The Devil’s Polka

I pulled the van into a side alley. Jim­my met me at the hotel’s fire exit, the young woman slung over his shoul­der like a drunk friend. Then we drove to the out­skirts. Like all big cities, Chica­go had its share of urban blight. I found the per­fect spot, a place where even the gangs refused to roost. We left the body on the doorstep of a board­ed-up church, sit­ting there as if wait­ing for a bus. Except for the fact that her head was com­plete­ly twist­ed around fac­ing the door.

#

Shit. I know, that does­n’t look good. But believe me, it was all Jim­my. He and Scar­lett. I sim­ply took care of it, like I always took care of things. Jim­my and his dan­ger­ous liaisons. But let me back up, because you don’t know the half of it.

Let’s start when me and Jim­my met. It was high school. Jim­my was one of the per­form­ers in the tal­ent show. I was the drum­mer in an all-girl band. We caught sight of each oth­er at the after-par­ty. Jim­my won, of course. Even as a teen, he was pret­ty good at play­ing polkas on that accor­dion of his. And the Pol­ish pop­u­la­tion in town came out in force to see their young prodi­gy. He was­n’t rock­ing the long hair or the black satin out­fits just yet, but there was some­thing about him the girls liked. I think it was that look of des­tiny in his eyes. That if you got with him, he’d take you out of that small town and onto big­ger, bet­ter things. What he saw in me, I’ll nev­er know. There were pret­ti­er girls around, and Jim­my could have had his pick. He said it was the fact that I was a drum­mer, and drum­mer chicks kicked ass. I took that as a com­pli­ment. It prob­a­bly helped that I had big­ger boobs than most of the girls in my class.

After high school, we decid­ed to hit the cir­cuit as a two-per­son pol­ka band. Jim­my had charis­ma, I had long legs and a chest that liked to jig­gle when I played. I made sure to wear short skirts and V‑neck tops. We were okay. We got a few gigs, most­ly at dive bars and Fri­day night socials. But it was­n’t until Jim­my found Scar­lett that things real­ly took off.

We were in New York City tak­ing in the sights. We had a gig that night in Green­point. Jim­my was in a down mood all day, lament­ing the fact that, after two years of tour­ing, things just weren’t as far along, career-wise, as he’d hoped. “I just can’t see myself doing this for the next forty years, liv­ing like rats look­ing for their next piece of moldy bread. We need a hook. A gim­mick. Some­thing that sets us apart.” It was then we passed a pawn shop. Jim­my paused, as if some­one, or some­thing, had called to him. We had no mon­ey, except the mon­ey we’d get that night after our gig. But he went inside anyways.

And would­n’t you know, there she was. Scar­lett. A vin­tage Excel­sior. She was blood red with a pearl fin­ish. She stopped Jim­my dead in his tracks. I’d nev­er seen any­one so… cap­ti­vat­ed by a piece of met­al, wood, and plas­tic. “How much?” Jim­my asked the shop own­er. “For you… $150.00,” said the man. It was worth three times that. “Oh yeah?” said Jim­my. “Why so cheap?” The shop own­er shook his head and made a face as if some­one had waved a shoe under his nose with shit on it. “I don’t like it. I don’t want it here. It’s got bad juju.” Jim­my and I exchanged looks. Jim­my picked up the accor­dion and slung the strap over his shoul­der and gave it a breath of life. It played flaw­less­ly. He walked over to the shop own­er, slid his high school ring off his fin­ger and laid it on the counter. “Deal?” said Jim­my. “Deal,” said the shop own­er. “You go now.”

#

Our next stop: Pitts­burgh. The Club Cafe. It was sup­posed to have rooms above the club for us to crash.

Jim­my stirred next to me. He wiped the drool from his chin. A quick look over his shoul­der into the back seat where Scar­lett sat. He relaxed. “Are we there yet?”

We were stuck in city traf­fic. I looked Jim­my over. “You okay?”

He scowled. “Sure. Why would­n’t I be?” Always the pho­ny brava­do. No mat­ter what, his eyes nev­er left the prize. Whether it was the next big gig or that night’s con­quest. “How about you? You okay?”

“Fuck­ing peachy,” I said. After all, we had just escaped a real­ly bad scene that, fin­gers crossed, would­n’t even­tu­al­ly put us behind bars for the rest of our lives. I felt like say­ing that but did­n’t, there was noth­ing to gain by remind­ing Jim­my of what had happened.

“Good,” said Jim­my. “That’s good.” He point­ed. “Is that it up there?”

The Club Cafe sign stuck out and hov­ered above the side­walk. The sign was big and gar­ish, harken­ing back to the hey­day of show­man­ship. I took a side street and pulled into the back park­ing lot that was reserved for Club Cafe only. Jim­my grabbed Scar­lett and head­ed inside, leav­ing me to get the rest.

#

From the moment Jim­my had found Scar­lett in that pawn shop on Long Island, she nev­er left his sight. That night, the gig in Green­point had cat­a­pult­ed us onto the club scene. And it was all because of her. It turned Jim­my, who was a good play­er, into a great play­er. At times, it was as if Scar­lett her­self were play­ing and Jim­my was just try­ing to keep up. The folks at Green­point put in a good word and an actu­al club booked us the fol­low­ing night. That’s when Jim­my became Jim­my Jablon­s­ki… the Casano­va of War­saw… the Don Juan of Gdan­sk… Poland’s new Pol­ka Prince. He even wrote it down on a card and made the MC say it when we were intro­duced. I was at my kit wait­ing behind the cur­tain when Jim­my showed up dressed in black satin, his hair slicked back. He gave me a wink and, as the cur­tain rose, assumed his new­found persona.

To say it was a night to remem­ber would be under­selling it. Jim­my blew the crowd away with smokey ren­di­tions of She’s a Good Lit­tle Girl, Melody of Love, Blue Skirt Waltz, and Red Raven Pol­ka. He played the room as much as he played Scar­lett, seduc­ing the women with deep stares and ten­der trills. It was pol­ka music, but not the kind your par­en­t’s danced to. The slow­er syn­co­pa­tion lent an R‑rated sug­ges­tive­ness to the lyrics. The way Jim­my moved, fold­ing and unfold­ing Scar­lett as if in a pas­sion­ate embrace, the way his hands caressed the keys and bass but­tons I’m sure had the ladies won­der­ing if he was as good in bed as he was with that instrument.

That night was the first night Jim­my cheat­ed on me. When I caught him, he said it was a nec­es­sary part of the act. A rep­u­ta­tion that need­ed to be built. “C’mon, babe, you knew this would hap­pen even­tu­al­ly,” he said, smug as a two-bit drug deal­er. “I still love you.”

I should have left him then, but we were final­ly on our way. Besides, Jim­my and I were togeth­er more out of neces­si­ty than any kind of deep roman­tic entan­gle­ment. That club in New York booked us for three more nights. Word of mouth spread quick­ly. Each night the place was packed. The women got more and more beau­ti­ful. By the third night there were two women in Jim­my’s bed, while I was at the bar toast­ing our suc­cess and, after­ward, drown­ing my sor­rows in the arms of a drum-lov­ing col­lege boy who appre­ci­at­ed the way I kicked it, and did­n’t mind my being on top.

#

You’d fig­ure, after what hap­pened in Chica­go, Jim­my would cool it a bit with the after­par­ty cel­e­bra­tions. But no. Jim­my had a thirst that could­n’t be quenched, no mat­ter how many shots of des­per­ate female he had thrown at him. Club Cafe was no dif­fer­ent. Halfway into our set, Jim­my had already found his mark: an over­ly-enthu­si­as­tic blonde wear­ing a hip-hug­ging evening dress that demon­strat­ed, for all to see, that she was­n’t wear­ing any underwear.

Jim­my knew I was watch­ing him. When he looked over his shoul­der I shook my head, but he just smiled, like the word “No” was no longer a part of his vocabulary.

#

After New York, we hit the cir­cuit, dri­ving south. Philly, Bal­ti­more, Nor­folk, Char­lotte… Each night the buzz pre­ced­ing us was greater than the buzz before. Like a Vegas vet­er­an, Jim­my Jablon­s­ki played his con­tem­po­rary blend of sex­u­al­ly-charged pol­ka. In Savan­nah, at a place called the Emper­or’s Gen­tle­man’s Club, he intro­duced his sig­na­ture song, “The Dev­il’s Pol­ka,” an orig­i­nal that would put him on the map, while at the same time fore­shad­ow­ing Jim­my’s rapid descent into car­nal per­ver­sion and violence.

As I remem­ber, the crowd that night was lov­ing it. It was an inti­mate set­ting of small tables up front and a long bar in the back. The lone spot­light fol­lowed Jim­my around the floor like a heli­copter search­light on a police chase as he ser­e­nad­ed cer­tain woman in the audi­ence. The women were ecsta­t­ic for the atten­tion, and Jim­my played it to the hilt, cre­at­ing an elec­tric atmos­phere that cul­mi­nat­ed in his now infa­mous piece.

“Are you ready for one last song?” he said. The crowd gave a hearty Hell, yeah. Jim­my looked at me and nod­ded. I looked back at him a bit puz­zled. “This one’s called ‘The Dev­il’s Pol­ka.’ ” He then launched into a swoon­ing, swirling intro that had all the sig­na­tures of a snake charmer’s call. I let him do his thing and took my cues when the tem­po began to increase. What hap­pened next was remark­able. Jim­my moved about the cap­tive audi­ence, play­ing the new­ly com­posed song. He even­tu­al­ly zeroed in on one woman, walk­ing his fin­gers up and down the key­board, hug­ging the bel­lows as if in an inti­mate dance, pro­ject­ing that dance onto the woman of the evening. The num­ber end­ed in a taran­tel­la-like whirl­wind that had the spot-light­ed woman vir­tu­al­ly breath­less. The music stopped and the lights went out to a room­ful of clap­ping and cheer­ing. Moments lat­er, when the lights came back on, Jim­my was back on stage bow­ing with appre­ci­a­tion. He acknowl­edged his drummer—me—who received the usu­al whis­tles and cat­calls from the guys. The MC closed the show to rous­ing applause. “Jim­my Jablon­s­ki! Jim­my Jablon­s­ki, every­one! What an amaz­ing performance!”

That night Jim­my took that woman he had ser­e­nad­ed upstairs and not only raped her but dis­lo­cat­ed her arm in the process. The woman nev­er pressed charges.

#

Back at Club Cafe, it was déjà vu all over again. With the last strains of “The Dev­il’s Pol­ka” still vibrat­ing off the club’s chintzy chan­de­liers, blondy with the snake­skin dress made a bee­line for the dress­ing room, as if in some kind of trance. I watched from the bar as Jim­my escort­ed her upstairs to our adjoin­ing rooms.

#

Mobile, Baton Rouge, Lit­tle Rock, St. Louis… the band played on. More clubs, more dark nights play­ing to overt­ly sug­ges­tive, pant­i­ng spec­ta­tors. More alco­hol than I could remem­ber drink­ing, just to drown out the muf­fled screams com­ing through the walls as I tried to sleep. More young women doing the walk of shame in the ear­ly hours of day­light, limp­ing, bruised, some still blood­ied from the night before. Some­times a vic­tim would get brave enough to report what had hap­pened and the cops would show. They’d talk to Jim­my, joke around with Jim­my, sym­pa­thize with what it must be like to be a sought-after enter­tain­er and the cra­zies he must have to deal with now and then who did­n’t like how the evening end­ed. In truth, deep down, they want­ed to be Jim­my. Have the pick of the lit­ter. Get to do what they want­ed to whomev­er they want­ed. It was fame’s get-out-of-jail-free card. What hap­pened behind closed doors stayed behind closed doors. The bot­tom line was, every­one liked Jim­my. The quick smile. The endear­ing wit. They did­n’t see the harm.

But I did. Night in and night out. And that harm cul­mi­nat­ed in Chica­go with a young woman with her head some­how spun around back­wards. It had to stop.

#

I could already hear the protests from blondy as I stood in the hall­way out­side Jim­my’s room. I pound­ed on the door. I did­n’t wait for a response and walked right in. Jim­my had the blonde pinned against the wall by the throat. When he saw me, he must have relaxed his grip, because she ducked out from under him, grabbed her clothes and ran to my side. “He’s all yours,” she said, and slipped past me.

Jim­my smiled, stand­ing there in noth­ing but box­ers. He climbed onto the bed and stretched out. “Remem­ber the good old days when we used to fuck ’til we were sore?”

“Yeah, I remem­ber. But, for me, it was­n’t fuck­ing. It was mak­ing love. But I real­ized ear­ly on you were nev­er going to love me. You just want­ed me to help you get to where you want­ed to go. And then she came along.” I glanced over at Scar­lett, who sat on the dress­er like a glit­ter­ing Madam proud of her pro­tege. “And you changed.”

“For the bet­ter,” he said. “I mean, look at us, babe. Look at where we were and where we are now. What’s a few bro­ken hearts?”

“Bro­ken hearts? Try bro­ken bones. And did you for­get what hap­pened in Chicago?”

“What can I say? There’s a price to pay.” Jim­my took his eyes off me. He glanced at Scar­lett and nod­ded, as if the damned thing were speak­ing to him, prompt­ing him to say what he was saying.

“It’s get­ting hot in here,” I said. I walked over and opened up the third sto­ry win­dow, let­ting in the city’s street nois­es. Then I turned around and grabbed Scar­lett off the dress­er. She let out a lit­tle huff as I heft­ed her in my arms. I watched Jim­my as I brought her over to the win­dow and rest­ed her on the sill. “This ends here, tonight,” I said.

“You would­n’t.” Jim­my did­n’t move, his grin still fixed on his face, so cock sure of himself.

“Try me.”

“But she’s our meal tick­et. With­out her we’d just be… average.”

“We’ll start over.” I lift­ed Scar­lett with every intent of drop­ping her, watch­ing her fall thir­ty feet onto the side­walk below and shat­ter­ing like a watermelon.

Jim­my jumped up. “Okay, I’ll stop. I can stop.”

“Sor­ry, Jim­my. I’ve nev­er known you to be able to stop. It has to be this way.” At that moment, Scar­lett let out a bass note growl and I felt a pinch, as if some­thing were bit­ing me from under­neath the accor­dion. A sear­ing pain shot through my fin­ger and I dropped her onto the floor. As I fum­bled to pick her up again, Jim­my was on me. He pushed me away from her and we strug­gled. Even­tu­al­ly, Jim­my spun me around and I was falling across the bed, Jim­my on top. He had my arms pinned with his knees, and I could see that he was erect beneath his box­ers. I could also see Scar­lett on the floor, the seams of her body now glow­ing red.

“You could­n’t just let things be, could you?” There was a look in Jim­my’s eyes that was­n’t him. Or, per­haps, it was always him, and all it took was Scar­lett to bring it out. He pulled at my pants to try and get them off. As his head was turned, I was able to slip my left arm out and land a good enough punch. I missed his jaw but hit him in the throat. The blow tum­bled him off the end of the bed onto the floor, gasp­ing for breath, his eyes water­ing. Mean­while, Scar­lett steamed, a high-pitched whis­tle ema­nat­ing from her bel­lows. She was enjoy­ing the show, excit­ed like a spec­ta­tor at a cock fight when the razors begin to draw blood. 

All I kept think­ing was if I did­n’t end this shit show now, Jim­my would con­tin­ue to do what he was doing and more women would get hurt or killed. 

I picked up Scar­lett. I used her to hit Jim­my over the head. Again and again. I hit him until I could­n’t raise my arms and I was sobbing.

I tossed Scar­lett aside. Jim­my was dead and Scar­lett was cov­ered in blood, a wide crack in her body.

As I sat against the wall beneath the win­dow, hop­ing the late-night sounds of our fight had been drowned out by the street noise, I stared at Scar­lett. The gap in its body allowed me to see inside. As I looked clos­er, an eye peered out at me. Before my mind could reg­is­ter what was hap­pen­ing, two tiny clawed hands reached out and snapped the accor­dion shut, reseal­ing it so it was as good as new. That’s when I heard the voice whis­per­ing, telling me that she was now mine, my vehi­cle to get what­ev­er my heart desired, as long as I played and played and played…

#

Now, my dreams were nev­er that wild to begin with, but I have to say, Scar­lett did show me things I nev­er thought pos­si­ble. Lydia de Mure. How’s that for a stage name? I’m sure Scar­lett knows plen­ty of French love songs. Like Jim­my Jablon­s­ki, God rest his soul (in a land­fill off I‑10 near Hack­en­sack), there’s appar­ent­ly an inter­est in sexy French accor­dion play­ers on the club cir­cuit, to which I now fit the bill.

I’m prepar­ing for my first gig, and I’ve bare­ly had to prac­tice. Scar­lett just seems to do all the work. I can hear her all the time now, her smooth melod­ic tongue whis­per­ing, speak­ing to my own inner demons.

I can feel myself grow­ing weak­er, the demons grow­ing stronger, more demanding.

It won’t be long before I give Scar­lett what she wants.