Johnny Staccato and the Off-Key Ensemble

I was on my fourth cup of mud that evening when I heard the news.

Dark and steaming in the mug, it was a lot more inviting than the lead-eyed waitress who’d just poured it for me.

“Top ya off, hun?” She’d drawled. 

I supposed a refill hadn’t hurt at the time, but suddenly I needed my order to-go when reports of a ruckus rustled over the wireless. Crackling through the static, duty jumped up and bit me, and the waitress’ gaze only darkened. 

She didn’t like it; hell, nobody did. But my job wasn’t about being  liked. My job was to uphold the law, and ever since the mayor met a chalky end in The Crowbar Theatre, musicals had been banned in public. 

That’s right. Thanks to some whackadoo with a tommy gun and an attitude, the atmosphere had to stay more monotone than the evening press. No more than three musicians in any one place, no lyrics in songs, and most bizarrely, no unsupervised pianists. Yessir, it was all blues, no rhythm,  and given the vibe, I couldn’t blame the civilians for being a little heavy in their step.

The locale in question was The Stuck Keys, a jazz bar in the industrial district. The heavies at the door weren’t any lighter with their stares, but they obliged enough to let me through. After all, what was better for greasing a lock than a shiny police badge?

The air, as thick with cigar smoke and booze as ever, fell deathly silent upon my approach. Of course, I wasn’t surprised. Anyone riskin’ musical behaviour in public would meet the business-end of a gavel before long.

“Staccato,” The barman flared his nostrils. Permanently grinding a washcloth into a chipped stein, he never broke his gaze. “What brings ya to my respectable establishment at this hour?”

I tipped my hat, “Why, the atmosphere of course.”

Now, I didn’t expect things to improve with my glib remark, but what little jive there was in the room evaporated completely, like someone had pulled the plug, draining the colour out of the bar. 

“Atmosphere? Please,” the barman spat. “Whose horn you blowin’, Staccato?”

“Funny you should ask,” I leaned against the countertop. “Because I’ve been hearin’ rumours, Massimo. Rumours of folk gettin’ a little too … rhythmic in here, ya hear?”

The barman rippled with dissent, and rose to his full height. “That’s a very serious accusation, Staccato. It sure ain’t a clever one to make, ‘specially when folk here don’t like youse.”

“You don’t have to like me, Massimo. I just don’t want any abuse.” I straightened out my coat.

The rummy in the corner started snapping his fingers—one, two, three, four—and suddenly I noticed how squeaky the floor was beneath me. Massimo’s sausage fingers started tracing the rim of his beer glasses, and suddenly the floor wasn’t the only thing with jelly legs.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Staccato, you got us all wrong,” he smirked. “Your heavy mood an’ attitude, now it don’t belong.”

“Well, I’ve heard some reports, just this afternoon,” I put my cap down. “That your little establishment was carryin’ a tune!”

The door to The Stuck Keys squeaked open, and a beat started  to pulse through the crowds. It looked like the reports were on the money after all.

“A tune? Now that don’t sound like us. It must be a fake.” Massimo frowned. “Just you go check, and check again, ‘cus that’s a mistake.”

A reefer-smoker two stools down started hamboning. I chuckled to myself. Even the law can’t stop the music in one’s head, so I’d have to let that one slide. 

“Mistake? Now that’s preposterous, I’ve got the receipt!” I reached into my breast pocket, as glasses jingled together in the background. “Yahoos spied at ten to ten, dancing in the street!”

“The street you say? So long ago? Now that ain’t fair,” Massimo said. “Those yahoos, they could’a come from anywhere. Besides, I got a livelihood, a business ta keep. You been in here ten minutes now and ain’t heard a peep.”

“Perhaps you’re right. All this is true, there’s not been a sound.” I shrugged. “But there ain’t no way you and your mob are all above ground.”

I pressed my foot down on another squeaky floorboard, only for a hinge to pop up. “Oh, clumsy me! Now what is this? Just what have we here? Why, if I look under this bar, there’s more than just beer.”

“You’re free to look, to browse, peruse, that dusty dank old cellar,” Masimo smirked. “But you best get on out of here, if you don’t find a yeller.”

“Oh, mark my words, I’ll look alright. I’ll pick this cellar clean.” I lifted the hinge and toppled down stone steps. “But you’ll be singing different tunes when I unearth your scheme!”

Massimo just chuckled as I scoured racks of booze in vain. Despite it all, despite the reports, no instruments were to be seen.

“Well, how’s my basement, Johnny? Did ya find the things you need?” Massimo smiled smugly. “’Cus if your hands are empty, you’ll have to concede.”

“Fine, I give. You win this time, my hands are in the air.” I surrendered. “But hear me now, I’ll catch you out. Forget me if you dare! You’ve had your time, you’ve had your fun, you’ve treated me like a clown. But put one more toe out of line and I will shut you down.”

My finger was buried in Massimo’s chest, but all he could do was grin with his stupid flappy face as the bar exploded with applause. 

The flappers, the rummies, the patrons, and the waiters were raucous with delight. And I s’pose it got me thinking; this ban just wasn’t right.

So what if the mayor met his end watching Kissing Time? Taking music from our lives? Well, that was the true crime.