Picking His Brain

A Thursday Prompt Story
© 2019 by Walter Reimer


Prompt: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/30034018/ by  fortunatafox
Year: 1993



“I do hope you’re enjoying the party, Doctor.” The voice was pleasantly low, so as to not interfere with the string quartet’s performance of Mozart’s String Quartet No. 14 in G major. The notes were perfect and the tempo exactly as the composer had written it.

It was a pleasure to the ears.

The venue was a pleasure, as well; a truly refined example of Art Deco décor. The room was part of the hostess’s private apartment, which took up an entire floor of the building. Wealth, but without vulgar ostentation.

The rat half-turned and smiled at his hostess. Keeping his voice low he said, “Magnificent, Ma’am. The concert season could not have started better. The new first violinist is a true artist.”

The collie smiled back. “I’m so glad to have you here.”

“Oh?” The rat raised a brow, keeping his smile on his face.

“It’s a pleasure and a joy to have a guest who appreciates fine music as much as he appreciates fine wine.” She nodded slightly at his half-full glass.

“Ah. Yes, the ’64. It was a very good year. However,” and his smile widened ever so slightly, “with your permission, Ma’am, I would like to appreciate the Mozart.”

She smiled again. “Of course. My pardon for interrupting you.”

“Not at all.” He turned back to the music, angling both ears forward in order to catch every nuance. Fine music, expertly played; good company with fine cuisine and vintage wine; taken together, it was a sublime, almost sexual experience.

The rodent closed his eyes and let the music transport him as he raised his glass to his nose and, again, savored the complex mix of tannins, fruits and florals in the nearly thirty year old red. There was even a bare trace of wood smoke – oak, most likely – and he tilted the glass to take the barest sip to let the wine drift across his tongue.

Very nice.

Very nice indeed. It was always the little things – wine, music, food, conversation – that when raised to a high art made life more bearable.

The music swept to its conclusion, and he joined in the polite applause after setting his now-empty glass aside. A white-coated member of the staff quietly whisked the wineglass away before anyone but the rat noticed, and the Doctor decided to mingle a little. It was, after all, expected of him.

The next half-hour saw the rat moving from one knot of conversation to another, speaking readily on many different subjects in turn. A few of the other attendees at the party were quick to note that politics seemed to bore him, and he caused some laughter at his remark that Congress was like a zoo comprised of feral seals who had been taught to play horns.

His hostess came up to him at one point. “Doctor Lecter?”

“Yes, Ma’am? Is there something the matter?”

“I was wondering if you had seen Mister Baker,” the collie said. “No one’s seen him since before the first performance.”

Ah, yes. Scott Baker, his name was, a pronghorn antelope from Colorado. A great deal of money, and no sense of taste. Impolite, loud and occasionally profane.

Doctor Hannibal Lecter smiled reassuringly at his hostess. “I heard him say that he was stepping out for a breath of fresh air. He may have found other diversions than the quartet and conversation. Ones more appealing to him.”

“I suppose you’re right. He was rather . . . coarse, wasn’t he?”

The rat smiled at her. “Some people, eh?” he asked with a bare flicker of an eyelid as he winked at her.

The collie chuckled. “Yes, of course you’re right. Thank you for setting my mind at ease, Doctor Lecter.”

“You’re very welcome, Ma’am.” He accepted another glass of wine from a waiter and strolled over to the window, gazing out at the lights of the city before glancing down at the street sixty floors below.

Blue and red lights flickered at the bottom of the concrete canyon, casting only brief reflections on the façade of the postwar building. He smiled briefly at his own reflection before returning to the party.

Another string quartet, this one by Brahms, and the party began to break up. He was helped into his overcoat after making his farewells to the hostess and left the building.

A block away, he slipped the wooden haft of the icepick from his overcoat pocket and casually tossed it into the sewer. The staff might miss it, but that was a minor risk. Ambushing the coarse and rude antelope in the bathroom before defenestrating him could have posed a problem, but the pick had broken cleanly after being driven into the base of the man’s skull. The building’s age had been another thing in the rat’s favor, as the windows could be easily opened and closed.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter, psychiatrist, bon vivant and patron of the arts, hailed a cab a few blocks from the building and went home.



end