Death and saxes
Andres is usually only worried about the band’s sets, and making sure his fashion is on-point. But tonight, there’s something else on his mind… Hopefully he’ll survive the night.
Andres Paolo was a dead man walking to a hopped up beat, and he knew it. It was hard to say who wanted him dead - or at least who wanted him dead enough to pay assassins. The usual strings of scorned ex-lovers, disgruntled fans and irate club owners were long on ire but generally short on cash and/or real desire to inflict lasting physical harm to his person. Why, old man Harley had laughed with them just the other day when their five-digit bar-tab at his place came up in conversation.
“It did have that sort of manic edge to it, though,” pointed out Tommy ‘The Mule’ Maguire. His long face, the source of his nom d’plume, was lined with concentration as he fiddled with the wires of his electric keyboard.
“Naw,” said Cho Warren, industriously polishing his trombone slide, “what had that manic edge was them broken bottles he was wavin’ around atcha. Man acted like he taint never seen a tab ’slong as my arm.”
Nobody mentioned that Cho’s arms were somewhere far beyond the 99th percentile of average, waving back at all the short armed folk with lanky self-assurance and pithy lines about the Second Amendment. There was a reason he didn’t have a stage name, friendly or otherwise. But he played a mean trombone, which covered a lot of sins and almost made up for the strong Slenderman vibes at Halloween, funerals and weddings.
Andres stared unseeingly at the heavily stained door leading to the rest of the club. They’d nearly gotten him just this morning - a careful donkey-pattern on his grande latte hadn’t disguised the smell of almonds, and the convincingly human ‘barista’ had hoofed it out of there when he’d confronted them. Cyanide, almond milk - it didn’t actually matter which it was, in the grand scheme of things. The brunch burrito had naturally also been suspect. Now, his fingers tapped an irregular rhythm on his saxophone.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tommy shrugged and adjusted his rakishly angled top hat. “It’s a small gig tonight. Nowhere for them to hide, and Pamela won’t be letting any donkeys through the door.”
It was true, and amazing how comforting a five-foot nonna with a rolling pin and a thirty foot attitude could be, provided you were on the right side of her. Andres nodded. Pam was one of the club owners who actually liked them, though she’d like them better if Andres would agree to marry one of her daughters. Or her son, she wasn’t picky on the matter.
Fintan ‘Shark Week’ Li pushed a mop head away from his face. “Practically microscopic.”
The other three waited, in case there was anything else forthcoming. Context, perhaps. But as always, their vocalist lived up to his name - sharp, pointed, and, at least according to rumour, able to smell free booze from up to six hundred meters away through two doors and a gaudy neo-classical facade. His enthusiasm for Pam’s place was noticeably thin - she didn’t have Harley’s legendary optimism, and she did have a rolling pin. Too much cleaning product also brought him out in a rash; the green room here made him look like he’d rolled through stinging nettles. Pam called it the ‘clean’ room.
Come seven o’clock they spilled out of their waiting room, Cho somehow knocking the small plaque on the door clean off and across the room, designating a patch of dirty floorboards under a hall table as ‘janitor’. Fintan got halfway to the stage before realising he’d grabbed a broom and had to rush back to the closet-cum-green room to retrieve his mic stand.
But despite everything, the night was going well - two sets in and Andres started to relax. His eyes began scanning the crowds with less mortal dread and more of an eye to his next amorous encounter. After all, if someone had already set the asses on him, he may as well live his life to the fullest while he still had it.
Halfway through the third set, something viciously sharp spun out of the crowd and screeched discordantly against Andres’ sax. The blade clattered away across the tiny stage as he threw himself to the floor - in the crowded room, two heavies were mimicking his movement with malicious intent. The assassin - cleverly disguised - brayed and tried to kick one of the bouncers in the brass monkeys. Pam’s eldest daughter just winced and grabbed the assassin’s hair. The mop of brown ringlets came away in her hand, revealing floppy, long, grey ears, and sharp hooves trod on toes and insteps as Andres’ attacker dropped to all fours and began shoving their way towards the door.
Cho gave Andres a hand up as the scream of approaching sirens radiated a shrill, ear-piercing air of security, and the band shuffled awkwardly off-stage. Pam was in the midst of the crowd, perched atop her son’s broad shoulders and calming the crowd with aggressive reassurance and head trauma, so Tommy rummaged through the kitchenette and produced a mug of coffee for Andres. Well, a mug of something hot and brown, anyway. The saxophone player’s grimace when he tasted it suggested it was only distantly related to that sweet nectar of the gods, if at all. He drained it nonetheless.
“Thanks. I needed that.”
“Not a problem. Maybe you should have a lie down?”
Andres nodded. “I think I might. My head’s killing me.”
The police rolled into the club like a tidal wave in navy and high-vis, splitting up and bee-lining straight for the assassin - head-locked by Pam’s eldest - and the band, like a flock of geese disagreeing on the compass’ readings.
“We’ll need to speak with the alleged victim,” the officer in charge of addressing the band informed them. Tommy, always quick, volunteered to go and fetch Andres from the green room.
Considering it was just down the hall and around the corner, it was amazing that he managed to get lost. Five minutes later, a concerned Fintan followed him and returned after mere moments with a solemn face and classic Shark Week brevity. “Andres’s dead.”
In the alley at the back of the club, Tommy readjusted his hat, carefully tucked a long ear back underneath, and sauntered nonchalantly out into the crowd. It was a pity, but a job was a job.
