A Wreath for Rivera

Skelton said briefly what he thought of Rivera. Breezy looked nervously towards the door. “This settles it,” Skelton said and rose. “I’ll talk to Carlos, by God.” Breezy clawed at him. “No, Syd, not now. Not before the show. Keep your voice down, Syd, there’s a pal. He’s in there. You know how he is. He’s thrown a temperament once tonight. Geeze,” cried Breezy, springing to his feet, “I nearly forgot! He wants us to use the other routine in the new number, after all. Can you beat it? First it’s this way and then it’s what-have-you. He’s got me so’s I’m liable to give an imitation of a maestro doing two numbers at once. Gawd knows how his lordship’ll take it. I got to tell the Boys. I as near as damn it forgot, I’m that nervy. Listen, you haven’t heard what’s really got me so worried. You know what I am. It’s that gun. It’s such a hell of a thing, Syd, and his lordship’s made those blanks himself and, by God, I’m nervous. He’s dopey enough to mix the real things up with the phony ones. They were all mucked up together in a bloody drawer, Syd, and there you are. And he really points the thing at Carlos, old boy, and fires it. Doesn’t he now?”

“I wouldn’t lose any sleep if he plugged him,” said Skelton with violence.

“Don’t talk that way, Syd,” Breezy whispered irritably. “It’s a hell of a situation. I hoped you’d help me, Syd.”

“Why don’t you have a look at the gun?”

“Me? I wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t let me near it. I tell you straight, I’m scared to go near him for fear I start him up bawling me out.”

After a long pause, Skelton said: “Are you serious about this gun?”

“Do I look as if I was kidding?”

“It’s eight minutes to eleven. We’d better go across. If I get a chance I’ll ask him to show me the ammunition.”

“Fine, Syd. That’d be swell,” said Breezy, mopping his forehead. “It’d be marvellous. You’re a pal, Syd. Come on. Let’s go.”

“Mind,” Skelton said, “I’m not passing up the other business. I’ve just about had Mr. Carlos Rivera. He’s going to find something out before he’s much older. Come on.”

They passed through the office. Rivera, who was sitting there with Caesar Bonn, disregarded them. Breezy looked timidly at him. “I’m just going to fix it with the Boys, old man,” he said. “You’ll enter by the end door, won’t you?”

“Why not?” Rivera said acidly. “It is my usual entrance. I perform as I rehearse. Naturally.”

“That’s right. Naturally. Excuse my fussiness. Let’s go, Syd.”

Caesar rose. “It is time? Then I must felicitate our new artist.”

He preceded them across the vestibule where crowds of late arrivals still streamed in. Here they encountered Félicité, Carlisle and Edward. “We’re going in to wish George luck,” said Félicité. “Hullo, Syd. Nice of you to let him have his fling. Come on, chaps.”

They all entered the band-room, which was immediately behind the dais end of the restaurant and led into the band alcove. Here they found the Boys assembled with their instruments. Breezy held up his hand and, sweating copiously, beamed at them. “Listen, boys. Get this. We’ll use the other routine, if it’s all the same with the composer. Carlos doesn’t feel happy about the fall. He’s afraid he may hurt himself on account he’s holding his instrument.”

“Here!” said Lord Pastern.

“It’s the way you wanted it, Lord Pastern, isn’t it?” Breezy gabbled. “That’s fine, isn’t it? Better egzzit altogether.”

“I faint and get carried out?”

“That’s right. The other routine. I persuaded Carlos. Everybody happy? Swell.”

The Boys began to warm up their instruments. The room was filled with slight anticipatory noises. The double-bass muttered and zoomed.

Skelton strolled over to Lord Pastern. “I had to come in and wish the new sensation all the best,” he said, looking hard at him.

“Thank yer.”

“A great night,” Caesar Bonn murmured. “It will be long remembered.”

“Would this be a loaded gun?” Skelton asked and laughed unpleasantly.

The revolver lay, together with the sombrero, near the drums. Lord Pastern took it up. Skelton raised his hands above his head. “I confess everything,” he said. “Is it loaded?”

“With blanks.”

“By cripes,” said Skelton with a loud laugh, “I hope they are blanks.”

“George made them himself,” said Félicité.

Skelton lowered his right hand and held it out towards Lord Pastern, who put the revolver into it.

Breezy, at a distance, sighed heavily. Skelton broke the revolver, slipped a finger-nail behind the rim of a cartridge and drew it out.

“Very nice work, Lord Pastern,” he said. He spun the cylinder, drawing out and replacing one blank after the other. “Very nice work indeed,” he said.