Aug 18, 2011 17:02
Maurice leaned down and picked up the discarded shotgun, tsk-tsking.
He tossed it into the trunk on top of the dozens of robes and slippers of various sizes and colors. Then the reached up above the door frame and took down the small can of talc he’d used to cover his footprints every time he’d been in the storage area and tossed it into the trunk as well. Finally, he picked up the red and black puppet that had been the final straw for poor, dear, feeble-minded Morrie.
“Booga, booga, booga,” he chortled, wiggling the puppet up and down for a bit before tossing it into the trunk as well.
He then slammed the trunk shut with a violent kick. After dark, he’d take the time to bury it in the back yard, but - for the moment - he was content in locking the remains of poor Morrie in the same trunk he’d been stored away in for so long.
Maurice took a few minutes to inspect the rest of the garage, seeing if there was anything useful or amusing, before entering the house again, this time as its master.
He sat down at the table and ran his long fingers over the polished brass of his beloved trumpet. It had been so long … he picked it up reverently and, with almost a lover’s caress, fingered the pearl inset valves, testing for feel. He touched the mouthpiece to his lips and lightly blew, listening to his breath course through the tubing.
With a smile, he set it back down and walked into the bedroom to see if Morrie had processed any decent clothing to replace his talc covered ones.
A shower and change later, he lounged on Morrie’s sofa and picked up the phone. Three false tries dialing finally got him through to the Arena, the area’s best jazz nightclub. The bartender transfered Maurice to the owner.
“Heya, Bobbo. Guess who’s back in town?” He laughed at the reply before countering, “Only with your wife or mother, Bobs. What? Oh … sorry, man. I didn’t know. She was a grand old gal, Bob; I’m sorry I missed the wake. Listen, I was calling to see if I could line up a gig.” He paused to pat all of Morrie’s pockets and look around. Then he added ‘Cigarettes” the the mental list he was working on. After a moment, he replied, “A little out of practice, maybe, but you know Maurice, Bobster. At my worse, I was one of the best.” He carried the phone into the kitchen and looked for something to drink. ”Just set me up in a quartet and stand back.” No booze either?!? Wait! He hauled down a bottle of … cognac? Morrie drank cognac? Since when did Morrie drink, period, much less cognac.
“What was that, Bob?” he asked, taking down a glass and pouring two inches of the amber liquid into it. ”Naw, I can work with anyone.”
He walked into the living room with his drink and put his feet up. ”Yeah, that’s fine … what time should I show?” He jotted the time down on a handy pad on the coffee table. ”Reet, Bobs; I’ll be there and ready to blow big.”
Maurice took a big sip of his drink before adding, “You just tell the guy’s that Maurie is back and ready to play.”
End
fiction