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The woman sitting in my office was probably in her late forties and was fairly attractive, but her most note-worthy feature was her tee-shirt which read “Saturday, September 16, will be BAD.”
“I’m Scarlett Cross, Mr. Tuff, and I’m the chief organizer of the Blandsville Arts Day.” (That explained BAD.) “As you may know, we hold annual contests in art, music, and public speaking in various venues.”
“Very commendable,” I said.
“The events are very popular, but we’ve had some problems. Sponsors donate trophies – beautiful, expensive trophies – and last year a couple of them were stolen.”
“Perhaps they could be better guarded by the police,” I suggested, trying to imagine Trade and Son at a cultural event.
“They would be expensive and they might intimidate some people whereas you would not.” Was it a compliment that my services come cheaply and I am not intimidating?
“Maybe if they didn’t wear their uniforms…?”
“Even in plain clothes they would have that authoritative air. We’d like you do the music contest, and you might be less obvious if you were one of the contestants.”
The idea of me in a music contest was ridiculous. I can’t play any instrument and I’ve never sung in public. If I vocalize, it is usually in the shower, where I have no audience (I hope). My one performance as a musician was in an earlier case in which I had to play one climactic note on the triangle… and I flubbed that.
“Maybe you have a friend with whom you could perform.”
I promised to think it over and let her know. Then I took Amanda Friend to lunch at Hamburger Heaven.
“You have a good speaking voice,” she said, “and plenty of experience talking in public, so there’s no reason you can’t sing.”
We went to Amanda’s house where she sat at an expensive-looking piano and began to play with amazing skill and sing with a beautiful voice. Why is it that people who have a talent assume that everyone shares that talent? Anyway, I telephoned Ms. Cross and told her that Friend and Tuff would be entering the music competition. I didn’t tell her that we would be like beauty and the beast, or maybe the nightingale and the crow.
We spent the next few days rehearsing. We plagiarized several tunes, and I wrote adapted lyrics and Saturday night we entered the crowded site of the competition. On a table across the back of the stage stood a row of gleaming trophies. Amanda and I were the last of thirteen competing acts, an inauspicious detail.
