A Shot of Rhythm and Blues

The first time the Blizzards came to the Horizont Club, they did what everyone does: looked up at the fiberglass galleon, whose figurehead’s neckline was at low tide.

The T of the electric sign in the window was unlit. The back of a sailor's head had loosened its wire. It was no consolation to the letter that just before, two of the sailor's teeth were also loosened.

Rory said, “She’s got horizon us.”

The last time they came, they were focused on the man in the otherwise empty barroom.

Bruno Cashminder said, "How dare you barge in here like this?"

"How should we barge?" Rory asked.

"I’m afraid we’re not up on our barging etiquette,” said Michael. “Sorry, sir.”

"Is it a question of etiquette or technique, then?"

"The two words have a lot in common."

"So does question."

"It has some of the same letters, but they don't sound the same."

"Fritzl!" Cashminder called.

"If he was in any shape to throw us out, we couldn't have got in," said Rory.

"Rude to call him when he's tending his wounds."

"You beat him up without damaging your hands?" Cashminder asked skeptically.

Rory's elbow struck air, while Michael kicked it.

Rory told Cashminder, "He's not marching. Just looks that way to you."

"What do you want?"

Rory leaned his guitar case against the bar and said, "How dare you murder our drummer like that?"

"I didn't kill Eddie."

"Hate to contradict my elders, but with no signs of forced entry, the killer was someone he knew. Police thought it was us, hopped up on prellies and ‘violent jungle music.’ " Michael put his case on a table.

"Am I the only person he knows in Hamburg?"

"You're the only one whose contract we broke."

"A broken contract doesn't rate a broken leg. Not that I do that sort of thing. I'll get revenge in court."

"Lawsuits take time," said Rory. "If word got 'round that we crossed you without immediate punishment, every hood in Hamburg would muscle in.”

“I would have damaged you - if I was the damaging type. Eddie broke no contract. Chris was your drummer when you skipped. Eddie ditched Harry Kane and the Typhoons.”

“They’re in Liverpool auditioning drummers. We called to tell them about Eddie,” Rory explained.

“They had to cancel a string of gigs here. When Eddie left, you lost your biggest act.”

“Again.”

“The police accept my alibi.”

“They accept your Deutschmarks.”

A tall blonde came in who could have modeled for the figurehead, but hadn’t.

“Where’s Frit-” Seeing Rory, she gave a start, then veered toward the bar and slapped him.

“Murderer!”

“Why would I kill Eddie?”

“Because we cheated on you.”

“Didn't know. Sherlock told me. Besides, you were disloyal, Kriemhild, not Eddie.”

“”Besides besides, Rory would never kill a good drummer.”

“Another drummer might,” Kriemhild suggested. “From jealousy.”

“Chris is back home working at his mum’s club,” Michael said.

“The club where you got your start?” asked Bruno.

“Calling us ungrateful, then?” Rory snapped.

“You dumped Chris, who got you your first gigs, and me, who took a chance - other bands said you were terrible. You improved, became the big draw. It’s only natural that when you grew, you shed your old skins.”

“We shed someone who can’t pound the skins. You understand getting rid of people who are inferior.”

“I fought on the front lines, nothing else. Do you make these tired jokes to Hans?”

“Hans was nine when the war ended.”

“Maybe he was the Mozart of war criminals,” said Kriemhild. Behind the bar, she bent down to get her apron. Tying it, she scanned the bottles on the wall, then went through the door next to them.

She came back with three bottles of Scotch in her left hand and a case of beer on her right shoulder.

“We’re low on gin.” She put the bottles in their places .

“Egon’s coming.”

“In a time machine, I hope.”

A young woman came in smoking a Gauloise. She wore a black leotard, stirrup pants, and loafers. Her red eyes and nose matched the blotches on her cheeks.

“You didn’t give Beata the night off!” Kriemhild scolded, hugging her. “Fritzl and I would have found a sub...Where is Fritzl?”

“In the loo doing first aid,” said Rory.

“Or home changing his bloody shirt,” suggested Michael. “Which brings us to why we’re here. We want Fritzl drumming tonight.”

“He’s no drummer!”

Rory said, “He makes his living hitting things.”

“If he wanted to go, he’d have come in with you.”

“Didn’t get a chance to ask.”

“Why would I help you?”

“To prove you didn’t kill Eddie to stop us from gigging,” said Michael.

“He might not need proof,” Rory murmured. “I think you were crying tears of remorse, Beata. You missed our discussion of disloyalty. You didn’t miss when you punished disloyalty.”

Bruno and Kriemhild laughed like he was Spike Milligan.

“Beata,” said Bruno, “is a free spirit. ‘People belong with each other, not to each other.’”

“She walked in on us. And joined the party.”

“I’m getting Fritzl!” Rory stomped out.

“Some people hate being wrong,” Beata observed.

“Is that all it’ll take to make him leave?” Bruno said hopefully.

“Not there,” said Rory.

“Then he went home.”

“He lives close by,” said Bruno. “How badly did you hurt him? Gotta unload the truck.” He reached over the bar. Rory snatched up a stool, but Bruno only set a telephone on the bar.

It rang.

“Guten Tag.”

“Du nahmst einen von mir. Ich nahm einen von dir.”

“Hans? Hans!...He thinks I killed Eddie. So he killed Fritzl.”

Gently Beata took the receiver from his limp hand and hung up.

“Going acoustic after all,” said Rory, hefting his guitar. MIchael was already at the threshold.

“Get back here!”

Curious, MIchael turned. Bruno was pointing a Luger at Rory.

Kriemhild estimated distance to Bruno, the awkwardness of a chair.

“You got Fritzl killed!” Bruno spat. “Telling Hans I killed Eddie!”

“He figured it out himself, sir. He’s not stupid.”

Bruno laughed.

“He’s smart as you are. Exactly that smart, I hope.”

“What does that mean?” asked Beata.

“If he thinks I killed Eddie as punishment, we’re even. If he thinks I’m moving on him, he has to strike first. Meanwhile, boys, help Kriemhild unload the truck. You have time. I’ll pay you what Fritzl gets for an entire night.”

“There’s still no truck to unload,” said Beata.

Two boyish types wearing denim rushed in. Bruno folded his arms on the bar, covering the gun.

“Larry got stabbed!” said the redhead.

“Another drummer?” Bruno’s forehead wrinkled.

The phone rang. While Bruno questioned the Whirlwinds, Beata calmed someone.

“That was Wilhelm at the Kashmir. A car ran down The Monsoons’ bassist, I think.”

“They’re hitting my clubs.”

“We’ll get Hans to stop,” said Michael.

“It’s not Hans. Not this quick. And killing Eddie would be cooking his golden duck. Plus he likes you boys. Even your music.” He told the Whirlwinds, “Tune your instruments.” They went across the hall to the main room.

“Make some drinks and keep them company.”

Bruno went to the front door, opened it to find the last Whirlwind, Gale and the Hallstorms and the evening’s first customers. He let the musicians in and locked the door behind them.

Beata sliced lemons and limes, plopped cherries; Kriemhild sprayed seltzer, scooped ice. Both poured and opened snack bags. Their trays held ten drinks in varying vessels, with crisps and pretzels, two bowls each.

Locking the door, Bruno said,“You were right. I didn’t damage you, so I look weak. You owe me - and your fellow rockers.”

“A jury will decide what we owe you.” Rory stood and got his guitar.

“Monsoons and Whirlwinds won’t have their day in court,” Michael countered. Rory sat sullenly.

“Only Gauss or Vonen could have done this.. But neither is stupid enough to take on me and Hans together.”

Michael said, “I once sat in with the Tempests at Vonen’s place. An idiot.”

“A suicidal idiot?”

The phone interrupted.

Bruno listened, snarled, sounded puzzled.

“He asked how it felt to lose my most popular group twice. Before I could say that wasn’t his doing, he hung up.”

“He thinks Eddie was still with Harry!” Rory marvelled.

“And that Harry’s still playing here. He killed the Monsoons’ bassist, but the Whirlwinds’ drummer. The most likely substitute for Eddie. He doesn’t know he attacked you and Hans.”

The phone sounded.

“Guten Tag, Ja, Hans, Ich weiss. Nein, es ist vorbei. Ja, Gauss, ich rufe dich mit informationen. Auf wiedersehen.

“Is Gauss really thicker than Vonen?”

“Stupidity ain’t ignorance. Vonen compares rock and roll to boxing. He invests.”

“But the killer knew Eddie.”

“The killer knew locks. Call Gauss. You’re unhappy with Hans. You must meet where you feel safe. Perfectly reasonable right now. Our men will be watching.”

“Great,” said Rory. “Except Gauss might recognize someone. Red will call Gauss. Us rockers will be watching. We know your type. If they notice, we have a legitimate interest. We shoot.”

“No, you don’t.”

“We don’t sit or stand next to Gauss, either, sir.”

Weinbaum’s abutted a tiny, sadly adequate synagogue. Chrome railings separated the counter areas and cashiers from sixty tables. A fifteen-year-old legend was about to become more legendary.

Gauss’ interpreter said, “Great choice. Most paranoid people in Hamburg. Nobody frisks you better.” He didn’t interpret Gauss’ snorting laugh. Elsewise, the gangster’s manners seemed delicate. Maybe the continual napkin patting stymied photographers.

The night before, Hans had called Bruno. Nothing could make up for Fritzl, but as a gesture, his verein would handle everything.

Outside, hair pinned up under broad-brimmed hats, guitar cases open for business, Rory and Michael sang Yiddish favorites. They’d learned most of them for their manager’s birthday. Under the “pump-priming” money were the lead-pumping tools. The merest breeze and down would come a wingtip.

It was sunglasses weather, so they fit in. Soon their suit jackets covered the guns. After ninety minutes, they latched their cases, Michael’s jacket over his arm.

Michael asked the ticket-giver if he could use the bathroom.

“I’ll get drinks,” said Rory. The man gave cursory pat-downs, ignoring the guitar cases.

Rory left his guitar on a vacant table near Gauss and Red. He got in line. If either lost his nerve, Hans’ man was around, ready for a handoff. To distinguiish himself from public-spirited citizens, he would say, “Napoleon.”

Michael locked the stall door, hung his jacket on the hook. He unsnapped the first latch and realized the feet next door meant things had to be realistic. He wiped the seat with toilet paper, pushed down pants and underpants, sat.

Rory’s eyes shifted to the bathroom door. He wasn’t worried about the guitar. It was the only one here. They would spot a thief. But his was not the only wide-brimmed hat & shades combo by a long shot. That’s why he wore them. Anyone could walk off with it. His eyes shifted again.

Michael’s thumbs were on the latches. The neighbor flushed, covering the snap.

Rory was at the counter.

“Pastrami, bitte.”

“Das ist die Suppenline.”

The bathroom door opened. Michael emerged, guitar case in his right hand, jacket covering his left. Rory dug into his pants pocket, patted his shirt pocket. He ducked the railing, unlatched the case.

“Du kannst hier nicht spielen.” The German phrase every musician knows.

He pulled the .38.

“Ich spielen nicht.”

Rory shot, shattering the back of Gauss’ skull. Michael fired the concealed .32 three times going up from the interpreter’s chest. Rory fired again into the lolling head, dropped the gun into the case and fastened one latch on the run.

Hans greeted them at the door of the Vollmond, introducing a drummer. Out of the shadows stepped Bruno.

“You went behind my back...Dump the guns?”

“Ja.”

“And the guitars,” Rory said wistfully.

“Drop them in the river?”

“Yes, sir,” said Michael.

“That’s where I'll drop my lawsuit.”