*Tyler’s* was the only place in town to see worse dancing than the school gym during prom. Sometimes, when the last student had left, Ms. Tyler and the night-class instructor would try coping with the horrors of the evening. For example, this newcomer in sandals whose dancing, seemingly motivated by pure hatred for rhythm and grace, awoke in Ms. Tyler an urge to smash in his kneecaps with a bottle of champagne to avenge what he had done to Waltz and Hustle.
*“I think they’re just checking what we’ll put up with, you know?”*, Joseph said after an impressive performance with his left leg dancing in 3/4 and his right one in 4/4. *“Just fucking with us.”*
*“I had a guy here with cerebral palsy and he got more done on his very first day than Sandals Guy after five weeks”*, Ms. Tyler said. *“Make me a martini or two, Joseph dear, will you please? One more class like this  and I may as well sign myself up for AA. Pour yourself one, too.”*
They took the drinks outside, and when they had finished, spent some time watching the ice cubes melt in the warm summer night. Then, Ms. Tyler told Joseph how they would steal Komaki Weizbaum’s house.

Joseph was squinting his eyes and massaging his nasal bridge. *”So we sell her house?”*
Ms. Tyler nodded.
*”Cause she’s trying to get rid of it anyways?”*
Another nod.
*”So why’s it theft?”*
Ms. Tyler sighed, got up and headed for the bar. She returned with two olives and the bottle of gin, and repeated what she had learned about Ms. Weizbaum over a bottle of wine after last week’s Mambo class.
Komaki was a second generation Japanese immigrant, married young, husband a heir to a dying family conglomerate, but wholly uninterested in it - caring about nothing but surfing and cooking. So Komaki took care of business, finding herself quite amazing at it. It quickly became a highly profitable endeavour, and Komaki - rich.
Then manly, loud, chubby Joel Weizbaum noticed after 20 years that marriage wasn’t his thing but rather, men were. He left for Italy,  throwing his heirloom onto Komaki in return for a small private aliment.  Mrs. Weizbaum had spent the last years living alone in the gigantic mansion. Twice a week two Mexicans would come over to clean, half of the time she was on business trips, and that was it. Since there’s no reason for 40-year old, separated, *reasonable* 100-pound women living on tea crumpets and the thrill of accounting to own houses the size of a Walmart, she put it up for sale, at five and a half million.

*”So that’s what she’s told me. Now comes the exciting part.”*
Joseph didn’t look excited.
*”Next week, she’ll be out of town”*, Ms. Tyler continued. *Cut some deal in Detroit. The week after, you and I’ll be loaded.”*
Afterwards, Ms. Tyler still wasn’t sure he had understood the plan quite yet, so she mentioned the part about the millions again. That didn’t seem to connect with Joseph either - as if he couldn't imagine himself as a rich guy.
*Maybe lack of brains is a benefit for dancing a Salsa that will make nuns moist, and helping me commit a crime*, she thought, and when she arose to lock up, the room, held back by all the gin, needed a moment to catch up with her, and she hoped she wasn’t making a terrible mistake.