Page 39 of Requiem

“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.