Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [99]
“Oh, not so soon,” he said. “I haven’t played for you.”
“That’s right,” she said, “and you promised. Will you? I have time for a song or two.”
“My pleasure.”
She sat at the desk as he pulled up a chair next to the amplifier, turned it on along with the guitar, and spent a few minutes tuning the strings to his liking, and adjusting the volume. “Anything special you’d like to hear?”
She shook her head. “Whatever you choose.”
He opened the fake book, hunched over the guitar as though trying to incorporate his body into its very frame, examined the music for a moment, and started playing. Roberta didn’t recognize the tune; a bossa nova, “Wave.” She focused on Michael as he moved through the changes to the song, totally absorbed in what he was doing, in a different place, his body subtly moving with the rhythm he’d established. She found herself moving, too, but her thoughts weren’t exclusively on the music. She kept thinking about the pages of his novel she’d read. Not what they said, but the way the pages looked. It was almost as though she’d seen them before. Was her mind playing tricks? Why would they look so familiar? Silly. She forced her attention to what Michael was doing as he finished the song.
“Bravo!” she said, applauding.
“Thank you,” he said, bowing from his sitting position. “Another?”
She consulted her watch again. “I have time,” she said, “but only one more.”
As he hunted through the book for a different selection, she again looked at the pages on the desk. What is it? she wondered.
I’ve seen this before. She considered taking a page, but was at a loss as to how she’d explain it to him. He struck a series of inviting introductory chords before launching into another tune she didn’t know, “You Go to My Head.” The rich chords and lovely melody drew her in and she forgot about the pages.
He’d reached the bridge of the song when a loud, incessant knocking at his door caused him to stop playing and to look angrily across the room. The knocking got louder; it was now a banging with something other than knuckles.
“Damn it!” he growled, putting down the guitar. He opened the door. “What the hell do you want?” he shouted at Rudy, whose cane was poised to deliver another blow.
“I gotta talk to you,” Rudy said loudly, his words slurred.
“Get away,” Michael commanded.
Rudy poked his head into the apartment and saw Roberta. He tried to push past Michael, but was held in check by the bigger man. “I told you to get away,” Michael said, his threatening tone underlining what he was saying. He shoved Rudy away from the door and slammed it in his face, which prompted more rapping with the cane, and muttered curses.
Michael walked away from the door and stood a few feet from Roberta, who’d stood and grabbed her purse from where she’d left it on a small table. His rage was palpable. His body shook, and his face was twisted with fury.
“I am so sorry,” he managed in a quavering voice.
“Who was that?” Roberta asked.
“A neighbor. A neighbor from hell. A drunk. How dare he intrude on our lovely evening together?”
“I’m just sorry you’re so upset,” she said. “I loved tonight. Everything was perfect, the meal, the conversation, and your performance. Thank you, Michael, for playing for me. You’re even better than Joe Pass.”
“You’re very kind,” he said. “You drove?”
“Yes. I parked right up the street.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll—”
“I insist. With this madman running around killing beautiful young women, I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to my only niece, nor would your mother and father.”
As they exited the building, Rudy was there leaning against a tree. He took a few wobbly steps toward Michael and Roberta. As he did, Michael grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and threw him to the ground. He landed hard, causing Roberta to wince and to turn away. Michael stood over him. He placed his foot on Rudy’s chest. “You drunken bum. You’ll never bother