Stealing the Countess by David Housewright Page A

harmonica, and electric piano. When the applause subsided, they introduced a fifth member of the band from the audience, a young woman who mounted the stage in a dress that covered only a third of her land mass. I didn’t catch her name because Ellis reappeared with my ale. She set the bottle on the table and leaned in so I could hear her.
    â€œI heard some guys talking about the Stradivarius, but I can’t tell you about it right now,” she said. “I’ll tell you later. Okay?”
    â€œSure.”
    Ellis left again just as the woman began singing “Angel from Montgomery.” She did a nice job of it except her voice was young, strong, and crystal clear and conveyed none of the pain the song was meant to communicate.
    Only Bonnie Raitt should be allowed to sing this song, my inner voice announced.
    Still, the lady received a nice ovation when she finished.
    I had finally changed my ringtone, swapping Ella Fitzgerald’s timeless cover of “Summertime” for Louis Armstrong’s famous syncopated opening to “West End Blues,” a fifteen-second cadenza that literally changed American music. It played to me in the brief lull that followed. I glanced at the cell’s caller ID before answering.
    â€œHey,” I said.
    â€œHow are you?” Nina asked. “Staying out of trouble?”
    â€œJust barely. How ’bout you?”
    â€œTypical Tuesday. Nice crowd, not huge.”
    â€œWho’s in the big room?”
    â€œThe Willie August Project.”
    â€œAre they going all epic tonight with flutes and vibraphones?”
    â€œNo, it’s just the trio.”
    â€œTell them to play ‘Chilly and the Mustangs’ for me.”
    â€œDo you expect me to hold the phone up so you can listen?”
    â€œNow that you mention it.”
    â€œI hear music. Where are you?”
    For some reason, the question nudged me into looking around the bar as if my subconscious needed to confirm my location. The man in the sports coat was now sitting on a stool near the door and drinking from a white coffee mug.
    â€œI’m at the Lakeside Tavern listening to some kids play the blues,” I said.
    â€œAnyone I should hear?”
    â€œNot yet. Maybe in a couple of years after they learn their craft.”
    â€œWhat’s the name of the band?”
    I told her, and she paused long enough to write it down. Nina liked to keep track of talent and over the years had managed to give a boost to several unknown acts that hadn’t stayed unknown for long. Esperanza Spalding came to mind.
    â€œWhen are you coming home?” Nina asked.
    â€œIn a couple of days. If I haven’t heard anything by then … It’s a bit of a long shot, anyway. People keep telling me that the thieves who stole the Stradivarius are probably long gone, and they’re probably right.” I glanced at the man in the sports coat again. “There are a couple of things that don’t quite jibe, though.”
    â€œThere are always a couple of things that don’t quite jibe.”
    â€œTrue. Very true.”
    I noticed Philip Speegle standing at the side of the stage. He was attempting to catch my eye without catching the eyes of everyone else. I gave him a head nod.
    â€œI have to go,” I said. “The club owner wants to speak to me.”
    â€œIs she as pretty as I am?”
    â€œ He most certainly is not, but then who is?”
    â€œGood answer. Call me tomorrow.”
    â€œI will.”
    *   *   *
    I slipped past Ellis, telling her I’d be right back, and made my way to the side of the stage. Speegle took my arm and led me down a short corridor to a small office. He shut the door behind us, effectively muffling most of the noise.
    â€œDo you like this music?” he asked.
    â€œIf aliens invade the Earth, it won’t be for our technology. They’ll be coming for the blues.”
    Speegle wagged his finger