Pete just finished a set
playing bongos in the Felipe Suarez Big Band.
Then his phone blew up.
“Yeah?” he answered.
“You broke his fucking nose?” a slightly shrill voice
yelled from the other end.
“He swung at me first,” said Pete.
“You broke his fucking nose! You’re a boxer,
you could’ve blocked or ducked him.”
“He swung at my nose. I just corrected his form.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“He’s the district attorney’s son.”
“So?” said Pete.
“He will ID you.”
“Yeah? And? He swung at me first,
it was self defense.”
“Five minutes.” the stage manager said, poking his head into the green room.
“You need to get outta town. “
He hung up the phone without responding
thinking of Havana in April.