Chapter 11: Clause Nine, Sir

It turned out the scariest man in Baltimore could not waltz.

The Harbor Gala opens with the chairman's dance, and Cain had been chairman for six years.

For six years, he had let the vice chairman's wife dance in his place and called it tradition.

This year the vice chairman's wife had a broken ankle, and the Board expected a girlfriend.

"One, two, three," Cain said, in a flat voice.

"You're counting out loud."

"I have to."

"You don't. You have to feel the one. Then the rest comes after."

We were in his kitchen on Thursday night with the table pushed against the wall.

A waltz was playing from my phone on the counter.

His kitchen is the size of my whole apartment, and he had never cooked in it.

I stood in my stocking feet in front of the refrigerator and held up my arms.

"Hand on my waist," I said. "Other hand in mine."

He looked at my waist and did not move.

"Clause nine."

"Rehearsal is a professional duty. It's in the appendix."

"There's an appendix?"

"I wrote it myself this morning. It's very short."

He put his hand on my waist.

It was a careful hand, and it didn't know where to go. His fingers landed on my ribs, then moved down an inch, and rested.

"Now step back with your right foot," I said.

He stepped forward with his left.

His shoe came down on my toes.

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