The Blues and Brews café was best described as a "hole-in-the-wall" kind of place. Not that there were any holes in the walls, but rather that the café itself was a little nook between two bigger office buildings and scarcely bigger than a small apartment. The owners didn't complain; it was a decent location for a starting business and they met their rent each month. Many of their recurring patrons actually liked the smaller, non-mainstream atmosphere of the place.
The Blues and Brews served coffees, sandwiches, and assorted pastries to the hipsters and hopeful musicians that darkened their door. On most nights, at least one local band would take the short stage in the corner for a few hours at a time in hopes of drawing attention to their art and a bit of cash to cover their drinks for the night.
It was open mic night when new young man took the stage. He wore a battered pair of shades and black canvas jacket with a muffler wrapped about his neck. In his hand, he carried a battered black case. He sat it on the stage and removed an old Chu Barry from the threadbare interior. The old tenor saxophone had remnants of lacquer left inside the bell, but was otherwise down to raw brass from years of handling. He assembled it deftly and hooked it onto an old leather neck strap before blowing a couple of test notes to get the feel for the café's acoustics.
"Can you play swing?" he asked the drummer, who nodded a confirmation, "Start with a good mid-tempo swing and we'll see where it takes us." The drummer clicked time for a second a measure before playing. The saxophonist listened a moment and joined him. He picked an old gospel hymn to start, and added some variations and embellishments as he went. The old sax still had its rich sound, and the young man had skill to match. The audience knew talent when it heard it and found themselves enthralled in the music.
The spell was broken suddenly as the door banged open. The music stopped and everyone turned to see who had entered. A couple thugs stood in the door. They pushed their way to the counter, demanding that the owner owed their boss money. He refused. One grabbed him by the collar.
The loud report of a pistol sent the customers diving under their tables, and the thug dropped the owner as the bullet whizzed by his head and hit the wall behind him, peppering him with bits of brick. Both thugs turned toward the source of the shot. The young musician had set down his saxophone and was pointing a revolver at them.
"Get. out." His voice sounded like steel and death.
"Or what?"
"I have a gun and five more bullets" he replied, "I would hate to have to scrub blood off the floors of this fine establishment. Still, I can't have you busting up the place or the people in it. So get out before I count to three."
"One." Both men looked at each other and back at the man with the gun. They couldn't read his eyes but his voice and jaw set said that he was prepared to follow through with his threat.
"Two." The gun was now pointed at the nearest thug. Both ruffians were now sweating. They hadn't been hired for this. Neither one had a gun.
"Thr-" The thugs made a break for the door. The young man lowered his gun and put it away.
"I guess I've worn out my welcome…" By the time, the customers came out from under the tables, the young man had disappeared out the back door.
