Nine Fingers by Thom August

hear the rhythm section of a jazz band it means they’re
     fucking up. You’re just supposed to feel them, unless one of them is soloing. And I believe that. The trumpet and sax are up front, physically, and their sound is
     supposed to be up front, aurally. That’s the nature of the music.
    It took another half-hour to get the system right. I’d do a little more tweaking when everyone got here. After all, I had
     equalized it all to the piano, and this wasn’t a solo piano concert. So when they got here I’d have them take a minute to
     get warm and tune up to the piano, and I’d fiddle with the dials again one more time, just a hair or two. But the way the
     system was at that moment, anybody could play into it and it would work.
    By this time it was eight thirty-five. I took a water-based red Magic Marker and marked the levels on the dials, in case someone,
     particularly Jeff, fucked with them, then headed out to the bathroom to take a piss. No weed tonight, not until after. I wanted
     us to play well so I could wash that last scary gig out of my head. I looked around at all the glass in the walls and the
     ceiling. I didn’t want to get all pot-paranoid and start hearing that glass breaking when it wasn’t.
    So it was Straight City for me, or as close to it as I come, at least for the next three hours. Please, I thought, no murders,
     no blood. Just let it be music.

CHAPTER 10
    The Cleaner
    Airport Marriott—Tuning Up
    Saturday, January 11
    8:00 A . M. : Getup tonight is Joe Businessman. Blue worsted suit. Dark blue socks. Cordovan shoes. Black galoshes over them. Blue button-down
     shirt. Maroon tie, cordovan belt to go with the cordovan shoes no one can see under the galoshes. Black-rimmed glasses, thick
     lenses, with a clear prescription. Toupee. Mousy brown. Mustache and Vandyke to match. Eyebrows dyed to blend in. Black gloves,
     black coat, black scarf. One word—inconspicuous.
    Review the objectives:
    Do not get caught
    Do not get noticed
    Leave nothing behind
    Reconnoiter
    Figure what went wrong
    Here to watch. Time to see for myself.
    The boys? Tell them what happens? They say nothing. “Shit happens.” Do they want to try again? Do they want to clear this
     up? No. They say, Back off. They will get in touch.
    Me? Not happy. All this time, this never happens. Always get the job done. This job, when it comes in, it looks simple. Maybe
     it still is. See for myself.
    Check the pain status. Three on a one-to-ten scale. Same place. Dull ache. The back is livable. Two of the striped pills,
     all ready. Two more handy if it gets any worse.
    Park the car myself. Lock up. Keys in the right front pocket. Walk to the big glass door. Wait for the doorman to open it.
     Put the shoulders up. Put the head down. Pass on the coat check. Head for the lounge. Find a seat in the back, near the corner.
    Hang the coat on the back of the chair. Leave the scarf on, the gloves on. Waitress wanders over, her own sweet time. Tall
     dirty blonde. Uniform that is maybe a size eight when she is at least an eleven. Do they have a size eleven? No idea. She
     looks past me.
    I stare off at the ceiling, like what I want to drink is written there. “Ginger ale, please.”
    Do not give them too much of anything. Do not give them too little of anything. Be normal. Be average. Give nobody anything
     to hold on to.
    She wanders off. Time to check out the room.
    8:05 A . M. : Some sound in the air. Like a single note played over and over. Now the piano comes into my line of sight. It looks like a
     body is sprawled on it.
    Then the body moves. One hand reaching into the guts of the piano. One reaching around for the keys. Guy is tuning it.
    The drink comes. I lay a Jackson on the table, gloves still on. She swoops it up, fumbles for change. Drops it on the table.
     Gives me the big phony smile. Give her one right back. Leave the money on the table. One more soda, later, maybe. Whatever
     money is left is her s. Normal tip.
    Pretzels