like a star again. It'll all come
right back to you."

I sighed. "It won't happen like you
think. But I'll be glad to take your money anyway."

"We'll see." Eddie pointed
an index finger at me. "I think you'll surprise yourself. There's
more to this polka nonsense than you might realize."

"No way, no how." I tugged the door
handle and pushed the door open. "Polka sucks."

"That's what I used to say," Eddie
said with a wink, and then he threw open his door and got out of
the truck.

Leaving me asking myself one
question: When did Eddie Kubiak Jr., chosen successor to legendary
polka maestro Eddie Kubiak Sr.,
ever
think polka sucked?

Chapter 9

The music grew louder as
Eddie and I drew closer to Polka Central. Just as we topped the
four cement steps leading to the front doors, the crowd inside the
hall let out a great whoop all at once.

As we stepped in out of the
sun, the volume of the music suddenly dropped, and a woman's voice
cut in over the P.A. system. "Ladies and gents, look who just
strolled in!" It was none other than Polish Peg. "Let's give a
big
Kocham Taniec
welcome to my brand new partner, Lottie Kachowski! Daughter of
the one and only Polish Lou!"

Everybody whooped and spun
to face me. A new song started playing, which I couldn't identify
at first. But then, I figured it out.

It was a mid-tempo polka version of
"Hello, Dolly."

People sang along as they
passed, changing the lyrics to "Hello, Lottie." Most of them waved
white handkerchiefs at me in a kind of salute.

Even as I smiled and waved
back at them, I elbowed Eddie in the ribs. "Polka still sucks,
Eddie.
Big
time."

"Let's get off on the right foot,
Lot." Eddie was waving, too. "You know what would really win
everyone over? If you and I danced our way across Polka
Central."

"Try it and I'll stomp you blind," I
said without dropping my smile.

So the two of us just stood
there, smiling and waving, as the polka people danced past,
flapping their hankies. Most of them looked to be in their sixties,
at least; the age range wasn't as broad as it had been at Dad's
wake. These were the true believers, the core
audience--silver-haired men in gold chains and golf clothes,
white-haired women in pantsuits and sneakers. These were the fans
who turned out at six in the morning on a Sunday to dance around a
scuffed old gymnasium in a dilapidated former church activities
hall.

All because they loved to
polka. They loved dancing the same circling three-step again and
again, singing along with the same goofy lyrics, being part of a
show that would never be seen, only heard on the radio.

I didn't get it. It didn't seem
possible that I ever had.

And it didn't seem possible I could
stand to be part of it again, not even for three lousy
weeks.

Polish Peg, on the other
hand, was totally in her element. As the dancers swirled past, she
glided between them with microphone in hand, at ease and in
charge.

"Well, hello Lottie!" Peg
spoke into the microphone when she said it. "Welcome back to
Kocham Taniec
! You
remember what the title means in Polish, don't you?"

How could I forget? "'I love
dancing.'" How many times had I heard Dad say it at the start of
the show or at a Polish Fly performance?

"That's right, Lottie!" Peg
turned and pumped a fist in the air, calling out to the crowd of
dancers. "And we sure do love
dancing
,
don't
we, gang?"

The crowd waved hankies and roared in
approval.

When Peg turned back to me,
she had a more somber expression on her face. "Now, this is our
first show in forty-five years without the great Polish Lou. So
this is a landmark for us. How do you feel about that, Lottie?" Peg
pushed the microphone toward me.

How do
you
feel about broadcasting a
dance
program the
day
after
you
buried the man who was supposedly the love of your life? That was
what I
wanted
to
say to her. Though, to be fair, she
was
wearing a black t-shirt with the
Polish Fly logo on the back (a cartoon housefly playing an
accordion shaped like a pierogi), so maybe she
was
still in mourning after
all.

But I didn't say any of
that. "I feel sad that he's gone." That was what I told her. "He
was a great man."

"Amen to that." Peg nodded
and stepped forward, pushing between Eddie and me. She put an arm
around my shoulders and sighed. "But you and I will honor the Polka
Prince's last wish, won't we? We'll keep the fire burning
for
Kocham Taniec
and Polish Fly and Polkapourri. And we'll do it together, just
like he wanted, won't we?"

Suddenly, the dancers
stopped triple-stepping and stared in our direction. It was then I
realized Peg had backed me into the proverbial corner. She was
trying to get me to sign on with Polish Lou Enterprises then and
there, in front of dozens of witnesses in Polka Central and
thousands of listeners over the airwaves.

I glared at her. My hands curled into
fists; punching her would feel so very, very good. So what if there
were witnesses?

"We'll work together to
honor Lou's legacy, won't we?" Peg's frizzy, clownlike 'fro bobbed
as she nodded. Her giant eyes fixed on me from behind the
magnifying lenses of her trademark glasses--red framed with white
polka dots.

I didn't answer. I'd told
Eddie I'd go along with my father's wishes, at least for the week
until the payoff. I wanted to use the money to help my family and
Luke and myself.

But I didn't like being
pushed, and I didn't like Peg. I didn't want anything to do with
her. Standing there with a mic shoved in my face, I felt a change
of heart coming over me.

As I glared back at Peg the
Clown, Eddie's face tipped into view. His eyes were wide, his
eyebrows raised, the corners of his mouth curled up in an expectant
smile. As much as I wanted to help him, the added pressure boosted
my stubbornness. Since when was
I
responsible for
him?

Then, to make matters worse,
the dancers started chanting my name. "Lottie...Lottie...Lottie..."
Like
that
was
going to encourage me to stay.

Enough.
I took a deep breath and narrowed my eyes. I was ready to get
out of there.

But then she said it. "If
your Dad was standing here right now, what would you say to him?"
She pushed the mic a half-inch closer to my face. "What would you
say as he handed us the reins?"

I frowned. I hated her more than
ever.

Because the question had
gotten to me. What
would
I say if Polish Lou were standing right there?
What
would
I say
if
he
was the one
asking me to my face to do this?

My father, who'd worked so
hard to provide for me. Now that he was gone, I'd never have a
chance to make things right with him.

Or maybe
this
was my chance.

I cleared my throat and took a deep
breath. I stared the Clown right in the eyes, and then against my
better judgment, I said what I said.

"'Thanks, Dad.' That's what
I'd say. 'I hope I'll make you proud of me.'"

Polish Peg beamed. She
tipped the mic back toward her. "Hear that, folks?" Her giant eyes
held mine a moment more, and then she looked at the crowd. "Lou's
girls are taking the wheel! How do you like
those
apples?"

The dancers roared and shook their
hankies. Some couples started three-stepping, though the music was
no longer playing.

"We're gonna make this the
best Polkapourri of all time!" Peg squeezed my shoulders hard, then
let go and bolted across the room. Seconds later, a surge of polka
music blasted from the speakers, overlaid with Peg's voice. "Now
let's get this polka party back into
high
gear
, people!
Strona twarde!
"

The crowd leaped back into
action, prancing and spinning with abandon. Two old ladies in
matching pink sweatshirts and white pants trotted over and swept
Eddie into the excitement, each grabbing one of his arms. As I
watched him go, I backed toward the door, hoping to avoid his
fate.

A deeply tanned senior
citizen in a bright green golf shirt, yellow trousers, and a dozen
gold chains ambled toward me, and I waved him off. Another old guy
in a red velour sweater and pink and white checked Bermuda shorts
with black socks made a move, too, and I just kept backing away. A
few others looked my way, but I pretended I didn't
notice.

When I reached the door, I
turned my back on the dance floor, which turned out to be a huge
mistake. I was almost out, just about to plant my foot on the top
step, when someone grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

My captor spun me around,
which was when I got a look at her. It
figured
Polish Peg wouldn't let me
get away that easy.

"Better get used to it,
sweetie," said Peg as she hopped along in a polka three-step.
"We'll be dancing together all the
time
from now on."

I considered planting my feet and
refusing to budge...but then I figured why not play along? Consider
it a peace offering.

So I let Peg guide me in a
shuffling one-two-three rhythm, close enough to a polka without
putting any bounce in my step. And I kept a fake half-smile on my
face so no one would know what a miserable time I was
having.

Except Eddie Kubiak Jr. I
could see it in his smirk when he spun past on the arm of an old
lady in a hot pink jumper. Eddie knew I was having a lousy time,
and he was getting a kick out of my discomfort.

Let him laugh, I thought.
I'd teach him a lesson later. After all, I was in a position of
authority now.

Maybe it wasn't such a bad
thing being one of the bosses of Polish Lou Enterprises after
all.

Chapter 10

Twice around the dance floor
was plenty for me. The second time Peg whisked me toward the stage,
I pulled away and walked over to check it out.

Five long tables were set up
on the stage, overflowing with equipment. Looking up from where I
stood, I saw a control board on the middle table, studded with
plugs and wires. A digital clock with red numbers on a black
display sat atop the rear edge of the board, facing outward. The
display showed the hour, minutes, and even the seconds as they
raced past.

An old-fashioned turntable
and reel-to-reel tape machine occupied the table to the left.
(Lou's music library still included plenty of vinyl, and he
recorded all his shows on reels of tape.) The table on the right
was cluttered with CDs and record albums. Blocky speakers were
stacked on the remaining tables at either end of the
row.

The setup hadn't changed
much since the last time I'd seen it, which must have been ten
years ago. For that matter, it hadn't changed much from the early
days of
Kocham Taniec
. Dad had broadcast the show from his basement, not a church
hall, but much of the equipment looked the same.

When the tattered gray curtain at the
back of the stage parted, I half-expected to see Lou himself storm
out with a huge smile on his face. Just another day in the life of
the Polka Prince, just another broadcast. For a moment, I thought
I'd give anything for that to happen.

But no. Instead of Lou, a
heavyset young woman with shoulder-length wavy red hair bustled out
from behind the curtain. Like Peg, she wore jeans and a black
Polish Fly t-shirt. She had a pair of silver headsets wrapped
around her neck, the cord swinging free behind her.

The red-haired girl marched
up to the control board and started making adjustments I couldn't
see from the floor. She looked down once, and I caught her eye, but
her flat expression revealed no trace of recognition or interest.
Then she turned back to watching the readouts and controls on the
board.