Nightzone

by Steven F Havill

  “Way over my head,” I said. “Look, you have work to do, so I’ll see you at dinner.” Before I could prepare a defense, there came that hug again.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  No one talked about Elliot Daniel at early dinner. To me, he wasn’t worth the breath, or the robbery of a single moment spent with Francis and Estelle Guzman’s two kids and the Leister guests. Dinner included Francisco’s favorite, green chile lasagna with a flood of accompanying morsels. Somehow, Dr. Guzman had been overruled, and their kitchen now included a modest deep-fat fryer which produced such exquisitely fluffy, puffed sopaipillas that the good doctor finally admitted as he wiped a squirt of honey off his beard, “Well, maybe these are worth having a coronary for.”

  Dr. Lott had never eaten green chile, but he indulged until sweat stood out on his pale forehead. He let the conversation focus on the youngsters, as did Lucian Belloit, Leister’s stage manager, chauffeur, and general field boss. Belloit, a short, burly fellow with an infectious, booming laugh, kept the mutual admiration society at bay with sparing anecdotes about talented youngsters who managed to embarrass themselves and everyone on stage with gaffes and implosions.

  “And this one,” he said, nodding at Mateo Atencio, seated now between Francisco and Carlos, “managed to drop his flute right in the middle of a Mozart cadenza. I think that was at a concert in San Antonio a couple of years ago. Remember that?” He laughed as the red blush spread up Mateo’s dark face. Except for being a bit fuller in the face, Mateo could have been part of the Guzman gene pool, dark, perfect posture and poise, a gleam in the eyes that said his agile brain was up to something, who knew what.

  “Squirted out of his hands like a bar of soap. Tell what you did then, Mateo.”

  The boy’s voice was almost a whisper. “I caught it in mid-air.”

  “He caught it. Neatest one-handed snatch you ever saw.” Belloit hesitated. “Snagged the fumble. Impressive, I must say.”

  “I suppose,” Dr. Lott mused, ready to add a little pomp to the storytelling, “that every musician in the world has lost control of the instrument at one time or another in his career. I remember in high school, years and years ago, the A string—the top string—of my viola snapping just seconds before I was to play a solo passage. I managed the solo entirely in fourth and fifth position, and when I was finished, I was drenched in perspiration.”

  “What about Francisco’s joke concert?” Mateo prompted in self-defense.

  Lott squirmed with discomfort, but Belloit remained undeterred. Francisco bowed his head, covering his face with both hands. When he looked up, he beamed across at me and shrugged expansively.

  “Somebody…” Belloit glared at Mateo with mock anger, “taped a sheet of really repulsive, ah…suggestive limericks on the music rack of the piano. We weren’t using the Steinway for that one, just a little grand that the college provided. So here comes this what, eleven? Eleven-year-old kid on stage, right?” He leaned back expansively, patting his comfortably full belly. “Now we all know that Francisco Guzman can’t let a catchy rhythm go unexplored, right? So he turns the page of his music, and there’s this sheet of raunchy limericks, printed in nice, clear bold-face type, easy to read. He has one page of Beethoven to play before he’s cast adrift…with limericks.”

  “There was a good fellow from…” Francisco murmured, and he grinned impishly toward his grandmother, who so far hadn’t uttered a word during dinner. I could imagine what was going through her mind, though—pride in this credible grandson, tempered with the firm belief that youngsters should know their place when in company with adults.

  “Now, he’s halfway into this Beethoven sonata, and suddenly the music is missing. Does he miss a lick? No. But suddenly Beethoven is all improv. To this day,” and he rapped an emphasizing knuckle on the table, “to this day, I don’t know how Master Guzman can make a piano tell a punch line. But he did. Beethoven would have been delighted.”

  “You need to play that one,” Carlos urged.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Estelle said. She looked over at me. “Should we be worried, Padrino?”

  “I’m not,” I said, and turned to Francisco. “And you’re not going to divulge what you’re playing tonight?”

  Francisco glanced at Mateo. “We can’t, Padrino.”

  Dr. Lott let out a long hmmm of scholarly reservation. “We’re the ones who should be worried, Mrs. Guzman.” He looked at his watch. “But we need to go to the concert hall, if you’ll excuse us all. We have a pre-concert session with the artists, and then some on-stage time.”

  The artists. After spending thirty-five years arresting teenagers, it was a pleasure to hear that.

  My plans were to spend the entire evening immersed in jaw-dropping music. I had no plans to worry my way through the evening, not on Francisco Guzman’s behalf, or anyone else’s. Before leaving for school, I made sure the hostesses had what they needed at my house, and locked up a couple of sensitive items…not the least of which was the relic Colt, its rust-fused cylinder with the four corroded cartridges such a temptation.

  By the time I reached the school at 7:15, I had difficulty finding a convenient place to park. I knew the numbers. The Leister crew included four adults and sixteen youngsters—counting the artists. Glenn Archer’s wife Sylvia had organized the task force to find lodging for the youngsters in area homes. That guaranteed a fair audience, perhaps a hundred people. That didn’t explain the packed side parking lot by the administrative building, or the clogged loop where buses dropped off students, or the ancillary lot over by the tennis courts. That left the big parking lot by the football field and track, a lengthy trudge from the gym. And it was filling fast. But what the hell. My sadistic doctor had told me to walk more, more, more. Who was I to argue with the guy who also served as the county coroner?

  The interior of the “concert hall” was colorful and devoid of the normal gymnasium echo, partly because of the temporary red vinyl floor covering but mostly because of the bannered girders. Despite the sea of chairs arranged in three large islands, the concert was going SRO unless the bleachers were used. In the back corner, two school custodians were in conference with Lucian Belloit, and one of them, a jangle of keys in hand, was pointing at the last two sections of bleachers.

  A small center section up front was ribboned off, and since one of the royal-blue tickets with the Leister logo was tucked in my pocket, I made for the reserved seats. Two ushers in black and white started down the aisle to greet me, the his and hers smiles welcoming.

  I found my complimentary ticket in the breast pocket of my sport jacket, and the girl—she might have been fifteen—reached out and touched my hand as if she had known me since infancy.

  “Mr. Gastner, anywhere in the ribboned section, if you like.”

  “Thank you.” How did she know who I was? “I’m going to roam a bit first.”

  She handed me a program, a stiff expensive fold with the Leister crest on the cover, and the poster photo of Mateo and Francisco on the inside. “Perhaps you’d like to reserve your seat with a program.”

  The hum and bustle of folks in the hall was rising. “Good idea. Thank you.” On stage, the nine-foot piano dominated just off-center, and I chose a seat on the aisle five rows back where I would be able to see both artist and keyboard. A bevy of tiny microphones hung from slender gaffs, and turning in place, I could see five large video cameras around the hall, including the two stage right and left.

  A backstage area had been created with heavy velvet curtains, hiding the portable control panel. As I ambled off to one side, I saw Francisco and Mateo standing together behind the curtain, Francisco with an arm across his stomach and the other hand supporting his chin, a pose of deep thought. Mateo’s hands were in his hip pockets as if his tux was a pair of Wranglers. Both boys were listening as Dr. Hal Lott laid down the law about something. He talked, they listened. They did not interrupt. At one poin
t, he held an invisible basketball between both hands and shook it. Perhaps that was a rendition of what was going to happen to their skulls if they screwed up.

  A good share of the performance pressure came from the expectations of others. Nobody had come to this gig thinking that they’d see a couple of kids monkeying around. Expectations were high, and the efforts of two dozen people at stake. It wasn’t Francisco or Mateo arriving to play a tune or two on the school’s battered Baldwin for a few friends.

  I tried to estimate what this concert was costing Leister, since Posadas Municipal Schools had provided nothing other than the yawning gymnasium. The tickets were thirty bucks, a breathtaking price for country folks in this economy. With a capacity crowd, the academy might break even. I stood in one dark corner stage left and found my reading glasses. The program alone was a class act, including the names of selections as well as a short Artist’s Comments for each one.

  “Padrino!” The greeting wasn’t exactly shouted, but I looked up with a start. Carlos Guzman looked spiffy in his black suit. He was beaming, and held his own program toward me as he made his way across the floor. “Did you see?”

  “See what?” I said, and he reached across to point out what I’d already read. “Oh, that.” Oh, that was ‘Upward, Opus 7 in G Major’. The brief student explanation explained that Opus 7, dedicated to a certain Carlos Guzman, started with the “laying of the skyscraper’s foundation in the bass, gradually building story after story until the winds play around the loftiest radio antenna on top.”

  I looked at Carlos, whose face was radiant with excitement. “You had something to do with this?”

  He ducked his head in delight. “I sent Francisco a drawing I did of a building.”

  “Well, wow.” I skimmed the rest of the program, saving a real scrutiny until I sat down. Out in the audience, I saw that Estelle, Francis and Teresa had arrived, and one of the ushers was removing two chairs to make room for Teresa’s wheelchair.

  “I’m sitting right by you,” Carlos said, as if that was somehow a big deal. I suppose it would guarantee that I didn’t doze off. I gave the youngster a little hug and clamped a hand on the back of his neck. “I have to visit with the sheriff.”

  At the double doors at the north end of the gym, Robert Torrez was locked in conversation with Glenn Archer and two other deputies—the bruised Sergeant Jackie Taber and Sergeant Tom Mears. Taber was in full uniform with no cover, but Mears was in civilian garb, a gray, black, and white ski sweater, jeans, and boots.

  Sheriff Robert Torrez had dressed for the event in a bright lumberjack’s flannel shirt and jeans, his boots adding another inch to his six-four frame. The quilted tan vest covered most of his equipment, with the exception of the .45 automatic and the magazine pouches. This was a concert, for God’s sake, but then again, who was I to talk. I wondered what Torrez knew that he hadn’t passed along to me. He glanced at his watch, and out of reflex, I did the same. Fifteen minutes to pack the hall. I had intended to check in with Torrez, but decided against it

  But he didn’t. He caught my eye and beckoned. I made my way through an impressive crowd, many of them older folks who no doubt would have liked somewhat more cushy chairs than the steel folders. Someone had reached a decision, and folks were being ushered toward the most forward sections of bleachers.

  “Sheriff, you’re looking festive,” I said.

  “Where are you sittin’?”

  I turned and pointed. “Way up front behind the ribbon. Fifth row on the aisle.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t look especially happy, but then again, he never did. He slipped a playing card-sized photo out of his pocket. “This is what he looked like a year ago.”

  “He?” But one glance and I knew who “he” was. George Baum stood with one arm around an attractive woman, with his daughter standing under the protection of the other arm. “Happier times.”

  “One year ago at Christmas.”

  “What a difference a year makes.” I squinted up at the sheriff. “So what do you know that I should?”

  “That’s the trouble. We don’t know shit.” His gaze tracked over the growing crowd. “The last call we know that he made was to the funeral home in Cruces that did his father. He said he’d pick up the ashes after he took care of a couple of things.”

  “Like?”

  “Didn’t say.” He finished with the scan and then turned to me. “Pay attention. At this point, it don’t cost nothin’ to be on your toes.” He reached out and tapped the photo. “Keep that handy.”

  “It’s more likely that he’s headed back out to California to visit his wife and daughter,” I said.

  “Maybe so.” He nodded at the filling gymnasium. “This isn’t the best thing to be doin’ right now.”

  “It’s been planned for a long time,” I said, knowing damn well that wouldn’t make any difference to Torrez. “Anyway, in about twelve minutes, we’ll be underway, and then in an hour, we’ll be out of here.”

  I think the sheriff could read my expression accurately. I wanted a serene concert without incident, a concert to grab our emotions and soar up into the clouds, leaving behind all the ugliness that man was capable of concocting. I looked at faces, seeing dozens that I recognized—including State Police Lieutenant Mark Adams and his wife. Adams was in civvies, and he was paying attention.

  “How many?” I asked, nodding toward Adams.

  “Six. And three of our own.”

  “Well, then…”

  “How many you got comin’ to your house afterward?”

  “I have no idea. Probably too many.”

  Torrez almost laughed. “Let’s hope not.” He scanned the mob scene, which is exactly what the old gym had become. Somebody squeezed my elbow, but I had no idea who as the flood of people ebbed and flowed, filling the seats and spreading now up into the bleachers—two on each side of the gym.

  “I better find my chair,” I said. “Enjoy.” That earned a sober nod. “Come by the house after for a bit.” Another sober nod.

  In the distance—roughly a basketball court’s worth—that I walked to reach my seat, I greeted dozens of folks, at least half of whose names I remembered. In the reserved section, Dr. Guzman and his wife were standing, talking to half a dozen people. As I slipped into the row, Jerry Reader stretched across a couple of chairs and pumped my hand. The music teacher’s eyes were huge behind his thick glasses.

  “Isn’t this just incredible?” he shouted, and before I had time to agree, the gymnasium lights dimmed, then brightened, then dimmed again, remaining low. Twin spots lanced out and haloed the Steinway. Not a speck of travel dust remained on its polished ebony flanks. A figure appeared to stand in the dark at a lone microphone off to one side, and when most of the audience took their seats, I could see that it was Superintendent Glenn Archer.

  I sat immediately beside Carlos, who squirmed down into his seat, both hands clutched under his chin in that characteristic pose of anticipation. I hadn’t had time to actually read the program, and I glanced at it now, the light already too dim for me to make out the fine print. Snagging my car keys, I thumbed the tiny pen light on, cupping it to keep the glow focused on the words. The artists would open with the Winter movement of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, arranged for the flute and piano. Following that, Francisco would play some more square fodder, the kind of music that was going to drive ranchers to turn the radio dial searching for some Reba McIntire or Garth Brooks. In this case, it was Beethoven’s Sonata No. 10 in G Major, Opus 14, number 2. The program’s notes indicated that “Beethoven loved a good laugh, and this piece ends with just that.”

  As if stamping their authority with a heavily classical start, the two boys would then venture…who the hell knew where. We would have a short intermission to stew about it.

  “See that?” Carlos whispered, and poked my program.

  “I see, I see,” I said. He wa
s so excited he couldn’t stand it. After scaling Carlos’ skyscraper, the concert would return with an interesting potpourri. I didn’t see any surprises, but then again, I knew this Guzman kid pretty well.

  Estelle sat between Carlos and his grandmother, and the undersheriff clutched Teresa’s left hand in both of hers. No nerves there. The lights took us by surprise, switching off with a dull bang of heavy circuits, replaced immediately by a single spot illuminating the mike in the corner. Glenn Archer squinted against it. He was nervous, his hands shaking a little as he glommed onto the mike and its stand with both hands.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This…” and he paused to look off into the semi-dark gym. “This is quite an experience for us and we’re glad you could share in it. It’s always a treat when students of Posadas Municipal Schools come home for a visit. Oh, my.” He took a deep breath. “I’d like to extend a warm welcome to our visiting artists and their crew, but first, I need to point out two important things. First of all, those of you with gadgets that make noise—cell phones, I-this or that, please turn them off. Let’s take ten seconds to do that right now.” He held both hands toward us, and there was a rustling as folks who hadn’t been able to figure this out for themselves complied.

  “Next, we originally were going to close the bleachers. They are so noisy, folks. But as you can see, your wonderful turnout has far, far exceeded our expectations. So, those of you in the bleachers, I implore you to make every effort to avoid shifting around or changing seats. And please—corral the children who are too young to understand the need for silence.” He smiled benignly. “I think that concludes all the dire warnings.” Looking out toward the piano, he said, “I would like to extend a heartfelt, an excited welcome to Dr. Hal Lott, headmaster of Leister Music Conservatory in Edgarton, Missouri.”