A Song for the Asking

by Steve Gannon

  “Aw, hell, Dan. I know what you’re trying to say. I love them, too. I’m their godfather, remember? I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to let them know once in a … Hold on. What have we here?”

  Kane and Arnie watched as a battered Plymouth pulled to the curb in front of Sylvia Martin’s apartment building.

  Kane raised his binoculars as two men stepped out. The driver was a heavyset Hispanic around six feet tall with long black hair and a mustache. The other, an Anglo, stood at least a head taller and carried a heavy coat slung over his right arm. “Pay dirt, Arnie. The driver is Escobar. I don’t recognize the other guy. And what’s with the coat?”

  Arnie grabbed the handset. “Everybody sit tight. Deluca, start recording. Whatever happens in that apartment when they get there, I want on tape. Banowski, be ready to roll. If they decide to leave, we’ll maintain a three-car surveillance and see where they take us. And make sure that … What the hell?”

  Both Kane and Arnie stared in amazement as Special Agents Marcus and Tinley’s maroon Ford executed a screeching U-turn and roared down the block, squealing to a stop inches from the suspects’ bumper. Kane slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Damn! They must have been listening in on our tac frequency.”

  Marcus jumped from the passenger side of the FBI vehicle, his identification in one hand and service weapon in the other. Just as he started his routine, the front door of the apartment building opened and a young Chicano couple stepped arm in arm to the street. The kid was wearing a Dodgers jacket; his girlfriend had on a Grateful Dead T-shirt and an abbreviated pair of cutoff jeans. Tinley, who had exited from the other side of the car, attempted to signal them back inside. Without warning the coat covering the tall suspect’s hand began to jump and shudder, as if some invisible force were ripping it apart from within.

  An instant later Kane heard the staccato of automatic-weapon fire echoing down the street.

  *

  “Mom … Allison called me a baby.”

  With a sigh, Catheryn Kane stopped outside the artists’ entrance to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and set her cello case on the sidewalk. Tall and graceful, with a full, passionate mouth and a determined set to her jaw, she was an uncommonly attractive woman of thirty-eight. Her skin was smooth and clear, except for a delicate fretwork of lines that radiated from the corners of her startling green eyes, and her long auburn hair, just beginning to show a rare trace of gray, fell to her shoulders in thick, luxuriant folds. “Allison?” she said, turning to regard her daughter. “Is that true?”

  “Not exactly,” Allison answered with a sanctimonious shrug. “I merely noted it might be time for him to change his diapers.”

  Nate glowered at his older sister with all the belligerence he could muster. “Yeah, and it might be time for you to get a closeup view of my knuckles,” he warned.

  “Hush, you two,” said Catheryn. “I know it’s hot, but squabbling isn’t going to make things any better. You both know what this audition means to me. You said you wanted to come, and I expect you to behave.”

  “I will if the midget-sized booger factory will.”

  “Allison,” said Catheryn sternly. “Enough.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Allison, sensing the approach of a threshold in her mother’s patience.

  “This is a closed audition,” Catheryn reminded them, picking up her cello case. “You’re not even supposed to be here, so I certainly don’t want you drawing attention to yourselves by quarreling. Now, let’s go in. And no more fighting.”

  Catheryn led her children into the Pavilion through a pair of street-level doors on North Grand, instructing them to wait for her by the elevator while she stopped to register at the desk. Several times, as she waited for the guard to find her name on the audition list, she glanced across the room to check on them, making sure they were staying out of trouble. As had all the Kane children, they’d both inherited their father’s mercurial temperament, along with his unmanageably thick, reddish hair. Compact and sturdy, with a smattering of freckles traversing the bridge of his nose and the curliest locks of the clan, Nate most reminded her of Kane, even though Nate had yet to experience the explosive growth of adolescence. Allison, on the other hand, had turned fifteen that April and had already embarked on an uneven rush toward maturity. Her arms and legs, graceless and gangly as a foal’s, seemed too long for her torso, her sinewy chest more suited to a boy. As usual, she was dressed in a shell of loose, baggy clothing, her untamable mass of rust-colored hair hidden beneath a floppy-brimmed hat. Her face was freckled and plain, but behind her self-conscious smile, frequent and mischievous, lay an indomitable feistiness that warmed Catheryn’s heart.

  Once she had finished registering, Catheryn joined them by the elevator. When she arrived, Allison asked, “What do you think Dad will say when you tell him you’re going to play with the Philharmonic?”

  “He’ll be mad you didn’t tell him about the audition first, that’s for sure,” Nat piped up.

  “Not necessarily. And this is just an audition,” said Catheryn, nervously brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead. “I haven’t got the position yet. If I’m lucky enough to be selected, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Anyway, it’s only for thirteen weeks.”

  Allison glanced through an open door into the performers’ lounge, noticing the large number of cellists already present. Several more had already lined up at the registration desk. “I thought this was just a fill-in job while your friend Adele has her baby. Seems like an awful lot of people trying for the spot.”

  “Playing with the Philharmonic is a great honor,” said Catheryn, a trace of dismay evident in her voice as she too noticed the surprising number of auditioning musicians. “I guess a lot of people want it.”

  The elevator door chimed open. All three entered, exiting one floor up into a busy area behind the main stage. After a short search Catheryn spotted Adele Washington, a loquacious young African-American in her early thirties. “Kate! Where have you been?” Adele called, hurrying toward them. “Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you?”

  “Hi, Adele. Traffic was terrible on the Santa Monica Freeway,” explained Catheryn. “I’ve been rushing all morning, and now I’m so nervous, I don’t know whether I can keep my hands steady enough to play. Is Arthur here yet?”

  Arthur West, the Philharmonic’s principal cellist, would be conducting the audition. Catheryn had known Arthur since her undergraduate days at USC, and in years past he had served as a source of referrals for the young cellists she tutored two afternoons a week. Catheryn knew that one of Arthur’s more gifted students would be vying for the position today, along with a host of other musicians who, like her, had been invited to participate based on résumés and performance tapes submitted earlier that year.

  “Arthur?” said Adele distractedly, glancing about the room. “He’s here somewhere. Listen, you had better get warmed up. By the way, the music director will be sitting in.”

  Catheryn paled. “The music director?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll do fine,” said Adele reassuringly. “By the way, as this is for a temporary position, they’re dispensing with using a screen for the preliminary rounds,” she added, referring to the Philharmonic’s customary procedure, to ensure impartiality, of having prospective orchestra members play behind a concealing panel during early rounds of an audition.

  “When are you having your baby?” Nate broke in, staring at Adele’s bulging stomach.

  Adele smiled, seeming to notice the children for the first time. “I’m due in September, honey,” she answered, taking Nate’s hand. “Probably right around Labor Day,” she added with a chuckle. “Come on, I’ll take you and your sister down to the performers’ lounge. You’re going to have to wait for your mom there.”

  “Can’t we watch?” asked Allison.

  Adele shook her head. “Rules.”

  “You knew that, Ali,” Catheryn said firmly. “Anyway, the lounge is right below the stage. You sh
ould be able to hear most of what’s going on from down there.”

  “Aw, Mom …”

  “Go on, now. I’ll see you afterward. Wish me luck.”

  “Okay,” said Allison reluctantly. “Knock ’em dead.”

  “Yeah. Break your legs, Mom,” added Nate.

  Resisting an impulse to fire off a vitriolic comment regarding her brother’s ignorance, Allison followed Adele as she escorted them back to the elevator. “We can find our own way down to the lounge if you want,” Allison offered when they reached the elevator door.

  Adele pushed the button, then glanced distractedly at her watch. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I’ve been here lots of times.”

  “I do have to get back. We’ll be starting soon,” said Adele gratefully. “Do you need anything? Money for the vending machines?”

  “No, thanks. Don’t worry; we’ll be fine.”

  “All right, then. See you afterward.”

  After her mother’s friend had departed, Allison quickly pulled Nate toward a small door set in the right wing of the stage.

  “Where are we going?” Nate asked, fighting to free himself from his sister’s grasp.

  “Shhh. Do you want to hear Mom play or not?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Then shut up and follow me.”

  Allison swung open the stage door and peered through. The hallway outside was empty. “Come on,” she said. With a guilty rush of excitement, she dragged Nate through and hurried down a passage to the left. A moment later, Nate still in tow, she paused at the entrance to the darkened auditorium beyond, her eyes taking in the breathtaking expanse of the deserted room.

  On either side, broad wood panels soared to a distant ceiling, rising ever higher in a bold march to the back before plunging in graceful, unbroken curves to form three levels of raised seating in the rear. Beneath the lowest level an encirclement of plush red seats fanned downward toward the front, descending in measured, shallow steps, giving a feeling of undulant motion. Allison had been to performances at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and the nearby Walt Disney Concert Hall many times with her mother. On those occasions, at both venues, her attention had always been focused on the stage, not the room. As she viewed the Pavilion hall now, she realized, for the first time, that its architects had somehow designed the chamber to embody the very sound it was meant to contain.

  Suddenly she heard voices behind them. “Let’s go,” she whispered.

  No longer needing any encouragement, Nate dashed up the carpeted slope, Allison close behind. The two children ducked into a row partway back just as Arthur West and the Philharmonic’s music director walked in, accompanied by Adele and three other musicians. The children watched from their hiding place as the group that would judge the audition took seats near the front.

  For several moments the musicians talked among themselves in relaxed tones, getting settled. Finally an elderly woman who would act as proctor stepped onstage. The music director signaled his assent, and a young Asian woman in her late twenties carried out her cello and seated herself on a solitary chair in the center of the stage.

  Allison knew that all participants had been given a list of audition pieces to prepare, including selections from Richard Strauss’s Don Juan, the Adagio from Brahms’s Second Symphony, and the first movement of Hayden’s C Major Cello Concerto. She also knew that during the initial round, every contestant would play only a short portion from each, lasting about a minute at most, before being stopped by the judges.

  By now she was familiar with the material, having listened to her mother preparing it over the preceding months. Although the young Asian woman played flawlessly, many of the musicians who followed performed even more brilliantly, displaying dazzling levels of skill and technique. As the morning wore on, Allison increasingly wondered how anyone would ever be able to make a choice. Occasionally she glanced at the judges. They seemed passive, polite, making notes during each audition, but nothing in their expressions gave any hint regarding their assessment.

  When Catheryn finally walked onstage an hour later, Nate had fallen asleep. Allison nudged him. “Wake up, runt,” she whispered. “Mom’s on.”

  Nate rubbed his eyes, brightening as he spotted his mother. Still sleepy, he stood and raised his hand to wave. With a rush of panic Allison pulled him back to his knees. “Stay down,” she hissed.

  Allison held her breath, hoping no one had seen them. Somehow, no one had. With a sigh of relief mixed with a growing feeling of apprehension, she watched from the darkness as Catheryn arranged her music, wishing she could be there beside her.

  A nod from the judges, and Catheryn began.

  Still as death, Allison listened as Catheryn’s cello sang out in rich, sonorous tones that carried a weight no violin could ever hope to match, tones that for Allison would always uniquely and inseparably be conjoined with the voice of her mother. Some of Allison’s earliest memories were of that music, a music that struck rich chords of emotion and inspired unsettling, complex yearning in her—strange and confusing feelings that as a child she had found herself unable to fathom. Yet over the years, as she’d grown older, she had slowly learned their names: Pride in her mother’s artistry, and wonder at the power it held over her. Resentment at the depth of Catheryn’s gift, a gift that had been passed not to her, but to her brother Travis. Despair at the knowledge she would never measure up to its perfection. And most of all, running nearly as deep as Allison’s love for her mother, the shame of profound, unbearable envy.

  When the customary “Thank you—go on to the next piece” sounded less than a minute into the Don Juan, Allison felt an irrational surge of irritation. She thought angrily, Can’t they tell Mom’s different? But as she glanced again at the judges, she noticed that something had changed. And as Catheryn progressed, moving effortlessly through the Brahms selection, she saw it in their stillness and knew it for what it was. It developed slowly, just a few of them at first, but by the time Catheryn embarked on the Haydn concerto, Allison saw it in them all, and she watched in fascination as the magic of her mother’s music drew them in.

  The first movement of Haydn’s C Major Cello Concerto, a longstanding test for virtuosity and precision, was the most emotionally transparent of all the audition pieces. Rising to the challenge, Catheryn, although incorporating the same notes performed by the other cellists, somehow engendered a depth of feeling with her playing that to Allison seemed close to mystical. She watched as her mother played, her hands strong and sure on her instrument, her face reflecting the seductive pleasure she took in the music. Closing her eyes, Allison temporarily surrendered to her conflicting pangs of emotion, letting the music lift her in its ethereal snare.

  Inexplicably, the judges allowed the final piece to continue well past the customary one-minute mark. Sensing the deviation, Allison opened her eyes and looked at the judges, again seeing the change in their once impassive faces.

  At last Catheryn stopped, realizing with an embarrassed smile that she had been permitted far more than her allotted time. A strange silence filled the hall. Even Nate knew that something of consequence had happened. “Did Mom do something wrong?” he whispered.

  “No, Nate,” Allison answered. “Mom didn’t do anything wrong. She didn’t do anything wrong at all.”

  *

  Special Agent Marcus saw it first. “Gun!” he screamed, rolling to the right. As he tried to bring up his service weapon, the first stream of bullets cut his legs out from under him, shattering his pelvis and right knee. A second burst of automatic fire caught him full in the chest. He slammed against the rear quarter panel of the Ford, a bloom of red soaking his shirt. He died before he hit the ground.

  Agent Tinley, who’d just stepped from the driver’s seat, ducked behind the hood—gun out now, trying to get off a shot. Couldn’t because the Chicano couple was in the way.

  An instant later a deadly barrage tore into the car, slamming fist-sized holes through the doors, windows
, fenders. Both tires exploded on the other side. Unable to escape, Tinley edged toward the front, still trying for a shot, figuring he was dead if he didn’t and the hell with the Chicano couple. Dimly, he was aware of a door opening in the store across the street.

  Two quick shots sounded from the store. Two more. Tinley risked a glance around the headlight. The first man was backing into the apartment building, dragging the Chicano couple with him as a shield. The second suspect was retreating, too—spraying the storefront as he went, giving him a chance.

  Determined to make it count, Tinley raised his weapon.

  Kane hit the street running, knowing he’d never make it in time. He heard Arnie behind him in the car, yelling into the radio. Deluca was coming out of the store up ahead. Tinley working his way around the front of the Ford …

  Bad angle. He doesn’t have a shot. Jesus, Tinley, stay down, stay down …

  Halfway up the block he saw the man with the gun drive Deluca back inside with a burst of gunfire, then turn again toward Tinley. Kane brought up his automatic.

  Too far. Civilians …

  Before Tinley could squeeze off a shot, another deadly volley of automatic fire swept his way. A heartbeat later the Ford again began to shudder under the impact. Tinley cowered in the lee of the hood, metal and glass flying around him, the stink of gunpowder and sweat and mindless fear thick in his nostrils, the sound of death ringing in his ears. Two slugs glanced off the engine block, finding him where he crouched behind the left front tire. One grazed his temple. The other passed through his throat. Gagging, he slumped to the asphalt.