“Hey!” Andy said, surprised by Tony’s anger, wondering how such a simple bit of clowning around had gotten so out of hand. “I—”
“You going to play straight or not?” Tony roared.
“Well...” Andy paused. The humor of the situation had somehow slipped away from everyone, but something else had replaced it. Andy weighed the something else, knowing he’d been called, and knowing he should not back down with Bud and Frank watching him. But at the same time he did not know how to handle Tony’s unexpected anger.
“Take off those goddamn gloves,” Tony said, “and let’s cut out the kidding around. I got enough on my mind without—”
“My hands are cold,” Andy said stubbornly, unwilling to give in.
“Well, my hands are cold, too! Now, look, you little crumb, are you going to—”
“Now watch that,” Andy said. “Just watch that, Banner.”
“Watch what? What the hell are you going to do about my watching it?”
The situation had become alarming now. He did not want a fight with Tony, but there seemed no other way out. Unless, unless he could swing things back to being funny again. If he could do that...
“Look, Swahili,” he started, spreading his palms, smiling.
Tony dropped his horn onto the chair seat. The dropping horn made an ominous clatter, and the clatter echoed from the high-ceilinged room. Before Andy fully realized what was happening, Tony’s fist was twisted in the collar of his coat. He felt himself being yanked to his feet, felt his horn slipping off his lap, and then he saw Tony’s other fist cocked and ready to fire.
“Hey! What the hell—” he started, but Tony threw the fist, and it caught him on his cheek and sent him falling back into the chair, the horn falling and crashing to the floor.
“My horn!” he shouted, and he stooped to retrieve it, but Tony had his hand twisted in the collar again, and Andy’s fingers scrabbled for the horn as Tony yanked him upright, and he couldn’t reach or touch the glistening brass. He wondered why Bud or Frank didn’t stop what was happening, wondered why they weren’t moving from where they sat, and he thought suddenly of his lip, wishing Tony’s fist would not damage his lip, panic smashing into his mind as he visualized a split lip. He stumbled forward, pulled by Tony, expecting the blow at any moment, tensing himself for the sharp impact of the knuckles. The blow did not come. Tony pulled him very close, almost mashing his nose against Andy’s, but he did not hit him.
“Look, you bastard,” he said. “I’m leader of this band, you understand? That means what I say goes. I say we’re here to rehearse, and if you don’t like what I say, you can get the hell out. Now is that plain enough for you?”
“It’s plain enough,” Andy said tightly. “Let go my coat.”
“If you want to—”
“Let go my coat!” Andy shouted.
“If you want to rehearse with us, you—”
Andy shoved out at Tony’s chest, surprising him, breaking the grip. He whirled, pulling away and rushing to where his horn lay on the stage. He lifted the horn and examined it carefully, holding it tenderly, like a mother with a new baby. Satisfied it was not damaged, he stood up, swung his trumpet case onto the seat of his chair, and unsnapped it. He did not speak until he had packed the trumpet away. He did not speak because the anger inside him made it impossible to speak without stuttering. Frank and Bud had deserted him. The thought kept pounding at his mind, and simultaneously he remembered the day Vic Andrada had quit the band, and the memory became large in his mind, taking on importance now, significance he had missed when it happened. They had let Vic go in his favor. They’d been willing to let Vic walk out, for him! There was still a chance. There was a chance they’d still come to his rescue, Bud and Frank, sitting there solemnly. He had to be careful. He did not want to sound the way Vic had sounded, but he wanted to brandish his weapon, and his weapon was talent.
“This is it, Swahili,” he said tightly.
Tony balled his fists, ready to jump forward again. Andy wet the muscle ring, hoping he was playing this right, anticipating the apologetic interference he felt sure would come.
“I warned you—” Tony started.
“Swahili, I don’t give a damn what you—”
“You’d better shut your mouth, Andy. You’d just better—”
“Blow it out, Swahili,” Andy said. “You’re leader of the band, huh? Well, okay, leader. Rehearse without a trumpet! Play your goddamn wedding job without a trumpet, leader!”
“What are you talking about?”
“What does it sound like? You made it plain, and now I’ll make it plainer. I’m leaving. If you don’t like the way I blow my horn, that’s too goddamn bad. There are a lot of outfits who’d like it fine.”
Tony paled. Placatingly, he said, “There’s nothing wrong when you—”
Andy pressed his advantage. “You ever hear of Artie Parker?” He knew they’d all heard of Parker. Parker’s band was not big time, but it was a well-known local outfit which played at most of the weddings and dances in the neighborhood. “Well, Parker asked me to go along with him,” Andy hurled. “I told him no, but that was last week. I’m beginning to change my mind now.” He waited for some reaction from Frank or Bud. Frank’s mouth was compressed into a tight line. Bud seemed to be studying the situation, waiting for something, waiting for what, what? And now even Tony called the bluff, apparently figuring all was lost, anyway.
“Parker’s welcome to you,” he said flatly. “Good-by, quitter.”
“Damn right he’s welcome to me,” Andy said, still trying. “You go get Vic Andrada, Tony. He’ll do a lot for the band’s sound.”
“Get out of here, you little bastard,” Tony said whitely.
“Strong man,” Andy mocked. “Muscles Banner.”
“Get out!” Tony roared. “Get out of here!”
“You’ll bust a blood vessel,” Bud said suddenly, quietly. “Relax, Tony.”
Tony whirled on Bud. “I don’t want him around any more. I don’t want this little crumb anywhere near me.”
Bud’s eyes did not leave Tony’s face. It was almost as if Andy were no longer in the room. Quietly, coldly, he said, “Then I guess you don’t want me either, Tony.”
“What?” Tony said. “What?”
“If Andy goes, I go,” Bud said.
“What!” Tony blinked his eyes. “What? What?”
“Come on, Andy,” Bud said. Andy swung his trumpet case up, astonished. He followed Bud off the stage. Slowly they walked to the door, a vast silence behind them. The gym was very quiet and very cold. Andy could see his own hurried breath pluming whitely from his mouth. Bud opened the door, and they stepped outside, and then Bud whirled, pulling the door shut with one hand, grasping Andy’s collar with the other.
“Now listen to me, you stupid bastard,” he said, his eyes blazing. “We’re going back in there! We’re going back in there, and you’re going to apologize to Tony, and you’re going to play that goddamn horn the way you know how, or I’ll personally break it over your head. Have you got that?”