by Michael Fowler

“Time has a smell, and you smell time with your ears,” said the pianist Cornelius to the cop who had sat in on drums the night before. The drumming cop, a blue-eyed man named Hector, was waiting to take the throne again tonight should anyone ask him, but realistically, he wasn’t that good. Now here was Cornelius telling him again–like he told him last night–how bad he smelled, even though Cornelius had a police record.

“You stank the scene up last night, Hector, with your sloppy flams and press rolls. It was like a tidal wave of garbage came in the door, foul and slick,” said Cornelius. “It was rancid on my ears, man.”

Val, also at the table with Cornelius and the cop, played smooth and unobtrusive guitar with any band. He could see the black pianist and the white drummer both getting mad. Cornelius was known for his explosive temper as much as for his sensitive ears, and the cop could be insensitive. Val heard raw notes of anger in the air.  

“You come in here with your high school marching band beats,” said Cornelius. “But this be jazz, man. You got to swing. It all in the timing.”

Val tried to be a peacemaker. “It’s all in the context. A good drummer can swing a paradiddle. It ain’t all marching down the field at halftime.”

“Rhythm isn’t only time, it’s also place,” the cop defended himself. “The marching field is still there, in my playing. But I can play the field big, or I can play it small, like this club here.”

“Yeah, so we all become drum majors in here,” said Cornelius. “So, what are you doing back here tonight, Hector? Something else on your mind besides cracking rim shots?”

“I had a few questions for you, yeah, in an official capacity,” said the cop. “For you too, Val, since you both knew Stan the trumpet player. We’re looking for the man that visited Stan in his apartment two nights ago around two a.m. Most likely a cat he knew from the music scene. Either of you know anything about that?”

“I knew the guy is all,” said Cornelius. “Played with him right here around that time. If I believed in karma, I’d say he deserved to die. Man couldn’t catch the right tempo if it was a bus. He stank up the scene.”

“That upset you, too, didn’t it Cornelius? I know about some altercations you had with the trumpeter that turned violent,” said the cop.

“Yeah,” said the piano player. He rapped four times on the table with his knuckle. “Quarter notes in common time was our altercation. I knocked those into his thick skull once or twice, strictly to help him out, you understand. Never did him any harm as far as I could tell. I ain’t the one who killed him, though maybe he deserved it for having no rhythm.”

“Who said he got killed?” asked the cop.

“Don’t play with me,” said Cornelius. “Everybody knows the come-down by now. You think only the police knows it?”

“That’s right, Cornelius,” said the cop. “Someone beat him to death with a metronome. A little piece of wood and gears with a pendulum on the side.”

“How do you beat someone to death with a metronome?” asked the guitarist.

The pianist again tapped four times on the table. “In 4/4,” he said, making a grisly smile. “Like my father did with me. Pappy played second violin in a symphony orchestra, and he beat time into me until it hurt.  Made me mad, but it kept my time sharp. Anyways, I don’t know where that cat Stan lives, and I never rang his doorbell at two in the morning or whipped no metronome on him.” Looking defiant, Cornelius got up and left the club.

“I think that’s my man,” said the cop.

“Even Cornelius wouldn’t kill someone with a metronome,” said the guitarist. “That’s way too offbeat.”

“There was a knife involved too,” said the cop, “but we’ll likely never find the blade. Either the killer stuck the metronome in the trumpet player’s hand after he stabbed him to make it clear why he died, or the trumpet player grabbed it as he was dying to identify his killer.”

“That’s a strange circumstance,” said the guitarist.

“Even stranger, there was no trumpet anywhere in Stan’s place. Looks like his horn got lifted.”

“Stan’s horn was valuable. too,” said the guitarist, “a gift from Louis Armstrong himself with “Satchmo” scratched inside the bell. Or so Stan claimed. I saw the scratches once, but  couldn’t make nothing of ’em. Might have said “St Louis.” I could never figure out, either, why Satchmo would give an instrument to such a mediocre player, even if they met. Likely it’s all humbug, just an old horn Stan scratched himself.”  

“Still, someone might believe it was Satchmo’s,” said the cop.

“Tell you what,” said the guitarist. “I owe you a favor for not looking too hard at me when I wandered lonely as a cloud, so I’ll check out a few spots for that stolen trumpet. The man at Steinmetz Music over on Broadway might know something, and there’s a jazz show and display over at The Jazz Garden going on. It might have found its way there.”

Steinmetz hadn’t seen any trumpet like Stan’s pass his way, but at the Garden that evening the guitarist ran into Cornelius. The pianist told him he was boarding a bus later on with a handful of other musicians and heading west.

“Why don’t you come along?” said Cornelius. “Ever been to California? They got some real nice clubs out there. Nice women, good booze, relaxed atmosphere. We leaving here at midnight on Rudy’s old bus.”

The guitarist was about to say yes, since he had nothing else lined up, but on a hunch changed his mind.

“Thanks, but no,” said the guitarist. “I got a gig next week in New Jersey.”  

The guitarist showed at midnight, though, but hung back out of sight with the cop. He noticed Cornelius loading a trumpet case onto Rudy’s bus, a case he might not have brought along if he’d known Val or the cop would be present. Val told the cop he had never seen the pianist handle that kind of case before.       

Stepping forward alone, the cop beat a tattoo on the trumpet case with his thick fingers.

“Hello, Cornelius,” he said. “See how I narrowed the playing field with my drumming? It’s not just time, it’s place too. Now it’s just you and me and my warrant. If I find Stan’s scratched horn in here, that puts you at the scene.”  

He found the horn, scratches and all, wrapped in layers of newspapers. Cornelius couldn’t stand the smell of the instrument.

END