The Mozart Conspiracy

by Phil Swann

  “No, I have no car, you must come to me.”

  “Okay, that’s fine, I’ll come to you—oh shit—I mean shoot. I forgot, I don’t have my car, it’s still at the hotel, and—”

  "You mean the Airport Holiday Inn?” Shoewalter interrupted.

  “Yeah, the Airport Holiday Inn. Henry, how did you know—”

  “I’m calling you from there right now.”

  “You mean, out of all the hotels in Los Angeles, you just happen to be at the Airport Holiday Inn?”

  “Yes, of course,” Henry answered. “I found out through the union that was where you worked. Odd though, when I asked for you tonight, they said you were no longer under their employment.”

  David shut his eyes in disbelief. “About what time was that, Professor?”

  “I believe it was around midnight.”

  David dropped his head. “Well, Professor, let’s just say sometimes things have a way of changing quickly out here.”

  “Quickly, indeed.”

  David shook his head and allowed himself a silent chuckle. “In a way, Professor, I’m glad we didn’t meet up last night.”

  “Why, David?” the professor asked. “Do you still hate me so?”

  A lump filled David’s throat. “No, sir. Oh God, no, sir. I never…I mean…I was young, I said a lot of things I didn’t…I just had a…I—”

  The old man spoke calmly. “I know, Davey, I know. You don’t have to say any more. I deserve so much blame.”

  “No you don’t, sir,” David replied. “Sir, the reason I’m glad you didn’t see me last night is…well, you see, Professor…” David could hardly get the words out. “I’m just a saloon piano player now.”

  “Davey,” the old man replied. “You are not now, nor ever will be, just a saloon piano player. You may make your living playing a saloon, but you are and always will be so much more. Where you must, or choose, to exhibit your gift is up to you. But what you are, really are, is beyond your power. Because that, Davey, was created by God.”

  He had forgotten the power the man possessed when he spoke. “Thank you, Professor,” David replied in a near whisper.

  “Now, back to how I can procure that item from you.”

  “The guy that lives next door works at the airport. He’ll give me a lift down.”

  “Great, then it’s—”

  “Oh, there is another small problem of me getting my hands on it, but—”

  “You don’t have it?” Shoewalter responded. “You’ve given it to someone else? Who did you give it to?”

  “No, no, it’s not like that,” David replied. “I didn’t give it to anybody. It’s almost four in the morning. It’s in a safety deposit box at my bank. In fact, except for a passport, it’s the only thing of value in there.”

  David heard the old man swallow hard. “Of course, my apologies once again, Davey. These are just stressful times.”

  “What’s going on, Henry?” David asked.

  “I’ll explain everything when I see you, but it's all very exciting, Davey. Shall we meet in the morning after the bank opens?”

  “Sure.”

  “The lobby of the Airport Holiday Inn, then?”

  David laughed. “You know, that might not be the best idea. How about you meet me out front at eleven o’clock? I’ll get my car, then we’ll go grab some brunch or something and…talk. I’d really like to just talk.”

  “That sounds splendid, Davey. But ten would be better. I have a bit of business to handle at eleven. In fact, it would be perfect if you could join me. Then afterward, we could spend the day together if you like?"

  "I would like that very much," David replied.

  "Wonderful. I’ll be waiting in the lobby for you to pull up. I think I’ll still recognize you.”

  David could hear the old man smile. “Henry?” David said quickly. “It’s going to be great seeing you again. I think about you all the time and…I—”

  “Davey," the old man interrupted, "it's going to be wonderful seeing you too. I think about you often, as well. Goodbye, Davey.”

  "Goodbye, Henry."

  David turned off the phone and just stared. His stomach jumped, and he felt an excitement in his chest so strong he thought his heart was going to pound straight through his skin. My Henry. Over the years, there wasn’t a day that had gone by he didn’t think of him. There wasn’t a day he didn’t consider picking up a telephone, calling him, and finally just saying the words, “I’m sorry.” But as the years passed and his life went to hell, that call became ever more impossible. “Stupid,” he mumbled out loud.

  David got up from the couch, went into the kitchen, and started a pot of coffee. A half hour later, he stepped from the shower feeling almost human again. Ravel, who had been curled up on the corner of the bed, rose from his slumber with a “what the hell are we doin’ up at this hour” look and followed David back to the kitchen.

  “Hey buddy, you want an early breakfast?”

  Ravel jumped onto the counter and meowed.

  “I think I could stand some food too.”

  David pulled a carton of eggs, a dish of butter, a half-block of Swiss cheese, and some sandwich meat out of the refrigerator. He picked up a dirty skillet, ran some soap and water over it, and dried it off. As he struck a match to light the gas burner, he gave voice to what had started bugging him in the shower. “First of all, how did he find me?” he said as Ravel raised his nose to the smell of frying butter. “Secondly, why call me in the middle of the night? After twelve years, what’s a few more hours?” Ravel watched as David cracked four eggs into the skillet. “And third, fourth, and fifth, what’s suddenly so important about that old piece of music? I’d forgotten I had it. And why didn’t—” David stopped himself. “Oh, shut up, Webber. For cryin’ out loud, he’s an old man.”

  David battled back Ravel as he cut thin slices of cheese and placed them into the frying eggs. He opened the package of lunchmeat, took out a piece and began tearing it into strips. Out of self-defense, he gave a strip to Ravel. As David tossed the remaining pieces of meat in the pan, he was suddenly eleven years old again. Memories of South Bend and a man named Mr. Ramsey flooded his mind. As a professor at Notre Dame University, Ramsey only took on a few private students and absolutely no children. But David's foster parents, with the assistance of the social worker, were able to convince Ramsey that he should listen to David play. After he did, he took him on immediately. David remembered how everyone told him how lucky he was to have a teacher like Mr. Ramsey. David, however, only remembered Ramsey as a half-in-the-bag hack. The music he was required to play was never that challenging, and most of the time old Ramsey would fall asleep halfway through the lesson. But Ramsey wasn’t a complete idiot. He recognized a gift and knew he wasn’t the instructor to nurture it. The one thing Ramsey did right was calling his old friend in New York, professor of piano at Juilliard, Doctor Henry Shoewalter. As if it were yesterday, David recalled the day he was practicing scales from the dreaded Hannon book when Ramsey wobbled into the room. With him was a man, who at the time seemed like the oldest man David had ever seen. David smiled thinking of that too. Twenty-five years ago Henry probably wasn’t much over fifty-five years old, maybe younger.

  “David this is Professor Shoewalter from New York.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” a young David said.

  “Very pleased to make your acquaintance too, young man. I shall call you Davey—David seems so out of place for a boy your size.”

  “Yes sir, but I am almost five foot two inches tall,” protested David.

  “I see. But I will call you Davey until David feels comfortable for me. Okay?”

  “Okay, sir,” replied David.

  “Good. Now, I’ve come a long way. Thurman here tells me you're something of a prodigy. You will play for me now, please.”

  “A pro-to-jee?”

  “Yes. You show me now.”

  Ramsey cut in, “David, play the Chopin in C minor for Professor S
hoewalter.”

  David pulled two plates out of the cupboard. He slid the concoction onto one plate, took his fork, and cut it three-quarters from the top. He slid the smaller piece onto the other plate and set it on the floor for Ravel.

  “As long as I live I will never be as scared as I was at that moment,” David said out loud as he ate. “I didn’t even know who this guy was, and I was still petrified. All I knew was old Ramsey wanted him to hear me play and made it clear they’d gone to a great deal of trouble to make it happen. I can’t believe I choked.” David laughed remembering Ramsey’s face when he duffed the second variation. But the laugh turned to a smile when he remembered what Henry said, “Very fine, that section always gives me fits too.” David shook his head, “How cool was that?

  “From that point on, life would never be the same. Henry took me back to New York, enrolled me in the Westchester County School for Boys, and gave me private lessons every Tuesday and Thursday for two hours. I grew to love that old fart, Ravel. He was there for all the important stuff, the competitions, the concerts, even—” David stopped. He still couldn’t say her name.

  Ravel was sitting on the table washing. David ran his hand over the feline’s black–and-gray striped head, got up, and took their dishes into the kitchen. He looked at the clock, and it was still only a little after five in the morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen five in the morning. Going to bed was out of the question, and for some reason, he suddenly felt like straightening up his long-neglected apartment. He picked up dirty clothes from the floor and threw away junk mail that had accumulated on his favorite dumping ground, the piano. That’s when he had the thought. How about practicing the piano? Whoa. He hadn’t sat at the piano and just played for his own enjoyment in years, but that’s what he felt like doing.

  Like a man approaching an old lover after a long separation, David moved to the piano and tossed the old newspapers, magazines, and unread books off the bench. He lifted the seat and saw a copy of George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue.” “Whew, I haven’t touched this bear in years.”

  He lost all track of time. With Ravel sitting atop of the piano, David chicken-pecked his way through the “Rhapsody.” After that came Schumann, Haydn, and Brahms. He amazed himself, and possibly even Ravel, as he tore through the Bach inventions as if he’d been playing them every day for the past twenty years. But it was in the middle of Debussy’s “Claire de Lune,” he would later recall, that he happened to look over at the television. The morning news was on, and a reporter was on the scene for breaking news. The location was the Airport Holiday Inn. David jumped from the piano and went to the couch for the remote.

  …there’s been a brutal murder at this airport hotel. Eyewitness News has information that the victim is an elderly man.

  David went cold as he grabbed the telephone.

  Sources have told Eyewitness News that it appears the victim was beaten, then shot to death in his room on the twenty-seventh floor. We were told that two shots…

  "I need the number for the Airport Holiday Inn."

  …fired at point blank range into the back of the man’s head.

  "Airport Holiday Inn, how may I direct your call?"

  It’s also said that nothing is left of the man’s head—hang on, we're getting new information. An unidentified source at the hotel has informed us that the man's name was Henry Theodore Shoewalter. We're being told identification has been confirmed.

  "Hello, Airport Holiday Inn, how may I—”

  David dropped the phone and fell onto the couch.

  John, this is a brutal murder down here. Many guests of the hotel, noticeably shaken, are telling me that they are moving to other accommodations. The management of the hotel says…

  David sat in silence as the reporter went on with her story. He sat in silence as the local news went off and the national morning show with the funny weatherman came on. No words, no expression, and no tears, David Webber, with his cat in his lap, simply sat in silence as the sun rose to meet a perfect Southern California morning.

  Chapter Five

  Horns blared and tires screeched as the yellow Volkswagen convertible whipped across two lanes of Interstate 66 rush-hour traffic. Obscene gestures from irate morning commuters were met with an I’m sorry wave as the small car careened into the center lane, crossing the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge and onto Constitution Boulevard. Without slowing down, much less stopping, the automobile made a right-turn-on-red onto Fourteenth Street and brought cars to another screeching halt by turning left into oncoming traffic and entering a driveway marked Museum Employees Only, where the driver was forced to lock up the breaks to keep from crashing through a wooden security gate. With a swipe of a card through an electronic box, the gate lifted and the car lunged forward, speeding down the driveway into the underground garage, ending its assault by turning into an assigned parking space. A young woman with chestnut hair pulled into a ponytail bounded from the vehicle. Wearing white sneakers, khaki pants, denim shirt, and carrying a backpack, Dr. Dani Parsons looked more like a college freshman late for class than curator of American Musical Antiquities for the Smithsonian Institution.

  Using the fire escape stairwell, Dani scaled the steps two at a time and bolted through the steel door marked Security Check-In. A gray-haired black man in his late sixties wearing the traditional security guard wardrobe of navy pants and light blue shirt was there to meet her.

  “Dr. Parsons, right on time I see,” the guard said with a Mississippi drawl.

  “Very funny, Charlie,” Dani replied, rummaging through her bag for her I.D. card. “I can’t believe I’m late today of all days. Beckman is going to have my head.”

  Charlie laughed. “Dr. P, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, all you need to do is get yourself a man and start popping out some babies. That’ll get you up in the morning, all right.”

  “Is that an offer, Charlie?” Dani said, finding her I.D. and handing it to the security man.

  The old man pursed his lips. “Oh, now, Dr. P, you watch what you say. I just might have to call up mother and tell her to find herself another buck.” He scanned the I.D. card, and a green LED light appeared. “Here you are, Dr. P,” he said, handing Dani back her I.D. “You have a good day, now.”

  Dani raced into the elevator, pushed the button for the fifth floor, and nibbled a fingernail as the elevator ascended. Before the doors had completely opened, she was running down the plaster and stone hallway until reaching the end of the corridor, where she stopped to compose herself. Feeling as if she had the pretense of calm firmly in hand, she entered a large oak door bearing the words DIVISION OF MUSICAL HISTORY, NATIONAL MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY.

  “They’re waiting for you inside, kiddo,” said the woman at the desk.

  “Thanks, Millie,” Dani replied.

  Dani opened the inner office door, and twelve sets of accusing eyes looked through her. She stiffly entered the conference room and sat on the lone empty chair located at the corner of a long rectangular conference table.

  At the head of the table sat a man in his early fifties. The man was reclined in a high-back leather chair, staring blankly at the ceiling and tapping a fountain pen on the table. Except for the click click click of the man’s pen, there was silence. Finally, the man spoke. “Dr. Parsons, thank you for joining us. And dressed so well too. I hope this meeting is not putting you out too much.”

  Dani wanted to evaporate. “No, sir, not at all. I’m very sorry for being late, Dr. Beckman, and everyone else. The Roosevelt was a mess.”

  “I took the Roosevelt, thought it was fine,” offered the dweeby, bald man who sat across from Dani.

  Dani stared at him.

  The dweeb dropped his head.

  “Is that so? Thank you, Herbert,” Beckman said. “How about you, Dr. Rogers? You use the Roosevelt if I’m not mistaken, how did you find it?”

  “Fine, sir,” mumbled the bearded young man seated next to Dani.
<
br />   “Isn’t that something? Anybody else here find the Roosevelt particularly a mess this morning? No? Me either. Well, Dr. Parsons, it seems that the Roosevelt was just a mess on your behalf this morning. I wonder why?”

  Beckman smiled directly at Dani, but the smile did not disguise anything. Dani knew Beckman didn’t like her. When she had interviewed for her position, Dr. Dennis Beckman, the director of the Division of Musical History, was the only nay vote on the hiring committee. She didn’t know the reason. Was it because she was from Oklahoma and he was an old money Virginia Southerner? Was it because she went to OU, not an Ivy League? Was it because he had a buddy he wanted to give the job to? Or was it simply the old tried and true reason that she was a woman? Dani suspected the latter. She had met many men like Beckman since getting her PhD, traditional male chauvinists in every sense of the word. He was okay around females as long as he had the upper hand. But take that away, put him with a woman who was not only his mental equal but attractive as well, and he couldn’t handle it. He was just another short, middle-aged man with a receding hairline. Whatever the reason, he was out-voted, she was hired, and he’d been a thorn in her side ever since.

  “Dr. Parsons, do you have nothing to say?” Beckman asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Dani replied, staring into the man’s eyes.

  Beckman nodded and then opened the file in front of him. “Let’s get started.”

  For the next forty-five minutes the meeting consisted of Beckman reviewing budget overruns as well as projections for the following quarter. Each person at the table headed a specific department. All were middle-aged men except for Paul Rogers, who was roughly Dani's age and her only real friend at work.

  Dr. Paul Rogers was curator of wind instruments. He and Dani first worked together two years earlier while collaborating on an exhibition called Music from the Swing Era. The exhibit was Paul’s idea and was a huge success. Dani was successful in securing several personal instruments of famous bandleaders as well as original handwritten charts to many swing standards. It was her first exhibit, and she and Paul had been close ever since.