by Lauren Rico
I use my peripheral vision to check out Jennifer, now situated down in the third horn chair. She has a brand new horn already, and she looks relaxed for a change, confident even. She may or may not think I had something to do with the disappearance of her instrument, but she’s gotten a better one out of the deal, and is finally playing the part she wanted all along. I’m sure I can rule out the other two horns in our section, Graham on second and Latondra on fourth. They do a pretty good job of staying out of the drama – horn players are smart that way. Trombone players, not so much. That’s where my money is.
Still ripping up and down the scales, I angle to the right just enough to catch two of the trombone players with their heads together, looking my way and snickering. Gus and Terrance. That would be them. Fucking cowards are too chicken shit to accuse me to my face, so they hide behind their music stands like a couple of gossiping teenagers.
The Concert Master stands up to face the orchestra and gives the first oboe the nod to give us an A to tune to. A few moments later, the Maestro comes out and sits down on the podium, reading glasses on as he examines the score in front of him.
“All right,” he begins, looking up at us. “We have a great deal of work to do on this Mahler. Horns, there are two extras coming in for the rehearsal this afternoon. They will fill out the section for the concert. Jeremy, I leave it to you to arrange rehearsals for your section. Yes?”
“Yes, Maestro,” I agree loud and clear.
From behind me, one of the trombone players gives a loud, fake sneeze that comes out sounding a lot like the word ‘Thief!’ I ignore it, and the Maestro doesn’t catch it.
“Also, Jeremy, I think I would like the entire horn section to stand for the last two minutes or so of the symphony. That will require all parts to be memorized. This is possible, yes?”
“Yes, Maestro,” I repeat.
The sneezer repeats, too, but now with the word ‘Murderer!’ as the underlying expletive. This time, the Maestro notices. He takes his glasses off and puts them down on the stand in front of him, peering back to the lower brass section.
“Who is the sneezer?” he growls. It takes us all a few seconds to translate. In his accent the question sounds more like ‘who eest zee shneeza?’
Gus raises a hand slowly.
“Stand up,” the Maestro demands. Gus gets to his feet, very reluctantly. I would be reluctant, too. This guy looks pissed.
“You tink dis eesht funny? You tink you are in da kindergarten, yes?”
“Yes. I mean, No! N-no, Maestro,” Gus splutters, his face coloring.
“You are zee professional und you vill act as one, or I vill call one of my players from Vienna to take your seat. Yes?”
“Yes, Maestro.”
After the rehearsal, I lock up my horn in the defaced locker and make a point of walking past Gus and Terrance. When I stop in front of them, they look up from where they are packing their instruments.
“You know, you’re such fucking pussies,” I spit as I shake my head at them. “If you want to say something, just say it to my face. But if you insist on taking a page out of the Junior High School Playbook, then at least own it. Jesus Christ. Grow some balls already, will you?”
I walk away before either of them can comment, smiling all the way out the backstage door. Where young Jimmy Woo is waiting for me. My smile heads south, and fast.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss at him, motioning for him to follow me around the corner and into the alley.
“Jeremy, man, I’m in trouble,” he whispers.
“What? What happened?”
I’m getting the feeling that his trouble is about to become my trouble.
“It’s that horn, man. Someone pulled it out of the dumpster and tried to pawn it.”
“What?”
He starts speaking quickly, nervously. “Yeah! Someone found it, pawned it, and I guess it was reported stolen.”
I take a deep breath and try to stay calm. “Alright. So, what does this have to do with you?”
“My fingerprints were on it.”
“And why would that matter?” I’m still not getting what the runt is trying to tell me.
He looks down at his sneakers and then up at me again. “A couple years ago, I got pinched for shoplifting. The police have my fingerprints and they matched them to the horn.”
Damn! Stupid little shit should have told me he had a record. And what the fuck was he thinking, not wearing gloves? Christ! Does anyone besides me have any common sense? I close my eyes in a concerted effort to not strangle this kid. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in …
“Jeremy, the police came around the restaurant asking questions. I got out of there before they could see me. But they’re looking for me now, man, and I don’t know what to do. You’ve got to help me!” His eyes are wide with the desperation I can hear in his voice.
“Okay, so you haven’t spoken with anyone yet? Is that what you’re telling me?”
He shakes his head no. Okay. I can work with this. I put my hands on his shoulders and make certain his eyes are locked on mine. We’re going to walk this thing back.
“Jimmy, you just need to tell them that you moved the horn when you brought in the food order. It was in your way and you set it aside. They can’t prove anything else. You’re in that building all the time. It’s not a stretch that your fingerprints would be on an instrument.”
“Do you think they’ll believe that?” he asks skeptically.
They better, you little shit.
“I do,” I reassure him. “You just act surprised that they would even ask you. The last time you saw the horn, you had moved it over a few inches so you could sort out the dinner orders for the musicians backstage. And, if they start to press, you start yelling about racial profiling. ‘Sure, blame the Chinese kid!’ That kind of shit. Do you think you can pull it off?” I ask, looking for any sign of weakness in his eyes.
He takes a deep breath in and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, Jeremy. I’m sorry, man, I was just …I was just scared and I didn’t know what to do.”
“You did the right thing coming to me first. But remember, Jimmy, no matter what they offer, or threaten, my name never comes up. Never. Do you understand me?”
I see the fear return as he stares into my face, which I have made into an icy mask. He should be scared. I can do a lot more to him than the police can.
He nods again, more enthusiastically this time. “I do. I understand, Jeremy. You didn’t have nothing to do with this shit. No matter what. I swear.”
My expression thaws, and I reward him with a smile and a playful punch on the shoulder. “Excellent! You’re going to get through this just fine, Jimmy. And I promise I will make it worth your while on the back end.”
Unless, of course, you fuck this up, and then my punches won’t be so playful anymore.
Jeremy 14
After my glowing review in the paper, there’s an uptick of sales for the Detroit Philharmonic. I peek out into the hall from backstage and see that the hall, usually two-thirds full, is near capacity tonight. I smile. This is for me. Mahler One is nothing, if not an homage to the French horn section. And I am the center of that universe.
So, we play and the audience sits. Through the Mendelssohn Overture. Through the Grieg Concerto. And then, there is the main event. They don’t call this symphony ‘The Titan’ for nothing. The normal complement of orchestral forces wasn’t powerful enough, as far as Mahler was concerned, so he added parts for extra performers in the wind, brass and percussion sections. We all cram onto the stage of the performance hall. It’s tight … but it’s so worth the discomfort when we get to the last movement, where the composer decided to pull out all the stops.
The crash of cymbals that opens the finale of Mahler’s First Symphony is like the crack of a starter pistol. From that instant, the orchestra takes off and never looks back. The strings take on a frenetic pace, just barely in control as their bows are a blur of sound and motion.<
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But it’s the brass that owns this movement. Alternating fanfares bounce between the horns and the trumpets, with lower brass providing a solid core of support. The trumpets blare so powerfully that they are a hair’s breadth away from distorting. It’s the most sound the instrument can produce at the highest possible volume, without the whole thing splintering apart.
The horns whoop. The timpani is beating, beating, beating its pounding pulse. It’s the heartbeat of the orchestra. Underneath, the strings continue their dizzying, spinning spiral, their bows moving impossibly fast. A brief soft section provides a reprieve. It’s an eerie cloud of discord. The horns slip in, unnoticed, at first, then growing more prominent until they are the solid, crystalline core of the orchestra. The trumpets punctuate periodically in a distant echo.
Wind chimes tinkle, adding to the ethereal mood, but not for long before the race is on again, and we are running toward an invisible finish line. The final lap comes in the last seventy-six measures of the movement. For two minutes, the brass blasts, the strings bow and percussion pounds.
This is when we stand. All six horn players, spread across an entire row of the stage with the bells of our instruments raised high, just as Mahler indicated in the score. He wanted to get the largest possible sound out of the horns, and tonight we do his memory proud. The strings sound as if they are swinging from note to note beneath us as we produce a powerhouse of brilliant, brassy sound. The kind of music that produces a physical reaction in the human body, raising goose bumps, sending chills and causing the heart to actually beat faster.
The timpani rolls and rolls.
Now, in these final seconds, the Maestro is only conducting the first beat of each measure, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. And then, he looks up at me, and he nods. That’s the signal. Suddenly, we are streaming fire right out of our bells and into the concert hall. Rip-roaring licks spill effortlessly out of me, and my section. This is a hymn. No, it’s an anthem. This is the sound of victory. When, at last, we have reached the last note, he throws down his baton, and his hand shoots up in a triumphant fist above his head.
The audience explodes.
****
Lisa is standing by my locker when I get there. She must have been waiting a while, because it’s taken me some time to pack up and get past the throng of well-wishers from the orchestra. Funny how one minute you’re a murderer, and the next you’re a hero. Not that I give a fuck either way.
“Come to congratulate me?” I ask her with a suggestive smirk.
She blushes as she wrings her hands nervously. “I wish. No, Jeremy, it’s Doug. He sent me to give you a message. I got the feeling he was a little too scared to talk to you himself.”
I set my horn case down on the floor and stand directly in front of her. I lean over her, bracing my arm on the lockers above her. We are so close that I can smell her shampoo.
“Okay, I’m listening. What does that chicken shit want now?”
“You need to be in the fourth-floor conference room on Monday morning at ten sharp. And you should bring an attorney with you.”
I take my arm down, stand up straight and take a step back so I can get a good look at her. Playtime is over.
“Why is that?”
As my tone sharpens, she suddenly looks very nervous. As she should.
“Why?” I demand again, more forcefully. That does the trick.
“He w-wouldn’t tell me, Jeremy but …but I think you’re being fired,” she quavers.
I smile and pick up my case, not bothering with the locker anymore.
“Yeah, we’ll fucking see about that.”
Jeremy 15
Maybe it’s the change in scenery, but Glenn Garibaldi appears more impressive in Detroit than in New York. It’s costing me a small fortune to get him here, but he’s the only guy I trust to do what I want him to do, no matter how distasteful it might be.
We take the elevator up to the executive floor of the Detroit Concert Hall, and I show him the way to the conference room where we’ve been asked to meet. And there, already sweating a river, is Dipshit Doug. Sitting next to him is the guy I recognize as the Detroit Philharmonic’s legal counsel, Brady something or other. And doesn’t he look precious in his Brooks Brothers suit and tie? The two lawyers exchange greetings and I learn that his last name is Bell. Seriously? Brady Bell? I feel like I’ve walked into a low budget porn flick.
We sit down and Lisa comes in with a carafe of coffee, setting it down with some mugs in the middle of the table. She makes a point of dropping something on the floor and grabs my thigh under the table. I stifle a smile and try not to get myself too … excited. When she leaves the room, Brady opens his folder, scans it, and looks up with a smile.
“Mr. Corrigan, do you know Jimmy Woo?”
“Please, call me Jeremy, Braaaady,” I say, putting emphasis on his pansy ass name. “Of course I know Jimmy. He delivers Chinese food. A lot of the orchestra members have it ordered in the night of a concert when they can’t get home for dinner before the show.”
“I see. And have you had any dealings with him outside of that context?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“Huh.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, sorry. It’s just that we believe he stole Jennifer Ruiz’s instrument and then tried to pawn it.”
What? He said someone else tried to pawn it. That little motherfucker!
“Wow. I’m surprised. He seems like such a good kid,” I feign surprise.
“Mr. Corrigan – Jeremy – he claims you paid him two-hundred dollars to take the horn from the hall and put it in a dumpster on the other side of town.”
Dead. He is so fucking dead.
“Well, that’s bullshit. Obviously, he’s scared, and he’s just desperate to find a way out of trouble.”
Brady Bell nods thoughtfully. “The thing is …” he begins as he opens the laptop he brought in with him. “The thing is that we have surveillance footage from the hall and neighboring businesses that would appear to show you speaking with Jimmy.”
Before I can respond, he hits a key, and there I am. Blurry and black and white, but it’s me alright. Talking to Jimmy that night after he took the horn, and then there I am in the alley with him. Fuck me!
He’s watching me for a reaction, but I’m expressionless. He’s waiting for an explanation, but I don’t offer one.
“How do you explain that?” he finally asks.
Glenn, who’s been jotting notes on a legal pad looks up.
“There’s nothing to explain. My client knows Jimmy, he’s spoken to Jimmy. What else do you need to know?”
“So, you’re denying that this footage has anything to do with the missing horn?”
“Do you see the missing horn anywhere in that footage?” Glenn queries.
Brady sits back and considers both Glenn and me carefully.
“How do you explain the exchange of money in that first clip?”
“Is that money? Looks a little grainy to me,” Glenn comments, almost before Brady can finish asking the question.
Brady sighs in frustration. Good, I’m starting to get on his nerves.
“So, you’re denying any involvement in the missing instrument?”
“Absolutely,” I declare confidently.
“I see. Well, based on your previous record …”
“I’m sorry, what record is that?” I lean forward, brows knitted together.
“Uh, well, the death of Calvin Burridge …”
“Was I arrested for that and I didn’t know it?” I ask Glenn next to me.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Glenn plays along.
“Then, you can hardly call it a record, can you now, Braaaaady?” I taunt. “What’s in that little folder of yours anyway? Hmm? Nothing that indicates I’ve ever had more than a speeding ticket. And that was when I was sixteen-years-old. So, unless you’ve got something else to show me, I’ll be leaving now,” I inform him, getting to my feet.
>
“Actually, I do.”
“You do what?”
“I do have something else to show you. So, if you’d please just indulge me for a few more minutes,” Brady requests.
I look to Glenn who nods, so I sit down again.
“Can you please get to it already, Counselor?” Glenn grits in his best ‘irritated New Yorker’ accent. “Seems to me you should have something better to do than harass one of the top musicians in the world.”
“You’re correct, Mr. Garibaldi. I wouldn’t have requested this meeting if it weren’t important. So, let’s just get down to it, shall we?”
When no one responds, he leans forward with his forearms on the table, pencil in hand. He taps the eraser on the table.
“As you know, Jennifer Ruiz’s horn was stolen. As I’ve just mentioned, Jimmy Woo has admitted to taking it and then trying to pawn it. The instrument was already on a police watch list, so we were tipped off by the pawnbroker and the horn was recovered. The police departments forensic unit confirms the presence of Mr. Woo and Miss Ruiz’s fingerprints only.”
Well that sounds good to me. Maybe they’re all here to offer me an official apology so I don’t sue the shit out of them for slander. Garibaldi is on that train too, apparently.
“We already knew that,” he grumbles with more than a hint of irritation.
“Yes, well, there is young Mr. Woo’s testimony,” Brady says.
“Please. His word against mine,” I mumble.
He ignores me. “And then there’s the audio …”
All heads swing to him.
Glenn is the first to ask. “What audio is that?”
“The audio from the wire that Jimmy was wearing when he approached your client outside of the concert hall the other day. The audio that has him clearly coaching Jimmy on how to lie to the police. The audio that clearly implicates Jeremy Corrigan in the theft of the instrument.”
Before either of us can comment, Brady Bell hits a button on a remote control and suddenly there is sound hissing through speakers mounted on the wall. I can hear the street noise in the background, and then Jimmy’s voice. And mine. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!