Free Til Death by Ed McBain Page B

they have to snap, anyway?
    He looked at his watch.
    They had been inside the shop for forty minutes already. Weren’t they due back at the house? Shouldn’t the reception be starting any minute? For God’s sake, what was taking them so long?
    The front door of the shop opened.
    The sniper peered through the telescopic sight of the rifle, fixing the doorway smack on the intersection of the crosshairs.
    He waited.
    One by one, the wedding party began pouring through the open door of the shop.
    Where the hell was Tommy Giordano?
    Was that…? No. Not him.
    There now, there’s the bride…there’s…
    Tommy appeared in the doorway. The sniper held his breath.
    One, two…now!
    He squeezed the trigger, pulling off two shots in rapid succession.
    From the street, the shots sounded like the backfire of an automobile. Already inside one of the limousines, Carella didn’t even hear them. Both slugs struck the brick wall to the left of the doorjamb and then ricocheted into the air, spent. Tommy, unaware, ran to the first car and climbed in with his bride.
    The sniper cursed as the cars pulled away.
    Then he packed his rifle.

At one end of Tony Carella’s lot, close to the Carella-Birnbaum property line and to the left of the fireworks stage, Weddings-Fetes, Incorporated, had constructed a bandstand. Hung with white bunting, adorned with flowers, it provided a magnificent setting for the local band Tony had hired. The band was called the Sal Martino Orchestra. The band—or the “orchestra” as Sal preferred to call it—consisted of:
One piano player
    One drummer
    Four saxophonists (two tenor men and two alto men)
    Two trumpeters (one lead trumpeter and one second-trumpeter)
    And a trombonist
    Actually, the ensemble would have been complete—oh, sure, the rhythm section could have used a bass player, but why be picky—would have been complete without the trombonist. A two-man brass section in an eight-piece band (orchestra, that is) was certainly enough brass power. The lead trumpeter would carry the section, and the second trumpeter would handle all the hot solos and screech work. Since the band (orchestra, of course) had a full sax section each member of which doubled on clarinet, the two trumpets would have afforded a well-balanced complement of brass. There really was no need for the trombone.
    Sal Martino played the trombone.
    He also played the French horn, but never on jobs. He restricted his French horning to the privacy of his bedroom. In all fairness, he was not a bad French hornist, nor was he a bad trombonist. It was just that the band needed him the way they needed a flatted fifth. Or an augmented seventh. The band preferred their chords to be simple and major. A diminished ninth could throw their rehearsals into a tizzy for a solid week. Simplicity was the keynote of the Sal Martino Orchestra. And simplicity certainly did not call for a trombonist in the brass section. But such are the vagaries of leadership.
    Besides, Sal Martino looked like a real pro when he was up there leading the band. He was a man in his late twenties, with a high crown of black hair and a small black mustache. His eyes were blue and very soulful. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist and long legs that he wobbled with Presley-like ease while conducting. He sometimes conducted with his right hand. He sometimes conducted with the end of his trombone. He sometimes simply smiled out at the crowd and didn’t conduct at all. Whichever way he did it, the band sounded the same.
    Lousy.
    Well, not lousy. But pretty bad.
    They sounded especially bad when they were tuning up, but then all bands sound bad when they are taking their A from the piano player. At 4:45 that afternoon, the Martino Orchestra was warming up and tuning up and sounding very much like the Boston Pops Symphony minus the Boston and minus the Symphony. Hawes, a music lover by nature, could barely sit still as he listened to the cacophony. He was also slightly disturbed by