It wasn't me.

I had a gig at a Banker's Club function recently and inadvertently became a murder suspect. This was how it happened.

I was really minding my own business, playing 'Girl from Ipanema' on the piano, when I spotted my sister's fiance.

With another girl.

Jerk. Slut.

Halfway through dinner, I went over to give him a piece of my mind. As I was embarassing him (and myself) in public, my cousin Derek (who happened to be a guest that night), decided to butt in. Inevitably, a clash of testosterone (and fists) ensued.

I was trying to pull the boys apart when,
Bang! Bang!

They both fell into a heap on the floor.
Dead.

It all happened so fast.
I tried not to vomit on the tacky carpet.
And the slut started crying her eyes out.

Dammit.
I wish I shot the bastard.
But the only shots I ever made had tequila in them.

****

Okay, Derek's not my cousin.
My sister's not engaged.
And it was Derek's 'friend', Baki, who pulled the trigger.

The rest of my ensemble were other 'guests' at the dinner, with their own sub-plots at their respective tables, planting red herrings all night.

And I, 'the club pianist' had great fun. Maybe it's the pretty chestnut brown grand piano I got to make love to for a good hour or so.

Oh, that beautiful thing.