Death by Polka

Chapter 8

8An hour and forty-five minutes later, Eddie and I pulled up to the curb in front of what had once been Saint Adalbert Church’s activities hall. It was “Polka Central” now, according to the brightly colored sign mounted above the front door.

To me, that translated as “Pure Hell.” Have I mentioned I can’t stand polka?

“Here we are.” Eddie gestured at the blocky old red brick building. Morning sunlight glinted off the stained glass rose window set under the front peak of the roof. “Welcome to the offices of Polish Lou Enterprises. Also the studios of the Kocham Taniec radio show. A live broadcast is in progress as we speak.” With that, he turned off the engine of his ‘95 silver Ford pickup. When the engine noise cut off, the sound of music swelled to replace it.

And I instantly wanted to be elsewhere. I’d had enough polka music at Dad’s wake the day before to last me another fifteen years...but there it was again.

The sounds of a fast-paced polka number blared from the open double doors on the front of the building. Inside, I could see people spinning and dancing across the floor in time with the music.

“Take me back to the motel.” I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. “I feel a headache coming on. A nasty one.”

“Hey now.” Eddie patted my shoulder. “I’ve got your back, remember? We’ll get through this together.”

“I can’t deal with more polka, Eddie.” I groaned and slumped in my seat. “It’s killing me.”

“You better stop that kind of talk if you want to run with Polish Peg,” said Eddie. “Anyway, I’m a polka musician, in case you hadn’t noticed. You used to be one, too.”

Suddenly, I remembered one of the things I hated about being around people who knew me back in the day: they’re more likely to bring up things I’d rather forget.

Back in L.A., I could complain about polka as much I liked without feeling hypocritical. But good ol’ Eddie had to bring up the fact that I’d once played the accordion in Dad’s band, Polish Fly.

And I’d been damned good at it.

“I’d rather not discuss that.” Flipping down the visor, I checked myself in the mirror. I was much improved since the shower and fresh makeup, but the circles under my eyes had yet to fade. The concealer I’d applied just wasn’t doing its job. At least the white button-down blouse I’d put on looked fresh.

“Why not discuss it?” said Eddie. “You kicked ass, Lot. You were so much better than me, I was jealous. No foolin’.”

“That was a long time ago.” I tucked a few stray strands of black hair behind my ears. I was glad I’d taken the time to wash and braid it, restoring order to the meltdown of yesterday’s once elegant coiled up-do.

“I bet you’ve still got it.” Eddie grinned and nodded. “Once a button-boxer, always a button-boxer.”

“Not me.” I turned my head left, then right for a last check in the mirror. Satisfied, I snapped the visor back up against the ceiling. “I’m more a hip hop girl these days.”

“Oh yeah?” Eddie drummed a little rhythm on the top of the steering wheel. “Fifty bucks says you’ve still got it.”

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?