“You think your, uh, Mr. Garrett will be back by Friday?” I asked. “I mean, it’s worrisome that he wouldn’t say why he skipped today, don’t you think? Ditto the fact that he’s gone out of cell-phone range?”
These were neither nice nor helpful questions for me to ask. But then, I wasn’t as nice or helpful a guy as I had once been.
This time, Elizabeth stayed cool. “David has a brother in some sort of difficulty. He hasn’t volunteered details, and I haven’t asked. But I think that’s why he’s absent. In any case, he won’t let down the band. In fact, he was here yesterday, on a Sunday. We both were, installing new padlocks on the instrument cabinets. David paid for them out of his own pocket, by the way.” She took a breath. “And now I’m asking myself why you should care.”
“Hey, I just want to help out if I can,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I could learn how to conduct by Friday.”
“Ah. I’ll keep that in mind.” She was ready for me to leave.
But I wasn’t. “Speaking of new padlocks, the deputy out front told me about the instrument theft.” He hadn’t, exactly. But it was only a small lie. “That gonna be a problem for my class today?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No. In fact, one of the stolen instruments—the tuba—has been returned. It magically appeared on the cafeteria loading dock yesterday morning. I guess the thief realized the banda black market doesn’t want sit-down instruments. When you mash polka, cumbia, ranchera, and pop together, nobody sits. Especially not the bass-horn players.”
I knew it had to be Marisa who had returned the tuba although I didn’t know why. And I had already figured, even before seeing how Carlos had been dressed, that the sousaphones had been stolen for resale to banda players—maybe in Texas, maybe in Mexico. Who the hell else would want them? “That’s why I prefer electric blues. You can sit or stand, you don’t have to pucker or blow, and you don’t drip spit all over the place. Unless you’re a drummer. Plus you don’t have to take orders from bass players.”
Now Elizabeth gave me a small but genuine smile. “I remember,” she said. Then she stood, stepped to the door, and put her hand on the knob. “As it happens, we have a pretty good bass-horn player here in our little school band. You’ll see.” The bell rang, and she opened the door. “Now you’re late.”
I stood up, looked at her, and had a pang. “I’ll bet Annie would have played something.” The words were out before I knew I was saying them.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, and I wished I had bitten off my tongue instead of thinking out loud.
Then her eyes were open again, and we were back in the present.
She opened the door. “The band room is in the new annex, away from the other classrooms. Just this side of the hallway exit to the rear parking lot. Go down the hallway between the cafeteria and the gym, and then—”
I stepped past her. “I’ll just follow the sound of puppies being kicked.”
Elizabeth closed the door behind me, and I strode past the counter where Lester was still leaning over his coffee.
“You able to hear all of that?” I asked.
He gave me a bleary look. “I have to find my entertainment somewhere. It’s not like I get to stay home and watch the soaps with my wife. She’d stab me.”
“I don’t blame her, Lester.”
“Nobody does.”
I hit the outer office door and stepped into the now-empty hallway. I would have been feeling pretty good if I had only left Elizabeth’s office a minute sooner. After all, spending time with Elizabeth always made me feel good. The key was to keep it short.
But then, some things tend to be self-limiting.
7. Cetacean Flatulence
Marisa was short and slight, and the Gronitz tuba looked bigger than she was. When she held it propped on her lap in playing position, all I could see was a tangle of brass with a pair of feet in white sneakers.
But from the top row of the terraced band room, she bellowed orders and counted off time like a drill sergeant. And just as Elizabeth had said, the other kids respected her.
There were only fifty-six of them, but that was the biggest band Kingman had ever had. And they were good. Especially Marisa. She even took the solo on “Stars and Stripes Forever” that you usually hear played by a piccolo. And every note from the tuba was rapid-fire, articulate, and perfect.
Well, to be honest, every note sounded like a whale fart to me. But it was a rapid-fire, articulate, and perfect whale fart.
I was impressed. Also puzzled. The kid obviously loved playing in this rinky-dink high-school band. So how could she be part of the sousaphone-stealing ring that had ripped it off? Had she regretted it since she had brought back the tuba? Or had she only brought back the tuba because she had realized she wouldn’t have a decent horn to play otherwise?
Her co-conspirators and their buyer knew what she’d done. And their buyer packed a stupid-huge pistol loaded with shotgun shells. Which he wasn’t afraid to use. Regardless of her reasons, shouldn’t that have made Marisa think twice about returning the Gronitz?
None of those questions should have mattered to me. Marisa was a little crook, so I had stolen from her and her little-crook friends because stealing from crooks was what I did. Her motives weren’t my problem. Nor were her consequences.
But sitting in on the band rehearsal made it tough to quash my curiosity. Two of Marisa’s fellow gangsters were here with her. Kaylee, wearing another BAD BRASS T-shirt and playing trumpet, was seated one level down from Marisa. And Jared was on the bottom level, to the left of the conductor’s stool where I was perched. He was one of eight clarinet players, seated in the first chair. I assumed that meant he was hot stuff.
When I had come into the room at the top of the period, the first thing I had seen was the back of Jared’s KINGMAN COUGAR BAND T-shirt. It read WICKED WOOD.
“Guess it ain’t bragging if it’s true,” I had said.
Jared’s response had been, “Huh?”
Now, as the period wound down and “Stars and Stripes Forever” ended with a huge whale fart from the entire band, I rubbed my ears and pondered how to spend my upcoming free hour. Not the teacher’s lounge, where substitutes were treated like chicken-pox carriers and naps were impossible. The janitor’s closets smelled funny. And my Toyota didn’t have reclining seats like Deputy Beeswax’s Chrysler. So the band instructor’s office, marked by a door and a blind-covered window in the rehearsal room’s south wall, was my first choice.
Besides, what I really wanted was a chance to rummage through David Garrett’s desk. Maybe “Know your enemy” didn’t quite apply, but “Know your replacement” did.
Of course, the door might be locked. Which wouldn’t stop me. But I would have to wait until the kids were gone.
When the last note had stopped reverberating, Marisa stood with the tuba propped on her left hip, leaning far to the right for balance. “All right, let’s make sure Mr. Garrett doesn’t cancel the show!” she yelled. “Woodwinds, don’t leave your cruddy old reeds on the floor! Brass, mop up your spit! Percussion, get out of the way! If your instrument stays here, pack it up fast. Three minutes!”
She leaned down to the tuba mouthpiece and played seven quick notes: Shave-and-a-hair-cut, two-bits!
Not a single student looked toward me for confirmation but began following Marisa’s orders with case-snapping clatter. I just stayed where I was and kept watching Marisa, Kaylee, and Jared. None of them looked guilty or nervous as a result of their criminal weekend. But then, I supposed I didn’t either.