David O'Connell

"You fellas wanned t'see me?" Georgie asked, sliding into the grey interrogation room.

Riviera nodded.  "Have a seat, David."

The weathered, wild-looking pianist stopped dead in his tracks.  He held up his hands.  "Whoa whoa, gennlemen," he said, his voice defensively casual.  "We're still on business terms here; people on business terms call me Georgie.  Even your friend out there th'brought me in called me Georgie."

"It's best if we get friendly-like from the get-go," Hefiger spat.

Georgie shrugged, finishing his journey across the room and sitting in the metal chair.  "Alright, alright; just s'long's y'don't insult me, y'can call me what'ch'dang well please."

"What do you know about the incident at Moi Cherie Saturday night?"

"Prolly nothin' y'haven't heard yet.  I know y'talked with th'Boss an' Dusty Starr."  He whistled under his breath.

"Well, 'the Boss' mentioned something you said before the incident," said Riviera.

"That so?"  Georgie's eyebrows arched with mild curiosity.

"Do you ever remember mentioning that you heard, quote, 'that cyanide's tasteless'?" he continued.

Georgie lowered his chin into his left hand.  "Mighta said summin' like that."

"And nothing had been discussed about it before?"

"Can't say it has."

"When you sit at the piano," Hefiger asked, "what side faces out towards the restraunt?"

"Right side.  Right side always faces the folks."

"Your boss claims that when a customer began choking, he set a beverage on the piano to help the customer, and you began playing with your right hand only."

"That's right."

"Which side of the piano did he leave the milk on?"

"Left.  See, he ws'jes'comin' out of the kitchen when the guy at the bar started hackin', set it down on the closest surface."

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Riviera butted in, holding a paper and an odd pen out to Georgie.  "But I completely forgot: you have to fill out this form."

"Sure thing."

Hefiger shot his partner his best What the hell are you doing?! look.

Trust me, I think I got him, came the silent reply.

"Uh, sir?  I think y'r'pen's dead."

"Oh, I could've sworn I refilled it the other day..."

"No worries, I'll give it a check."  Using only his left hand, within seconds Georgie had unscrewed the top of the pen, and in one fluid motion he tossed the ink cartridge onto the table.  He picked it up, looking at it through the harsh flourescent lights.  "Looks fine t'me," he muttered.  Then, just as fluidly, he had the pen reassembled and rescrewed.

Hefiger's eyes widened in realization.  "Tell me, what did your wife use for poison?"

"Y'heard 'bout that?  'Course y'did, that's your type.  Cyanide, I think.  S'long time ago."  The pianst paused, the gears in his mind working at top speed.  He smirked with submission, realization writ on his face.

"Thought you could get away with the perfect murder, did you?" Riviera asked accusingly.

Georgie's smirk widened.  "You gennlemen know s'well's I do there's no such thing's the perfect murder."

The End

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