Hitman Melodies Section 3

III.
It was La Boheme again. Sebastian had to admit that he still loved the 2nd Act Septet, Quando men vo, but he resented how all the sopranos excerpted the first half of it, just so they could sing the high note. (It was the difference between a visceral response versus a formal, (you might say relational), response--listening with your gut instead of your mind. "My God, any dodo bird, listening with his little pea brain, could see that piece isn't finished saying what it has to say at that halfway point! Damn the high note. But never mind.") Yes, he still liked that piece, especially the fact that it doesn't end, but flows right into the next scene--no place for applause. Bravo Giacomo Caro! But Sebastian was beginning to lose interest in the rest of Puccini's bag of tricks; it was the obviousness of the Mickey Mouse dramatic materials, the calculated pathos, the clumsy melodic juxtapositions between the voice and the orchestra, the multitudinous interminable high notes, etc. Anything Sebastian could see through, he didn't like; he preferred music that went straight for the kill. "God, Mozart would have been a fabulous hit man."
Another good thing about La Boheme is that it doesn't have an overture, it just plows right into the action from the first staccato cello notes. This means that, as soon as the house lights go down, there is a faint wash emanating from the stage, illuminating the faces of the audience with a ghostly translucent glow; if there had been an overture, the audience would have been in relative darkness for a good five or six minutes--plenty of time for a sniper to set up a cymbal crash shot. Chronic knew she knew this was their first parry, that she was in no danger, but that he was. He knew she knew that he was offering her the first blow. He was in a private box, there would be lots of chances. Which one would she take?
The first act proceeded routinely. Mimi the Bohemian seamstress was appropriately fetching, Rodolfo the poet was appropriately heroic. Sebastian had never known an heroic poet, just a lot of faggoty assholes who thought that since they could put it into words, they had it all figured out. He never really liked Rodolfo, and wondered why Mimi didn't dump him sooner. The pianissimo high C at the end of the scene brought down the house in tears and sighs; all the old society matrons were once again affirmed in their sensitivity and culture. Their diamonds sparkled, their sables gleamed. The great Metropolitan Opera House chandelier was like a lighthouse of truth and beauty in a dull, dark place.
There is a pause while they change the set for the 2nd Act, but they are not taking a full intermission. He has just spent the 1st Act eyeballing every person in the entire audience using a modified night-vision telescope-turned-opera-glass. She was not in the audience. Disguised as opera house staff? He watched a girl usher for awhile, standing just off the orchestra aisle down in front; she was a lovely thing, down there in the half-light, mouthing the words to Mimi's aria with her, lost in the magic of it, very sensitive. The kid was obviously a music major at Julliard, just across the square, and could probably out sing Miss Too-Fragile-for-Words up there. Maddy was not in the hall. She was laying for him somewhere outside. Now would be a good time.
There is a soft knock at his door. Right on cue--she wouldn't want to piss him off by interrupting the music--now was okay. He answers the knock sideways and low. (He doesn't expect anything obvious, but he remembers to not underestimate her.) He looks down at a formally be-capped usher--a teen-age kid with thick glasses and pimples--on the short side, kind of fat. (The Flash Gordon shoulders and the West Point buttons remind Sebastian of the Drake Hotel in the 30's. He stole a Bible from there once--used it to kill a pedophiliac priest. There's no place like Chicago.)
"Mr. Chronic?" (His voice is a polite, crackly whisper.)
"Yes."
"Message sir."
"Message?"
"Message. From downstairs."
"Downstairs."
"Yes, sir. Somebody came by the box office and left a note for you. Asked me to deliver it. We had to look up your reservation, because she didn't--"
"She?"
"Yes, sir. Some woman. Dressed up in furs. Asked me to please deliver this note to Mr. Sebastian Chronic's private box. She didn't know the box number--we had to look it up."
The boy held out a square envelope with a ribbon around it. It looked like a birthday card. Sebastian reached for it, but just before taking it, he noticed that the boy was wearing white gloves. Sebastian quickly went into his pocket for a tip and came out with a black-gloved hand. He took the envelope. It was scented: blush of rose. (Flores para los muertos?) He dropped a twenty on the kid, because he deserved it, and swung the door closed in his face.
"Thank you, s--."

"Hmmm. A birthday card. Wants me to know it's from her. Happy Deathday to me. She wants me to know she's playing by the rules, she kept her appointment." He mused absently while his creative geist kicked into gear. He almost touched the envelope to his temple and then he remembered. Why was the usher wearing the glove? Would she have entrusted a package that might contain some kind of lethal poison to a dumb shit music major? Who knew what was in that envelope? Or on it? (The scent was a nice touch--covered any telltale odor.) It could be anything--could be some of that contact poison--the kind that, if you merely touch it, your body goes into silent convulsions and you are dead in two minutes. Came out of the aerospace industry, if you can dig that. No, the clue was in the outer action of giving him the birthday card--anything inside was anti-climax (for Sebastian, of course).
"That gloved hand keeps coming back to me. What if--? What if it was Maddy High herself, just now, who delivered that card?" She knew he would be concentrating on the envelope and not be too attentive of the bearer, right? Even that maroon pill-box hat, with the cute strap that stretched down under the chin, was distracting in a good way for her--more of her face was obscured. (Was that singer-usher on the first floor wearing a hat? No, just the boys, I guess.) And the pimples--nobody wants to look too closely at a face with pimples, and yet--did they look kind of waxy, kind of Hollywood FX glossy finish? He looks down at a formally be-capped usher--a teen-age kid with thick glasses and pimples--on the short side, kind of fat. Kind of fat? Ha! she was disguising her boobs! She was really a classy-looking girl with a face as smooth as wedding cake, so it was necessary, (and easy enough), to disguise that with pimples, but no polyester wrap known to man was ever going to bind those magnificent breasts down to a flat- chested Cherubino--she had to be fat! Damn, he could have taken her right then! Not only had he missed his first chance, but she had upstaged him by offering her opponent the first blow. "Shit, this kid is good." Sebastian was in love. He threw the envelope (and the glove) into a trash bin on his way out, off to drive a knife into his love's heart. He was going to have to miss the famous 2nd Act Septet.
The next day a janitor at the Metropolitan Opera House died mysteriously on the job--he was cleaning the 3rd floor boxes, and had some kind of seizure.