Broomstick - Inspector Wolfe Tales, #1 - Part Four

The first impression I had of the ballroom was that it was very cavernously huge, and very crowded, and there was violin music floating through the air. This lasted one and a half seconds. The second impression I had was that of two brass cymbals, crashing down on both sides of my head.

I reeled dizzily, and a white rabbit dropped down in front of me, eyeing me with a squint. He had on a blue coat, and said something inaudibly.

“What?” I asked. The rabbit was blown away ten feet. I must have said it louder than I had intended; my lungs are quite powerful.

The rabbit clutched his way back against the thunderous wind of my exclamation. My hearing suddenly returned, like a wave of water.

“You ain’t part of the club, bub,” said Peter Rabbit. Somehow, he pulled a full-size tuba out of his breast pocket, handing it to me. I buckled under the weight. Peter Rabbit continued, “You got strong breath, pal,” with a smirk, “so why don’t you get practicing, eh? We gotta performance in five.”

I was too dazed to reply, and Peter Rabbit whirled me around, taking me out of the ballroom and into the halls, from where we promptly went to a dress rehearsal room. Three blind mice were practicing their acrobatics act on a miniature tightrope set, and Peter roared, “Get out there, ya ninnies! You’re on next!”

The blind mice hurriedly scrambled for their canes and ran out of the room, one of them bumping into the wall on the way out. Peter Rabbit sat himself down in a chair and motioned toward the stage. I had to practice now.

I walked up onto the stage, nearly fainting beneath the weight of the enormous tuba. Peter Rabbit put on a pair of black shades and pulled a bag of popcorn out of his pocket, grinning mischievously. “Well, go on then.”

I nodded, feeling queasy. Then, I gave it my best shot. I inflated my lungs and blew.

The cacophony of discordance that rang out scarred me for life. And it was louder than any tuba I’ve ever heard played. My ears were ringing (and so were the rabbit’s) for thirty seconds. We both shouted at each other but neither of us knew what the other one said. After our ears stopped ringing, we shouted some more, then realized that our ears were fine now.

“Well,” said Peter Rabbit, “maybe you’ll just do stand-up. Okay? Show me your routine.”

I cleared my throat nervously. If I flunked this, he’d kick me out for sure.

“Well,” said he, “go on.”

I set the tuba down. “Why did Red Riding Hood cross the road? To get to her grandma’s house.”

Peter Rabbit eyed me as if I were a rotten apple. “Why doncha just stick to the trumpet, eh?”

I shook my head fervently. Peter nodded in agreement. “Well, you blow hard, don’t you? So—oh yes! Bagpipes!” He grinned like a loon.

“Um,” I said, but next thing I knew, he threw me a giant green bag of air with bristling pipes sticking out every which way, and who am I to refuse to deafen a really, really annoying rabbit?

I gave it my best blow. Detectives are trained to dissect the purposes of objects within seconds. For instance, I once figured out in about four seconds the purpose of a toothbrush. The bristles, the ergonomic handle, it all pointed to one thing: it was a back-scratcher.

So, I figured out pretty well how to play, and before I knew it, I was playing “Flight of the Bumblebee” with the skill of a master.

When I finally stopped, Peter Rabbit was enraptured. “You’re up next,” he muttered, and dead fainted. I threw down the bagpipes and rushed out of the room.