The first thought in Zene’s mind was the gun. The second was to deftly shift his cello so that its body rested firmly against his chair as he leaped straight for Arcady. His passage sent the music stand crashing.

The gun skittered out of Arcady’s hand and across the floor.

Zene lifted Arcady by the tank straps and screamed, “What the hell were you doing, you little punk?”

“That was good, very good!”

Zene stared at Arcady’s amused expression, and let go. He sat up and sighed as he rearranged his suit. “Where’s the camera? Do I at least get some compensation for making a damn fool of myself?”

Arcady laughed. “Forgive my unusual interview methods, Zene. You did very well.” He stood up, rubbing his arms. “Wonderful speed, quick thinking, sensible reaction. Do you know the last two candidates kept right on playing, even after I shot at them?” Arcady gestured across the room, where Zene could now see the faint, but still visible, bullet holes that had been filled in with wood putty.

“Aren’t you afraid of getting sued?”

Already kneeling next to the cello and examining it, Arcady looked up with twinkling eyes. “Of course not. Not with the influence of my father.”

Irritated, Zene pushed Arcady from his cello and began putting it away. “I’ll go now. I’m not wasting time for crap like this.”

“But Zene, you’re hired! Please stay. Besides, you need the money.”

Zene paused. He had prepared for some time before the interview, and spent the week’s whiskey money on getting his suit dry-cleaned and pressed. He regretted that now, because he felt like a drink. A good drink.

“Of course, you noticed the condition of my cello,” he said.

“Oh, it’s more than that,” said Arcady. “Your hair is long for a man wearing such a conservative and older suit cut. And despite being a musician of excellent caliber, you are not only out of practice, but your hands show that you have worked as a menial laborer. Construction, I think, perhaps on the roads. That does not pay well enough to live in the better parts of the city, so you live some distance from here. Yet you arrive with an unwieldy instrument, muddy on the bottom of its case, so you have not come in a car or taxi. A bus, then.”

Zene sat down, determined not to show any signs of amazement. This rude youngster didn’t deserve it.

“So what if that’s true?”

“I can give you $5000.”

Zene stared.

Arcady pulled out a checkbook and wrote a check on his knee. “No obligation on your part. And you deserve some compensation for today.” He handed over the check.

Zene stared at the check.

“It’s quite good,” said Arcady.

Zene stared at the check.

“Stay,” said Arcady quietly, “and you will play before an audience again. That’s what you want, isn’t it. That’s why you haven’t gotten another job. You need to play again.”

“It doesn’t take a Rachmaninoff to figure out that if you’re going to give me this much now, you must be desperate,” said Zene.

Arcady sighed. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

Zene stood up angrily. “You shot at me!”

“It’s not like you died. And not even a scratch on the cello. So how much more do you want now?”

“It’s not more money I’m wanting. I want an explanation of what the hell you’re looking for from me. Obviously it’s not just a fourth in a quartet.”

“A second in a duet, actually.”

“Whatever.” Zene folded the check and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Well, out with it.” He clipped his tongue over “There’s a good boy,” not because he didn’t want to embarrass Arcady; he simply didn’t believe Arcady was anything but mischievous and possibly insane.

Arcady began slowly, “I need a partner.”

“For something other than a duet.”

“Yes. Don’t worry, my business on both sides is completely legitimate. I’m a private investigator as well. A consulting detective.”

Zene threw up his hands. “That’s all I needed. Some boy playing Sherlock Holmes!”

“I’m 24,” said Arcady, looking hurt.

Zene crossed his arms and glared. “That’s only a little better. Young men make stupid mistakes. Private investigation sounds like a dangerous profession to make mistakes in.”

“Look, I’ve been at it officially for two years. I’m not naïve or as inexperienced as you suspect.”

“You better have covered some damn special cases.”

“Hang on,” said Arcady as he rushed over to the roll-top desk and started going through his piles of papers. “As it stands, I do have a few cases from my youth.”

Zene shut his cello case and pulled it upright. “What did you do, recover the Hope Diamond from thieves while you were in diapers?”

“For that, I might just stop that check before you even get to a bank,” said Arcady, tossing a closed file at Zene, who caught it clumsily. “You must be dying to see my baby pictures.”

Zene snorted, then undid the clasp and withdrew a thin book with pages of stiff black-vellum covered cardboard. He flipped through and found on the fourth page, neatly centered, two columns of a laminated newspaper article, secured with crisp white photo corners.

“Governor’s teenage son recovers the Eckett Emerald….” read Zene in disbelief. “…after the jewel had been discovered missing from the private collection of the Hanbilts three weeks before and the trail thought to have gone cold….”

“Keep reading. I’m not blushing,” said Arcady, with a slim smile.

Zene looked up from behind the book. “There’s a picture of little you without diapers, though.”

“My mother did like to scrapbook,” said Arcady, sighing and putting a hand to his forehead.

“Our precious detective?” asked Zene, pointing to the white cutesy lettering around the edges of the page holding the article.

“I didn’t say she did it well,” said Arcady, now slightly blushing. He looked up. “Is that enough for you? Will you come on board?”
“Look, I’m no crime-fighting hero,” said Zene. “I just play the damn cello as damn well as I can. You’re going to have to find another sap for the detective bit of the business, Arcady.”

Arcady sighed. “If that’s what you wish. You play exceptionally well.”

“Thanks,” replied Zene flatly, thinking about his lack of steady pacing and his complete failure at double-stops. “That’s settled then?”

“It’s settled fine,” said Arcady dismissively as he picked up a white shirt hanging over the office chair next to the rolltop. “It’s good that you dressed for the audition,” he added, “because our first engagement is in about… two hours.”

“What? I haven’t even seen the music–” A terrible thought occurred to Zene. “No. No, that bastardized Britten suite couldn’t possibly be the music for tonight. Arcady, if that’s the music then I’m walking out right fucking now.”

“Never fear,” said Arcady. “I’m not a fool. We’ll be playing Bach.” He shrugged into a short black tuxedo jacket, and the sharp thinness of his body made his figure look like a stylized illustration. “Easy pease, especially for someone with your reading abilities.”

Zene took a deep breath, mentally counted to B twice, and exhaled. He thought of the five Gs in his pocket, and of the further Gs promised in the listing. “Whatever. So where are we playing?”

“A wine-tasting at the Hanbilt estate overlooking the lake,” said Arcady, finishing off his tie and picking up his polished violin. Zene hoped that the thing was one of the modern monstrosities, all shine and no vibrato, mass-pressed and mass-produced. It would only be right.

Arcady bowed a few complicated bars with a triple stop effortlessly.

The sound was the soul of a Stradivarius. Zene cursed inside.

“Attendees,” Arcady continued with a thoughtful and distant look, “will be the Hanbilts and their assorted friends and hangers-on, some political bigwig, and moderate press coverage, I trust. The drive itself will be about one and a half hours, which should be long enough for you to familiarize yourself with the music.”

C is for corkscrew, counted Zene. D is for Dixie, E is for….

Tags: arcady, zene

Trackback URI | Comments RSS