by Lauren Rico
Like I told Brett, I can’t hold too much against Jennifer, though, because a lot of it isn’t her fault. She’s not nearly as good as I am. Even she has said as much. At twenty-two, she’s fresh out of Juilliard. When she auditioned for the third horn spot, no one was more stunned than Jennifer was when they offered her principal instead. Just as no one was more stunned than I was when I auditioned for the principal spot and was handed third chair instead.
I was starting to think I was good and screwed when, one day, salvation showed up fresh off the boat in the form of our new conductor. Totally disinterested in orchestral politics, he just wants the best man for the job. And I do mean man.
Jennifer is crying now. This is just too much for our no-nonsense conductor.
“You! Get off my stage right now!” he growls, pointing his baton at her. She sniffs, nods and scurries off stage, then the Maestro turns to me.
“You can play the part, yes?”
“Yes, Maestro,” I assure him, taking Jennifer’s vacated seat in an instant.
He returns to his elevated platform and raises his arms. He looks at me with the question in his arched brows. I take a deep breath and give him a slight nod that tells him I am ready. I have to be, because the first horn is the first thing that you hear in Maurice Ravel’s haunting Pavane for a Dead Princess.
With the conductor’s downbeat, my mellow tone rises above plucked strings. It is the sound of molten honey, rich and smooth, golden and opaque. It flows so effortlessly out of my horn … out of me, that you’d swear I’d been practicing the solo for weeks. Maybe that’s because I have been.
When the piece has ended, the Maestro turns and bows to the audience, then he faces the orchestra again, gesturing to me. I stand, horn tucked under my arm, and give a quick bow from the horn section. The applause swells and I smile. If they liked that, wait till they hear what I’ve done with Jennifer’s part in the Brahms.
****
When I finally leave the hall, it’s well after midnight, and well after everyone else has gone home for the night. I walk around the block and find the kid standing on the corner where I told him to meet me, hoodie covering his head and hands stuffed in his pockets as he hops up and down in the cold night air.
“Good job,” I say when I reach him. “Where did you leave it?”
“In the dumpster on Jefferson, where you told me.”
“Anyone see you?”
“Nah. Who notices a Chinese delivery boy on a bicycle in that part of town?”
Exactly. And who would ever think there was a five thousand dollar French horn in that insulated carrier on the back of his bike rather than containers of Kung Pao Chicken and egg rolls? Certainly none of the dozen or so musicians who ordered dinner in from Wong’s Kitchen before the concert. The kid, Jimmy is his name, is at the hall so often that people have stopped noticing him. Security doesn’t even look up when he rolls his bicycle through the backstage entrance and down the hall to our break room. Which just happens to be across from the warm-up room. Which just happens to be where Jennifer leaves her horn when she goes outside to call her boyfriend before every concert. This shit is just Too. Fucking. Easy.
I pull a couple of bills out of my pocket.
“Here’s the hundred we agreed on. And a hundred to remind you that I can throw a lot of business your way, so long as you don’t breathe a word of it to anyone. Ever.”
“No! No, man, thanks! I promise!”
The kid excitedly snatches the money from my hand.
“Alright. I know where to find you when I need you again,” I inform him as I turn and leave him standing on the corner.
I’m sure it won’t be long before I do.
Jeremy 12
The article that comes out in the Sunday Arts section is a glowing half-page tribute to the orchestra’s new and improved sound under its new and improved conductor. There’s mention of a ‘brief and puzzling delay from within the horn section’ but goes on to note ‘whatever held up the horns was well worth the wait. Jeremy Corrigan’s hauntingly beautiful solo in the Ravel was matched only by his blistering heat in the Brahms.’
I’m reading it for the twentieth time when the orchestra director, Doug Lavery, comes into his office and takes a seat behind his desk. There was a message that he wanted to see me first thing this morning. Probably wants to congratulate me on Saturday night’s performance.
“This is a great review,” I state, not bothering to look up at him.
He doesn’t respond.
“Don’t you think?” I prompt, raising my gaze this time. He’s watching me with disdain etched clearly across his face.
“Jeremy, I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go.”
I don’t think I’ve heard him correctly.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I demand, giving him a chance to correct himself.
“We know you had something to do with Jennifer’s horn disappearing. If you leave quietly, there won’t be any reason to get the police involved. We’ll cover the cost of her instrument, and no one will press charges. But I want you gone today, Jeremy.”
I stare at him incredulously. “What the fuck are you talking about? I just scored you the best review this orchestra has had in five years! I saved your ass when that teenage twit you hired misplaced her instrument three minutes before a concert. And you want to fire me? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
He just gives me his weasely smile.
“Quite the contrary. I’ve just been waiting for you to pull a stunt like this so I can throw you out of our orchestra. I don’t care how good you are, or how much the Maestro likes you. You’re nothing but a thug. And, if I’m not mistaken, a murderer, too. I want you out.”
This guy has no idea who he’s messing with. Does he honestly think that I’m going to let him do this to me?
“You can’t fire me,” I declare defiantly. “I have a contract.”
“Oh, but I am, Jeremy. Unless you want me to start a criminal investigation. And something tells me the police will look at you a little harder this time around.”
The pretentious fuck leans forward across his desk and surveys me over the top of his glasses.
“And you know what? I’m feeling generous. In addition to not pursuing an investigation, we’ll pay out your salary for the next six months. There isn’t a better deal to be had Jeremy, so I suggest you take it. I mean, if another orchestra were to get a whiff of your latest stunt, you wouldn’t even be able to get a gig selling tickets at the …”
He flips open a file folder on his desk, runs his finger down a page within and looks up again.
“ …At the Owl Bridge Symphony. That’s the little piss-ant town where you’re from isn’t it? Owl Bridge, Illinois?”
“You did not run a background check on me,” I hiss.
He just smiles at me.
“You’ll never get away with this. Between my attorney and the union rep …”
Now he waves a hand at me dismissively. “Your lawyer can try whatever he wants, but I think you’ll find the Union of American Orchestral Musicians to be less than sympathetic to your cause.”
“Well, it seems you’ve thought of just about everything.”
He looks proud of himself. “I had to. You may have cheated your way into this orchestra, but there’s no way I’m going to allow you to sully its reputation with your sordid behavior. Take the deal, Jeremy,” he repeats.
When the rage comes, it is always the same. It washes over me like a rogue wave out in the ocean. I never see it, but I know the instant it hits me. My jaw clenches and my heart starts to beat faster. I can feel the thump of my pulse up in my temples. My face grows hot and my hearing becomes dull. I develop tunnel vision and, what I do focus on, unfolds in slow motion.
Right now, all I can see is this asshole’s gloating face. The necktie that makes the folds of his flabby neck spill over his collar. The greasy strands combed over his bald spot. The hair sprouting from his ears and nose. I stand
up, reach over his desk and pull him forward by that ugly, soup-stained tie, until he is splayed out and choking. I use my free hand to pull a photograph off the desk and stick it into his face.
“Oh, look! It’s your daughter, Denise. She likes to take those late night runs, doesn’t she? I’ve seen her a few times. She starts out east on Lake Street then she cuts through the Michigan Avenue Park and runs down along the canal before heading back home. Gosh, I hope she’s careful. A woman out alone like that could get herself gang raped. How horrible that would be!”
Doug is shaking his head while he wheezes. I toss the framed photo to the floor and the glass shatters. There’s a second picture. I pick this one up, look at it, and again shove it into his reddening face.
“Your wife, Claire. Does she know you’ve got a taste for the kink Doug? Because I do! And guess what? I happen to have some photos of my own. Oh, they’re not in pretty ceramic frames like this one, and your rent-a-dominatrix doesn’t look as sophisticated as your wife does here. But then again, who looks sophisticated when they’re using a riding crop on a fat, bald guy tied to a bed in a hotel room? Gotta admit, I didn’t know you had it in you!”
Over my shoulder goes the second frame with a crash. I loosen up my grasp long enough for him to gulp in some air. I don’t want the son of a bitch passing out on me.
“You listen to me and you listen good, Dougy boy. I will leave this orchestra when I am good. And. Ready. And on the terms that I, not you, set. I expect to be promoted to principal horn in the next week, which shouldn’t be an issue, considering Jennifer’s recent … incident. Are you hearing me, Doug?”
“Yes,” he wheezes.
“Good. Very good, Doug. Because, here’s the thing. Anyone, and I mean anyone, who tries to fuck with my career again is just asking to put the people he or she loves in jeopardy. Make no mistake about it, my friend, I don’t give a shit about your kids, or your wife, or your ancient mother in Kalamazoo. I will kill your entire fucking family, including your Irish Setter and that stupid three-legged cat you have. Do you understand me, Doug?”
He nods, unable to speak as he starts to sob. I let go of his tie and give him a rough shove back into his chair behind the desk.
“Oh, boohoo. What a fucking pussy you are. I just want to be sure we are clear on these points, Doug. Are we clear?”
“Yes!” he blubbers. “Yes, I swear, I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t hurt my family!”
I smile and take a deep, satisfied breath. The rage has passed, and I am in control once again.
“Good! Now you should get yourself cleaned up. Looks like you had a little … accident there,” I mock as I point to the wet spot on the front of his pants. “You have a long afternoon ahead of you, figuring out how to demote Jennifer and getting a press announcement out about my promotion. And don’t forget the bump in salary that comes with that, Doug. I’ll be looking for that in my next paycheck.”
He nods, wiping his face with the back of his shirtsleeve.
I walk out of his office with the newspaper tucked under my arm and close the door behind me. His assistant, Lisa, is watching me with interest. I clear a corner of her desk and sit on it, leaning forward toward her so I can get a good look down her low-cut sweater.
“Lot of noise in there,” she observes, tilting her head toward the office I have just exited.
“Yeah, well, Doug is having a bad morning.”
“Should I hold his calls?” she asks, lowering her voice and leaning toward me.
I smile down at her, and the even better view of those perfect, white tits that she’s giving me.
“I think that would be a good idea,” I agree, lowering my voice. “Dougy needs a little … alone time. And maybe a change of pants.”
“No!” she gasps.
“Oh, yeah,” I mouth silently while nodding.
She puts both hands to her mouth, trying to hold back a giggle. I get to my feet. I wink at Lisa, slap the newspaper in the palm of my hand and whistle Mozart all the way to the elevator.
Jeremy 13
“Oh my God! The look on his face must have been hilarious!” Lisa giggles as she lays naked on her stomach in my bed.
“Yeah, it was spectacular,” I chuckle. “I wish I’d had a camera. How long did it take for Doug to come out of there after I left?”
I’m laying on my side, running my hands up and down from her bare back, to her perfect ass and back again. She kicks her long legs up playfully.
“Oh, God, it was nearly two hours. When he did come out, he was holding his jacket in front of him and he couldn’t even look at me. He just mumbled something about not feeling well and going home for the rest of the day.”
She rolls onto her side so we are facing one another. The thing about Lisa is that she’s a ‘Butter Face.’ No, she doesn’t have greasy skin. It’s what they call a girl who has a hot body, but an ugly face. In other words, everything ‘But her face’ is attractive. She has a large nose that looks as if it’s been broken in one too many bar fights. Her brow is extremely pronounced, giving her a kind of Cro-Magnon look. Add to that a forehead that you could park a jetliner on, and you’ve got Lisa. It’s too bad, really. A little investment in plastic surgery and she could be a seven or an eight. As it stands, her body alone gets her a six, but then you have to subtract four points for the face. Two. I’m in bed with a two. The things I do to get what I want.
“Jeremy, I’m sorry,” she interrupts my thoughts. “I didn’t know he was going to do that. There was no mention of it at the board meeting last week. I mean, I knew they were trying to get rid of you, but I didn’t know it would be like this. Today.”
She should be sorry. Thanks to her, I walked right into a fucking ambush. But I can’t afford to cut her loose just yet.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say as I reach over and brush the bangs from the tarmac/forehead. “What’s important is what Doug does in the next couple of days. Keep your eyes out for a press release about my promotion, approval for an increase in my pay, and Jennifer’s demotion. You’ll have access to all that paperwork, won’t you?”
“What’s it worth to you, big guy?” she smiles suggestively.
“Oh, I think I can make it worth your while,” I say, closing the distance between our bodies.
“So soon? My, my, Mr. Corrigan, you’ve got some impressive stamina!” she murmurs, meeting me halfway.
“It’s just my hard work ethic,” I murmur just before I take her mouth in mine. I groan involuntarily when I feel her hand on my cock.
“Very hard work ethic, I’d say,” Lisa chuckles again as she gives me alternating squeezes and strokes. Damn. This girl knows her way around the equipment. Okay, I’ll play.
I roll onto my back, flag at full mast, and she follows me across to my side of the bed, starting a trail of soft kisses at my left shoulder and making her way down, down, down. When she reaches her destination, she looks up at me with a dirty little smile. Did I mention her teeth are yellowed, too? Before I can comment, her tongue wraps around me like warm, wet velvet. I arch with the contact and close my eyes.
If I don’t have to look at her, I can pretend she’s the freshman horn student who took home a sample of my DNA along with an autographed program as a souvenir from our last concert. Yeah. That’s who I’m going think about. Lisa licks me gently from stem to stern, building tension little by little. Then, when I think I’m going to have to just flip her over and fuck her to get some relief, she has me in her mouth with the suction of a Hoover vac.
“Fuck, baby, that’s good,” I moan, getting my hands into her hair. I ball my fists and use it to direct her back and forth, up and down. She takes every direction immediately. When I feel the nibble of her teeth on me, I literally see stars. And then, her hands are in the mix, cupping my balls, squeezing the bottom of my shaft. Oh, yeah. Easily the best blowjob I’ve had since Brett’s girlfriend blew me in high school. And that was more about screwing him than her.
I’d hav
e banged Lisa even if she’d been some middle-aged cow in spandex. Not because I wanted to, but because I needed to. The key to manipulating Doug is manipulating the person who holds all of Doug’s keys. Literally, and figuratively. As his assistant, Lisa is privy to every meeting. She can eavesdrop on any phone call. She sees every bit of paperwork that comes across his desk and has access to the personnel files of every musician in the orchestra. It also works to my advantage that she can’t stand Doug, who’s done nothing but try and cop a feel since the day he hired her. She’s only too happy to stick it to him by letting me stick it to her. Sounds like a win-win to me.
****
‘MURDERER!’
The word is written in six-inch block letters on my locker at the concert hall. No one says anything as I stand there staring at it, but I can feel the darting glances of my colleagues behind me. I pull out my horn and music, and make my way out to the stage for rehearsal without comment. When I arrive at the first horn spot, there’s a piece of paper taped to the music stand with the same handwriting, this time spelling out the word THIEF! I don’t bother to tear it down, just put my music folder over it and pull out the Mahler Symphony we’re working on today.
“It was there when I sat down,” volunteers Graham, our second horn player. “I – I wasn’t sure if I should take it down before you saw it …”
“Doesn’t bother me,” I mumble before putting my horn to my lips and starting my run of scales.
While I play, my eyes move across the rows of musicians around me. I don’t think it’s any of the string players. They’re just too absorbed in their own little world to be concerned with what goes on behind them. That knocks out about half the orchestra right there. It might be a woodwind player, but something tells me I should be looking at the brass players sitting all around me.