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The final part of the trilogy.

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The scene around the picnic table next to the Vagabond, and behind the Cadillac woody was as bucolic as it was ironic.  A group of perspiring middle aged city fathers gathered on one side of a picnic table, sweating in their long sleeved shirts and fat neckties that sat atop their paunches like a tiny runner on an oversized, bulbous dresser.  On the other side, sat an exotic man and woman barely dressed and in the peak of physical perfection.  Chiseled physiques punctuated with trained muscles, hardened by a routine of practice and honed in exploring the erotic arts most only dream of.

Alessandra filled the Dixie cups and passed them around, each man gulping the contents down quickly and extending the cup back in her direction for more.  Alessandra always spurred men on towards seconds.  “We’re here to talk about what’s next,” the mayor said.

Nicolas chuckled at the statement, having never been one to give much thought to the subject.  The mayor was left wanting for a reply.

“The lessons and performances at the Lucky Lady have been a success.  For all of us.”  The mayor began a speech that he should have spent more time preparing.  “Townsfolk are enjoying the break from monotony.  We’re a hardworking people not used to letting our hair down.”  Nicholas glanced on top of the mayor’s head and chuckled at the vast region of bare skin, chuckling at the thought of him letting his hair down.

“We’ve outgrown the Lucky Lady.  Continuing to use that venue holds us back and presents a situation that could be unsafe for everyone involved.”  The mayor seemed to be stating the facts out of order.  “The building wasn’t made for crowds that size.  The parking lot can’t hold all the cars.”  About then a gust of wind kicked up and all the men seated on the one side of the picnic table glanced at Alessandra’s robe.

“What do you propose?” Nicholas was willing to hear their offer, and didn’t bother to glance at Alessandra, already completely familiar with the contents of her robe.

“Same schedule.  Different location.”  The mayor tipped his hat back on his head, as he did when negotiations started getting serious.  “The National Guard Armory.”  He sat back a little, as if the reaction to that was going to be akin to getting booked at Radio City Music Hall in New York City.  The look on Nicholas’ face didn’t change.

“We can get five times the number of people in the Armory.  More for you and your little filly.  More for us.”  The mayor took a long sip from his second Dixie cup of liquid courage, and then waited for some type of response from Nicholas.  He didn’t get one.

“Of course, with that venue comes more overhead.  Someone to direct parking.  Someone taking tickets at the door.  Police presence.  Concessions.”  The mayor tried to make sure he listed everything that had been talked about.  “For that, the split will have to change. It’ll be 50/50.  Smaller piece.  Bigger pie.  Better for you and your lady friend in the long run, and better for Fort Stockton, too.”  The mayor rubbed his belly like he’d just finished a dessert.

Nicholas was quiet for a moment.  Reflecting.  Stroking his chin with his dark, manicured fingers.  “Five days,” he said.  “Nothing on Sunday, nor Monday.”  He glanced at Alessandra.  “We need time to relax.  The split remains the same, 60/40.  I like my pie just as it is, regardless of its relative size.”

The mayor did his best to dissuade Nicholas from his position, but realized he didn’t really hold any cards.  Nicholas hadn’t asked for the deal, and without him and Alessandra, there was nothing to promote.  The others looked at the mayor, hoping he had something left to negotiate.  His elbow knocked his Dixie cup off the table in yet another display of his clumsiness.  Alessandra bent over to pick it up and her robe slid up over what appeared to be two pastries more heavenly than anything that had ever been displayed in the Piggly Wiggly bakery case.  She seemed to take just a moment or two extra to fetch the paper cup.

Back at city hall, the mayor relayed the hard bargain he’d driven and the fact that the committee got almost everything they hoped for, brushing over the fact that Nicholas had actually called all the shots.

By spring, 1949, the armory was as packed as the Lucky Lady had been.  People from as far away as Saragossa made their way to Fort Stockton to dance and gawk and drink and forget about those who’d been lost in the war and the fact that things were never going to be like they were before it started.  Friends met and became more than friends.  Milestones were celebrated by following the lead of Nicholas and Alessandra on the dance floor and learning the steps they taught.

Because of alcohol being served, the daring dance moves displayed, and the costumes Alessandra wore that showed more meat than the butcher counter at the Piggly Wiggly, no one under 18 years of age was allowed in.  But youth on a mission were an inventive bunch and many figured out a way to observe what took place inside.  Groups from Jim Bowie High would routinely gather a block away and make their way to the windows with lawn chairs and have a front row seat to the goings-on inside the armory.  Many came equipped with their own adult refreshments, either purchased illegally at the Eggs-N-Ammo or lifted from the ice boxes and liquor cabinets of their unsuspecting parents.  The effect it had on them went beyond a new appreciation for dance.

As the young people gazed through the windows of the armory they saw their parents laughing and smiling as they spun around the floor, something they never saw at home.  “Good Lord,” the Johnson boy exclaimed, “my mom looks kind of sexy out there!”  The moment he said it he wished he hadn’t.  But his best buddies from the football team cocked their heads, looked at Mrs. Johnson, and silently agreed.

The couple who’d breezed into town in an ash and mahogany sheathed Cadillac pulling a seafoam green and cream Vagabond trailer were just what Fort Stockton needed.  Until they weren’t.

Soon, over the sounds of Adolfo Carabelli, Juan D’Arienzo, and Angel D’Agostino playing on the loudspeakers of the armory to the rhythmless stomps and sways of Fort Stockton’s masses, came the cries of Brother Rolland and the congregation at Second Baptist that the Tango was just Satan in disguise, coming for the souls of the weak.  “And they’re doing it on the hallowed ground that should only be used by those who fight to protect our freedoms,” Brother Rolland let it be known.

It was like a tornado warning at first.  Nobody took it seriously.  But then, the Willacy girl got pregnant and it was intimated that she’d been one of those caught drinking and peering lustfully into the window of the armory, stirring thoughts of impure desire that her boyfriend, Tommy Weser then took advantage of with the use of alcohol and male persuasion.  Truth of the matter, Tommy Weser had been bending Sheila Willacy over a barrel and showing her the 48 states since before the summer of their junior year at Jim Bowie and they had never even been part of the group outside the window of the armory.  

The  episode of dipping the crane in the oil well that resulted in Sheila’s ill-timed conception actually took place in a Tommy’s Plymouth coupe just outside Seguin, Texas during a youth camp sponsored by Second Baptist.  Tommy had repeatedly told her that if she’d stand up right after the act, she wouldn’t conceive.  She listened, despite the wet blanket it threw on after-play, and took him at his word.  Turns out Tommy knew almost nothing about such matters, and had only shared that information because he’d been too embarrassed to go into the Rex Hall Drug and purchase legitimate protection.   None of those facts were ones Sheila or her mother were willing to share to clear up Brother Rolland’s invalid arguments against the events taking place at the armory.

In fact, a large portion of those who paid for lessons or enjoyed the performances of Nicholas and Alessandra were members of Second Baptist.  Those who weren’t attended one of the other places of worship in town, as folks didn’t think of themselves as Texan or even American if they didn’t worship on a regular basis.  But most of them had come to appreciate the benefits of higher heart rates and physical exercise that went along with learning the Tango, or at least watching others learn it.  Not to mention the same elevated heart rates that occurred once they got home and crawled in between the Percale sheets from the J.C. Penny that had been fairly dormant for quite a long while.

But once on a mission he felt was directly inspired by God, Brother Rolland was like a pit bull.  The combination of dance and alcohol taking place under the roof  of a place meant to defend us from just such things became an inspiration.  Almost a Crusade, but without the horses and armor, which were difficult to maintain and clean up after.

Privately, the mayor tried to dissuade Brother Rolland from his efforts, noting the windfall to the town that the events at the armory provided.  While noting his point, Brother Bob refused to give in on his mission.  “We’ll hold weekly revivals at the armory to take the place of the tormented temptations of the Tango.  The crowds will be even bigger and we’ll split the parking.”  The mayor nodded, but could clearly see his cash cow being sacrificed on the altar of righteous indignation.

Brother Rolland scheduled an emergency meeting of the Board of Elders to address the situation and formulate a campaign to bring the Tango and all the sins that followed it to a halt.  It was difficult to schedule because two thirds of the elders were taking Tango lessons and didn’t want to miss any of the new steps being taught.  Several were more than a little irritated when their wives elected to go without them, Nicholas serving as a stand-in for their missing spouses.

In a brilliant strategic move, Brother Rolland enlisted the help of Imogene Dickens, a top-tier tither of significant influence.  In exchange for getting her arch rival Lucy-Lynn Lavaca off the altar decorating committee, Imogene agreed to throw her considerable weight and generous funding to drive a nail into the coffin of the Tango and bring the denizens of Fort Stockton back to their senses.  The elders fell in line, much to the dismay of their wives.  The result was a return to crisp Percale sheets all over town.

Eventually, the elders of Second Baptist and the elected members of the town council, many of them serving in both positions, agreed to terminate the agreement with the armory and head out to the Flamingo Trailer Park to deliver the news to Nicholas and Alessandra themselves.  Many of them were secretly thinking about just what Alessandra might be wearing, but knew that based on the light dusting of snow Fort Stockton had recently received they were not likely to be met with the same taunting visuals they might have been in warmer weather.  They knew, however, that even in Levi 501s and a Pendleton sweater she would be a vision to behold.

Piled into the ’48 Chevrolet Fleetmaster Station Wagon provided by Cactus Chevrolet, Brother Rolland volunteered to do the talking once they got to the Flamingo.  The Good Book was in the breast pocket of his cheap white suit, verses marked with torn pieces of the bulletin from last Sunday’s service for quick reference.  The mayor was mulling over other draws to the armory that would replace the revenue stream, once the dust settled.  The guys in the middle seat were wondering just what they might do to get their wives back to the bedroom to wrinkle the sheets like they had while learning the Tango.  In the way-back seat, Arn Armstrong silently wondered what it would be like to do the Open Step, Forward Cross, and Back Cross steps in Nicholas’ arms.

By the time the Fleetmaster reached the Flamingo, the 216.5 cubic inch  inline-six was wheezing, almost as much as Arn in the back seat.  Brother Rolland was finalizing the decision on which verse to start off with, as well as how he was going to tell Lucy-Lynn Lavaca her eye for alter decor was no longer needed.  The mayor was rolling around in his mind the idea of gun shows at the armory.  As they made their way to the back of the Flamingo where the Vagabond had been parked for better than seven months, the sun was falling towards the horizon on the bluff beyond the trailer park.

Turning the final corner, the Chevy wagon full of Fort Stockton’s best was met with . . .  nothing.

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The campsite was empty.  No Cadillac covered in wood.  No seafoam green and cream Vagabond trailer.  No Nicholas.  More alarmingly, no Alessandra.  The slip where the Vagabond had been parked was empty as the reasons the group had brought with them.  The mayor pulled the Fleetmaster into the spot where the Vagabond had been and the men rolled out of it like clowns disembarking from a clown car at the Ringling Brothers Circus that came to town every spring.

The site was perfectly tidy, the trash emptied, the patio swept clean.  The only thing the mysteriously talented couple had left behind in their exit was a card thumbtacked to the corner of the picnic table.  On the card was written, in beautiful feminine penmanship, the recipe for the sangria concoction Alessandra had provided folks for refreshment.  Dangling from the thumbtack that stuck the card to the old pine picnic table were the red stiletto high-heeled dancing shoes she’d worn.

Brother Rolland was as blue as the mayor’s Chevy, not being able to use any of the inspiration he’d been practicing.  The mayor was silently working out the details of gun shows at the armory.  The rest were relieved they didn’t have to witness the confrontation, and thought about how they could spin the situation when they got home, chalking up the demise of the Tango lessons to inevitability rather than anything they’d done.

Folks in town went through the stages of grief at the loss of the Tango lessons.  There was denial.  People just couldn’t believe it was over.  Then anger.  Brother Rolland and the mayor faced a backlash.  Then bargaining.  Men fingering out what things other than Tango lessons could reignite the spark.  Lawns were mowed more often.  K-Bob’s business picked up, as wives didn’t have to cook as often.  Depression was a factor for many.  The Board of Elders in particular felt as though they’d been used, and had nothing to show for it.  Lucy-Lynn Lavaca left the church and started attending Almost United Methodist.  The altar at AUMC never looked better.  And finally, acceptance.

By the early fifties, most folks had forgotten all about the Tango lessons.  With the advent of TV, the idea of folks gathering at the armory to dance together and reconnect with their partner seemed almost quaint.  Every once in a while, someone would mention that a relative had heard about a couple in a wood covered Cadillac and Vagabond trailer in some other part of the state.  Austin was mentioned a lot.  Occasionally San Antonio.  Once or  twice, even Fort Worth, but never Dallas, ironically.

Most folks around Fort Stockton now aren’t even aware of what took place at the armory in late 1948 and early 1949 anymore.  But the handful that remember the story say that if you go out to the Flamingo Trailer Park and make your way to the very back at just the right time of day, usually around sunset, you can catch the subtle tones of Anibal Troilo playing backup while Francisco Fiorentino sings vocals that fade out over the bluff like a gentle wind.

And over at the Grounds for Divorce, next to the register, just to the left of the Bunn-O-Matic, under a piece of glass that has a chip and far more scratches that it should, there’s a faded recipe card for Sangria written in feminine cursive that Lucinda only shares with her very best customers.  The ones who show up every day, looking for a story to go with their Folgers.

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