mouthpiece.
Mason ripped the receiver from the phone and fifteen minutes later slammed open St. John’s office door with Sandra and St. John’s secretary on his heels.
“You really are a piece of work, St. John. Did you think we wouldn’t check for bugs just because you said there weren’t any?”
He jammed the mouthpiece under St. John’s nose. Two deputy marshals ran into the office, weapons drawn.
“Sorry, Mr. St. John, but your secretary pushed the panic button,” one of the deputies said.
“They didn’t have an appointment, Mr. St. John. They wouldn’t even let me buzz you first,” his secretary said.
“It’s quite all right, Paula. You did the right thing. Deputies, I’m sorry to trouble you. Mr. Mason and Miss Connelly will be leaving shortly, either with or without your assistance. It makes no difference to me.”
Mason pretended not to notice the guards as they advanced toward them.
“All I want is some answers, Frank. Why are you bugging our offices?”
St. John took the receiver from Mason, studied it, and handed it back to him.
“Mr. Mason, I’m afraid you may have more problems than either of us thought. Even those of us on the public tit can afford better equipment than this. It’s not one of ours. Good day, Counselors.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Wilson Bluestone’s friends called him “Blues,” a name he’d earned playing piano in jazz clubs around Kansas City after he quit his day job as a cop. He and Mason became friends when Mason quit taking piano lessons from him at the Conservatory of Music.
Mason signed up for lessons a couple of years after he’d graduated from law school, and Blues was assigned as his teacher. At his first lesson, Mason told him that if he could play like Oscar Peterson, he’d think he’d died and gone to heaven. After four lessons, Blues told him to go home, listen to the metronome, and find another route to the pearly gates.
When Mason didn’t show up for his next lesson, Blues called demanding an explanation. Mason told him he got the metronome message and Blues reminded him that he had paid for the first five lessons and that he ought to get his money’s worth.
“Why are you giving up?” he asked when Mason walked into the studio.
It was a small, spare room furnished with an upright piano and a gray metal folding chair. Blues straddled the chair, his arms folded over the back. Mason took the bench, his back to the piano.
“Like I told you over the phone. I got your message. I wasn’t born to be a genius jazz pianist.”
“Why did you sign up in the first place?”
“I love jazz and I think the piano is God’s gift to music.”
“Yeah, but why did you think you could learn to play?”
Mason hadn’t expected this question. “I just assumed anyone who wanted to play could learn to play.”
“What do you like about the music?”
“The way it sounds, I guess. What do you want me to say? Is this some kind of exit interview for failing students?”
“That’s why you’ll never learn to play. It’s not what you hear. It’s how the music makes you feel. If it doesn’t change the way you see the world, you’re just in the audience. And the audience doesn’t play.”
“I guess you’re right. I thought learning to play music was like learning a foreign language. First you learn the alphabet, then the grammar, and then you practice speaking. Keep after it, and you’ve got it mastered.”
“I’ll bet you don’t speak any foreign languages either.”
He was right, but Mason wouldn’t admit it. “Is that all I get for my last lesson?”
“It’s more than you got out of the first four.”
“So is this all you do? Take people’s money to tell them why they shouldn’t take lessons from you?”
“Nope. I’m sort of a freelance problem solver.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Some like yours. Help people realize that they’re better off listening to music than trying to play it. I’m a private investigator.
Mason ripped the receiver from the phone and fifteen minutes later slammed open St. John’s office door with Sandra and St. John’s secretary on his heels.
“You really are a piece of work, St. John. Did you think we wouldn’t check for bugs just because you said there weren’t any?”
He jammed the mouthpiece under St. John’s nose. Two deputy marshals ran into the office, weapons drawn.
“Sorry, Mr. St. John, but your secretary pushed the panic button,” one of the deputies said.
“They didn’t have an appointment, Mr. St. John. They wouldn’t even let me buzz you first,” his secretary said.
“It’s quite all right, Paula. You did the right thing. Deputies, I’m sorry to trouble you. Mr. Mason and Miss Connelly will be leaving shortly, either with or without your assistance. It makes no difference to me.”
Mason pretended not to notice the guards as they advanced toward them.
“All I want is some answers, Frank. Why are you bugging our offices?”
St. John took the receiver from Mason, studied it, and handed it back to him.
“Mr. Mason, I’m afraid you may have more problems than either of us thought. Even those of us on the public tit can afford better equipment than this. It’s not one of ours. Good day, Counselors.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Wilson Bluestone’s friends called him “Blues,” a name he’d earned playing piano in jazz clubs around Kansas City after he quit his day job as a cop. He and Mason became friends when Mason quit taking piano lessons from him at the Conservatory of Music.
Mason signed up for lessons a couple of years after he’d graduated from law school, and Blues was assigned as his teacher. At his first lesson, Mason told him that if he could play like Oscar Peterson, he’d think he’d died and gone to heaven. After four lessons, Blues told him to go home, listen to the metronome, and find another route to the pearly gates.
When Mason didn’t show up for his next lesson, Blues called demanding an explanation. Mason told him he got the metronome message and Blues reminded him that he had paid for the first five lessons and that he ought to get his money’s worth.
“Why are you giving up?” he asked when Mason walked into the studio.
It was a small, spare room furnished with an upright piano and a gray metal folding chair. Blues straddled the chair, his arms folded over the back. Mason took the bench, his back to the piano.
“Like I told you over the phone. I got your message. I wasn’t born to be a genius jazz pianist.”
“Why did you sign up in the first place?”
“I love jazz and I think the piano is God’s gift to music.”
“Yeah, but why did you think you could learn to play?”
Mason hadn’t expected this question. “I just assumed anyone who wanted to play could learn to play.”
“What do you like about the music?”
“The way it sounds, I guess. What do you want me to say? Is this some kind of exit interview for failing students?”
“That’s why you’ll never learn to play. It’s not what you hear. It’s how the music makes you feel. If it doesn’t change the way you see the world, you’re just in the audience. And the audience doesn’t play.”
“I guess you’re right. I thought learning to play music was like learning a foreign language. First you learn the alphabet, then the grammar, and then you practice speaking. Keep after it, and you’ve got it mastered.”
“I’ll bet you don’t speak any foreign languages either.”
He was right, but Mason wouldn’t admit it. “Is that all I get for my last lesson?”
“It’s more than you got out of the first four.”
“So is this all you do? Take people’s money to tell them why they shouldn’t take lessons from you?”
“Nope. I’m sort of a freelance problem solver.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Some like yours. Help people realize that they’re better off listening to music than trying to play it. I’m a private investigator.
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