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Blowing Smoke by Stephen D. Rogers I can top that.
One of those Storyville boys came into the station and said he wanted to report a theft. I drew the short straw.
"What do you claim was stolen? A cornet? What the heck's a cornet?"
He was shy for someone so big, barely looked up at me from the chair in front of my desk. "It's a horn."
"Never heard of it. You sure you're not making this up?"
"I've been playing since I was so high."
"Maybe it's an instrument that you people invented." I hid my grin behind a scowl. "This cornet good for those jungle rhythms, or good for nothing?"
"I think maybe I should go."
"Not after coming in here and interrupting my lunch. You leave now, I'm going to wonder why you changed your mind. Swearing a false statement is against the law. You having second thoughts about lying to me?" If I was going to have to deal with him, I knew I owed myself a little fun.
"No, sir. I'm not lying."
"If I remember correctly, the city doesn't have much of a history of cornet thefts. Maybe you brought us the problem when you drifted in. Where you from originally?"
"New Orleans."
"There you go. New Orleans is where all the big cornet gangs operate. You probably came up here to escape them and they followed you anyway." I leaned forward. "I don't appreciate you bringing new crime in my direction."
He swallowed but continued, his voice almost a whisper. "Someone stole my horn and I'd like to get it back."
"Would you now," I snorted. "Maybe you should have held onto it a little tighter. You didn't simply leave it on a park bench somewhere, did you? Some dark alley?"
"No, sir."
"Let me just get my brain around this. There a lot of money in used cornets? They put bootleg whiskey to shame?"
"I wouldn't think so."
"So why then the sudden crime spree?" I shook my head. "The mayor, he stands for law and order. He isn't going to be happy about this going public. Soon as you come in here making wild accusations, it's a matter of record."
"I'm not here to cause trouble."
"Maybe not, but that's what you're doing." I took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to play him next. "What's this cornet look like, anyway?"
"A trumpet."
"I've heard of trumpets, of course."
He straightened. "A cornet is mellower because the first third is straight. With a trumpet, only half the length is flared. The mouthpieces are different, too."
I wasn't too pleased with his sudden confidence. "Is that so? Let's say we find us a warehouse full of these things. How you going to prove which one is yours?"
"I'll hear the difference."
I laughed to take him down another notch. "The judge will be impressed I'm sure. What's to keep you from swearing they all sound like yours and taking off with the whole lot? You ever in trouble with the law before?"
"I don't know how it relates. My horn was the one stolen."
"Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't. Maybe there was a falling out among thieves. Maybe it was retaliation." I lowered my voice. "You have many enemies? That why you left New Orleans?"
"I came here to work."
"That's mighty noble. I'm sure the citizens of our fair city appreciate your sacrifice. You a doctor or something?"
"I play in a band."
"Oh," I let the word roll off my tongue, stretching the sound out for all it was worth. "I should have guessed. You any good?"
"Some think so."
"Must be nice. I considered going into music but my parents were dead set against me wasting my life. Yours must have thought you good for nothing else."
"Do you have any more questions?"
"I'm still asking them, aren't I?" I chuckled. "That's a big part of law enforcement, asking questions, getting answers. I wouldn't be doing my job if I just let you waltz out of here."
"Somebody might have borrowed my cornet. Might be searching for me right now so it can be returned."
"Might be. Perhaps someone is just pulling your leg, having a little fun. Members of a band often enjoy a good joke."
"I should be going." He started to stand.
"Not so fast. I can't leave this paperwork incomplete. Form's still half blank."
"What else do you need to know?" He dropped back into the seat.
"Details. So far we got a missing horn that isn't a trumpet, at least according to you. What did you call it?"
"A cornet."
"That's right. Before you go, I'll have to ask you to draw one for identification purposes. Maybe we'll run the picture in the newspapers, you do a good enough job."
"I'm not much of an artist."
"The captain will appreciate any help you can give us. Especially if he's going to assign extra men to this case."
"Extra men?"
"Certainly. This could be just the tip of the iceberg, the start of a new crime wave. Whole marching bands will be plucked of their instruments. Organs will disappear from churches. Young women will no longer be safe walking their trombones."
"I don't––"
"You weren't out walking your cornet when it disappeared, were you?" I don't know how I kept a straight face.
"It was stolen from my room."
"You certain it was yours? Maybe you wandered into the wrong one, trespassed, broke and entered. Some of the places you people live, the rooms all sorta look alike, if you know what I mean."
"Thanks for all your help but I need to be at work."
"Don't let me keep you. Soon as we clear some murders, we'll get right on this." I glanced down at the form where I'd entered his name. "And Mister Daniel Louis Armstrong? Take my advice. Forget about your cornet and switch to the trumpet, a real instrument. You'll thank me later."
THE END Stephen D. Rogers © 2007 |
Over
four hundred of Stephen's stories and poems have been selected to appear
in more than a hundred publications. His website,