Just piano tonight at the speakeasy. Simple background music as the drunken night came to an end. Most patrons had already made their way home. The few who remained were alone with their glasses. What had once been a raucus roaring, punctuated by the drowned out noise of a band became now only a murmur.
The stage was a mere elevated semicircle where Robert was making a final few tunings to the battered piano. He wanted something better for himself but this was all the gang provided for this venue. He would do what he could with what he had. The tuning fork rang out clearly over the murmur of conversation and made people look expectantly at him, straining their eyes to see through the dim light what occupied him. Most were too drunk to care, though the gangsters who sat nearest seemed to never turn their gaze away from him.
Robert closed his eyes, breathing in the air and trying to focus on the notes. He heard a tiny pulse in the sound and went to adjust the string, but then the fork stopped.
“Hey Mr. Easy Listening!” jeered someone. Robert whirled around, a gangster. The man’s height and closeness suffocated Robert, backing him up against the piano, “Where’s our music? You ain’t getting paid to toy with the back.”
“I’m just tuning it sir, just want the best music possible for our guests!” Robert adjusted his glassses, trying to get further away from the man but already finding himself surrounded. He could hear it when his heart began to beat faster. The man’s dark eyes had a sinister glint in them, and he chuckled to himself.
“Ha. Ha. Ha. You’re funny!” Robert discerned that his face was flush and and red with drink. “Who do you think you are, kid? Beethoven? Get the fuck to work.”
“Benjamin!” Someone barked. The gangster rolled his eyes, backing off of Robert for a moment and turning to the source of the voice. Another gangster from the table, “Don’t bother the staff.”
“Whatever Bernstein,” said Benjamin, swearing to himself. He stormed off stage with a glare at Robert. Robert realized his body was soaked with sweat, and his knees buckled under him. He gripped the edge of the piano, holding himself up and made his way to the seat. He took a shuddering breath, looking back at the table of gangsters. He could see the man who had saved him, Bernstein. An even burlier man, but not as rough as Benjamin. He started to relax, and Bernstein made eye contact with him. To Robert’s surprise, Bernstein gave him a thumbs up. Robert gave a thumbs up back, smiling, and began to play.
Just piano of course, and out of tune piano at that, but it was no problem. Everyone was drunk, after all. A brief shot circling the table of gangsters reveals that Benjamin has already left the speakeasy, leaving Bernstein and one other man. The last people in the bar were played off one by one by Robert’s playful tune. Robert continued to play even when everyone seemed to have left, not even noticing until he heard someone walking up to the stage. He stopped. Benjamin?
“S-sir, sorry about my friend,” Robert turned around, not rising. It was a different gang member, the other man picked up by the camera. The man had a comical scar across his whole face, and even an eyepatch, and combined with his hat he looked pirate. The man scratched the back of his head, his flashy suit clearly being too small for him, “You are technically on our side and such, I’m Eisenstein.” The man held out his hand. Robert rose from his seat and shook the man’s hand. They were equally sweaty, though Eisenstein’s hand was dead and quivering. Even then, robert was nervous to deal directly with a member of the Purple Gang.
“It is nothing; I shouldn’t have been taking so long after all sir.”
“My boss, he would um, like to talk to you, he liked your playing, th-that’s why I came up here come on, have a drink.” Eisenstein grabbed Robert’s hand and began to pull him along to the table, leaving Robert no choice but to follow. Eisenstein seemed to hobble more than walk, nearly falling down when he steppd off the stage. When they got to the table he ordered Robert to sit down, but pulled out the chair for him. Robert’s skin prickled at Eisenstein’s awkward fumbling, but he sat down across from Bernstein.
“Robert, that’s you right?” asked Bernstein. Robert could tell Bernstein was massive from the stage, but close up close he became a monster, barely fitting into his chair. His shot glass looked comical and miniscule in his hands. “Want a drink?”
“No thank you, sir. I don’t drink.” Robert laughed. He could see his apartment being raided tomorrow morning and being gutted, or maybe this man would just kill him right here. All he would have to do is grab his skull and squeeze.
“Good for you,” said Bernstein, “I just wanted to ask if you might like to play at a nicer place, maybe where you wont be bothered by gentleman such as ourselves.”
“Oh, I don’t mind this place at all, it’s quite ni—” Robert stopped when Bernstein rolled his eyes.
“Don’t give me that, first you reject my drinks and now you reject my job offers? Stand up for yourself.”
“Yessir!” Robert straightened in his chair.
“I hate this job…” Bernstein grumbled, “it’s late.” He pulled out a small pad of paper and scribbled an address. He pushed it across the table with one hand which seemed to burst with power. “Meet me here at 10 tomrrow morning, we’ll talk then. Come Eisenstein, let’s close shop.
“Yessir!” Eisenstein saluted Bernstein, who merely stared at him increduosly. Eisenstein slowly lowered his hand.
“Sorry, boss. It’s a reflex.”
“Just. Go.”