Music is Murder by B. J. Bowen

Author:B. J. Bowen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Epicenter Press Inc.
Published: 2021-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN

Friday, February 14, 2010, 10:15 PM

The Blue Dragon was noisy, the service slow, and the corners none too clean, but it was the closest bar open late and serving food. Symphony members hung out there after rehearsals and concerts to unwind in a safe place. Joe Burke’s strange behavior had disconcerted me, and I realized that the parking lot, where I waited for Janet, was unlit. Clouds had moved in to cover the moon and stars, and tall evergreens blocked what little light glowed eerily through the clouds. To my relief, she soon pulled into the parking lot and headed for the empty space beside me.

On foot, we threaded our way between parked cars and slivers of broken bottles. Even out here, I heard the rock band, bass thrumming, louder than any music should be.

Janet bubbled excitedly. “This is the first time in six years I haven’t had to go home to the babysitter after a gig.” She gloated. “I’m gonna rock!”

Sounded like I could prepare for a long night. Okay. Janet would do the same for me.

Inside, the crowded dance floor looked like a mosh pit, as usual. The noise from the band made conversation impossible. Strobe lights created a surreal atmosphere. We checked our coats and Janet pointed to the bar. Perching on adjoining stools, we yelled our orders at the bartender.

“Think we’ll hook up with anybody?” Janet screamed.

I figured if we did, he’d be drunk or with the symphony or both, but I only said, “Never can tell.” After all, Janet had recently escaped from the prison of her marriage. Let her enjoy new possibilities for a while. The cynicism would set in later. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just me.

Talk wasn’t possible, so we nursed our drinks and scanned the crowd. Or rather, I nursed my drink and wished for Barry to appear. He stubbornly refused to be banished from my thoughts, despite my best efforts to forget his existence. The more I told myself not to think of him, the more he haunted my thoughts.

Janet gulped her drinks and put away four by the time I’d finished sipping the first. Her gaze caught that of a dark cowboy-booted muscle-builder, way tall, over six feet and made taller by his cowboy hat. The sultry looks they exchanged should have been X-rated.

Then I noticed his friend. Short—shorter than me—with a paunch that overhung his belt, bald, bearded, also cowboy-booted, with circles of sweat under each arm and headed my way.

“Oh, Lord, I’m too old for this,” I groaned to myself.

Janet and the muscle-builder moved to the dance floor, entwined and moving together in a way that looked like pregnancy might result. Where had Janet learned to dance like that? If her soon-to-be ex-husband, Alan, had taught her, he must be more exciting than he looked.

By now Short-Stuff stood way too close to me at the bar. “Hey, babe. Wanna dance?” he roared over the din.

“I don’t dance,” I shouted, lying.

Looking relieved, he stood on tiptoe and pushed himself atop the stool Janet had vacated.

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