“Could I have a look inside?”
“I’m supposed to just let you snoop around?”
“You could give me the extended guided tour.”
She laughed. “What’s in it for me, Psychologist Dude?”
“The court hears from her, you could be notified.”
“You’re here because she stiffed you, too?”
“The court paid me in full.”
“Well, bully for you, maybe I should’ve gone to shrink school. Got a sociology degree from Fresno State, figured on joining the Peace Corps or something. Then I realized all those Third World types would probably view me the way I view my family—don’t ask. Anyway, our business is finished here, I’m calling my collection agency.”
I said, “Just a second inside?”
“Why? What the hell are you after?”
“Follow-up’s part of the process. I need to document everything.”
“Oh, man,” she said. “Bureaucracy—okay, just for a sec, but there’s nothing to see.”
True to her word, the apartment had been emptied.
I said, “What did you put in storage?”
“Shitty furniture, shitty clothes. The crap in the medicine cabinet got thrown out. Same for food in the fridge.”
“What about baby stuff?”
She thought. “Guess there wasn’t any.”
“No crib?”
“Nope.”
“Playpen, diapers—”
“I just told you, none of that. No secret-code messages or UFO photos, either, okay? And no papers to tell me where she went, which sucks big-time.”
“Her car—”
“Gone, what do you think, she’s walking the streets toting a rug-rat and a box of Pampers?” Another snicker. “Though I guess that could attract a certain type of customer.”
“You figure her for a prostitute?”
“Nah,” said Dee N. Martolo. “I’m just being mean. That’s my thing. So they tell me.”
She had no idea when Ree had left and when I asked if I could talk to some neighbors, she said, “Already done it, no one has a clue. I figure she probably cut out in the middle of the night, ’cause that’s Deadbeat 101.”
“Any idea who her friends are?”
“I don’t socialize with the tenants.” She brightened. “Just thought of something, one time she gave me a flyer, some of her friends were playing a club. Shit, can’t remember the name, too bad I tossed it.”
“Was the band Lonesome Moan?”
“Yeah! Thank you, Doctor Dude … what was the name of that dive … something with an astrology thing … Pisces? No. Not Scorpio … I don’t know. But if she’s doing the aging-groupie thing maybe I can find her backstage and nail her for what she owes. Be gone, Court Shrink Dude, I have no more use for you.”
CHAPTER
21
Lonesome Moan. The only moaning in question is that which arises upon being assaulted by the noise they create.
Connie had also sneeringly dropped a couple of names, certain that one of the musicians was Rambla’s father. Citing them again in her deposition, as evidence of Ree’s lack of fitness.
Winky something … Boris …
Winky had babysat Rambla the first time Ree came to see me, so not a stretch for him to help her clear out.
I sat in the Seville and played my iPhone. The band had a website, big surprise. The banner photo qualified as vintage, portraying four long-haired, bearded, love-beaded men in their twenties trying to look purposeful and tough and falling far short on both accounts.
The paragraph below boasted that Lonesome Moan’s original members were still together and that the band’s longevity was “proof of the soulful integrity of their music. L.M.’s sounds echo the pulsating heartbeat of a nation that lives to party and loves to rock. We breathe fresh life into Skynyrd, Atlanta Rhythm Section, Blue Öyster Cult, Foreigner. Even choice Doo Wop or juicy Hendrix when the stars are aligned.”
The site’s Management link brought up a crudely drawn caricature of a howling wolf. “We now manage ourselves. Nothin’ like freedom!”
Sample Our Tunes was “under construction” but Who We Are served up some content:
Marvin “Chuck-o” Blatt: drums, percussion
Bernard “Boris” Chamberlain: bass guitar, saxophone, vocals
William “Winky” Melandrano: rhythm guitar, vocals
Spenser “Zebra” Younger: lead guitar
Maybe the nation had lost its pulsating urge to rock because Lonesome Moan’s Tour Schedule page was blank but for a single line in red type: “Virgo Virgo, Ventura Boulevard, Studio City, Monday Nights, 8 p.m. to 1 a.m.”
Slowest night of the week, some clubs choose to go dark. This one put a middle-aged cover band on stage so maybe the management was all about maximizing cash flow and opened early for Happy Hour.
Time to party.
It was just late enough to make the drive to the Valley a test of patience. The traffic mire began within yards of turning north on Cahuenga. I phoned Robin, told her I’d be late and why.
She said, “Her sister’s murdered, she splits?”
“Yeah, I know. And I told Milo she didn’t have it in her.”
“Maybe she doesn’t but one of her friends does. Be careful, hon. What’s the name of this dive? Is it a biker joint?”
“Virgo Virgo. Don’t know about the clientele.”
“Pair of virgins,” she said. “Maybe someone’s into John and Yoko. How late is late?”
“I might get there in forty if I’m lucky. Depending on what I learn, another hour or two.”
“Studio City—okay, got the website right here … Ventura B. a couple miles east of Coldwater. Doesn’t look too ominous … that’s right near the spaghetti place we used to like. I could meet you for dinner.”
“We’d have to return in separate cars.”
“So?” she said. “I’ll go first, you’ll keep an eye on my rear bumper.”
“Now you’re talking.”
She hung up laughing.
Virgo Virgo was a slab of deep purple stucco the width of a double garage. A long time ago someone had tried to dress up the façade with gold stars and crescents. Most had faded to flaking beige.
Happy Hour!!! banner above the door.
Finally, I’d guessed right about something.
The club was a single room with rough pine walls turned nearly black by grime and miserly light. A sprayed ceiling hovered low. A six-stool bar ran along the western wall.
Tucked into a rear corner, a crudely built wooden stage held a battered upright piano, a drum kit, and a mike stand. The bass drum was painted with L.M. and the howling wolf logo I’d seen on Lonesome Moan’s website.
House band once a week?
Maybe the fuzzy country rock crackling from overhead speakers was the default soundtrack six days a week.
I continued toward the bar. Every stool was taken, four men and two women hunched over their glasses. No obvious conversation but when I got closer I picked up the low, slow mumbling that ensues when everyone’s blood alcohol is far past the legal limit.
The bartender was middle-aged and bald. A skinny face and fat features gave him the look of a tired vulture. His skin managed to be indoor-pallid but UV-wrinkled. His black T-shirt read Altamont Didn’t End It.
He saw me. “If you don’t mind standing.”
The barfly closest to me turned around. Big man, basset-faced, pushing seventy. “Belly up, thirsty traveler, we’ll give you space.” Rising painfully, he shifted his stool just enough to allow me access to the bar. The top was sprayed with a solid inch of resin, yellowed, splotched, nicked, and dull.
I said, “Thanks, next one’s on me.”
Basset pumped air with a shaky fist. He had on a shiny dark suit, a frayed white shirt, and a limp tie that looped like a scarf over his wilting lapel. A once-square jaw had melted around the edges. He looked like a CEO who’d been drummed for moral turpitude years ago, hadn’t changed clothes since the disg
race.
The drinker next to him, a woman with black frizzy hair and an off-center, verge-of-collapse nose, batted her lashes at me. “You treatin’ me, too, Good-Lookin’?”
I said, “Fill-ups for everyone.”
Scattered applause.
Basset said, “Fine man, indeed!”
The bartender looked at me. “Okay, Rockefeller, what’ll it be?”
“Got Sam Adams?”
“Got Heineken.” He filled a glass, clopped it down, moved up the bar to take orders.
Chairman Basset said, “You never been here. I know that.” Nodding in agreement with himself, as if he’d stated a profundity. “Least not Monday.”
I said, “Monday’s a special day?”
“Hell, yeah, they’re open.” He cackled, eyed the stage. “Despite.”
The bartender returned, took his glass, shot something from a hose into it. Suds foamed over the rim and landed on the bartop. Basset used his pinkie to pick up precious moisture then licked the digit clean.
I took a sip. The beer was Heineken like I was an Olympic skater. Not quite skunky but getting there.
The bartender foamed up several other mugs. Local etiquette prescribed Gulp, Don’t Sip. Maybe that helped the house brew go down easier. I glanced back at the bandstand, asked Basset who the entertainment was.
“No one tonight.” He swayed toward me, letting off a yeasty reek and whispering, “Count your blessings, traveler.”
“You’ve heard ’em, huh?”
He blotted me out with a wet cough. Glanced furtively up the bar as the bald guy approached, wiping his hands with a none-too-clean towel. “Not thirsty, Daddy Warbucks?”
I said, “Working on it.”
Basset said, “Hey, Chuck-o, you might got you a fan, here. He wants you guys to play.”
Bald’s eyebrows climbed. “You heard of us?”
Marvin “Chuck-o” Blatt: drums
I said, “Actually, a friend sent me here.”
“Who’s that?”
“Ree Sykes.”
He looked at me with new eyes. Sharper, curious. “How do you know Ree?”
Even if I’d wanted to lie, the trudge to the Valley plus stale alcohol fumes had sapped my creativity. “She had a court case I was involved in.”
Chuck-o’s posture stiffened. “You’re a lawyer?”
“Psychologist.”
“Psychologist,” he echoed, as if trying out a new word. “You’re the one testified she was a great mom?”
No sense quibbling. I smiled.
He said, “Well good for you, man. Ree talks about you like you’re God.”
Basset said, “Doncha know all doctors are God? That’s why their shit don’t stink and they get to suck all the Medi-Cal money outta the federal teat—”
“Lloyd,” said Chuck-o, “no politics today, okay?”
The woman with the precarious nose said, “Tomorrow we’re doing politics?”
“We’re never doing politics, Maggie.”
“Yeah, makes sense,” she said, showing the few brown teeth she had left. “Double boo on politics!”
Chuck-o turned back to me, flashing the weary smile of an exhausted babysitter. His teeth were perfect, white as milk. “Well, Dr. Psychologist, nice to meet you but sorry, we’re not playing till Monday. And if you were hoping to see Ree, sorry again, she doesn’t come in regularly. Having family responsibilities and all that.”
Maggie said, “That the one with that cute little baby, puts the baby seat top of the piano when she sings?”
Chuck-o frowned at her.
I forced down some beer. “You’re in the band?”
“Drums,” he said. “But finally I figured out getting the chicks didn’t provide long-term security so I became a businessman.” Waving his hand around the room.
“Place is yours?”
“This and two others, Sun Valley and Saugus. Got my sons managing.”
“Congratulations.”
“Making coin is cool, but I still live for the music.”
“So Monday.”
“ ’Less something comes up.”
“Ree sings.”
“Sometimes we let her do background. Deep background.” He grinned. “What the hell, she’s a good chick, always been righteous, I’m talking back to high school.”
“Nice for her to have that type of support,” I said.
“You bet,” said Chuck-o Blatt. “When things were sucking and we were all thinking of getting jobs she encouraged us to keep keepin’ on, telling us we had talent. And you know, something always worked out—but I don’t need to tell you that, you were her witness, you know the kind of person she is.”
When I didn’t answer, he said, “You hear me?”
I nodded.
“You didn’t say nothing.”
“She’s a nice person.”
“Not just nice, good,” he said. Steel in his voice. His neck tightened. “You’d know that if you really are the psychologist and not spying for her fucking sister.”
I held his gaze, showed him my civilian card. Doctoral degree and a professorial title that looked more impressive than it was.
He said, “Delaware. Yeah, that’s you.” More lactic teeth. “Hey, man, sorry for being paranoid but Ree figured the bitch was going to keep harassing her.”
“Even though the case resolved?”
“You know the system, right? Got the cash, make the trash. Anyone’s a rich bitch with a mean streak it’s Connie.”
He tried to return the card. Lloyd intercepted it, held it between shaky fingers. “Delaware. That was a Union state, not Confederate. But they still had slaves.”
Chuck-o said, “That’s fascinating, Lloyd.”
I regained eye contact. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”
“About what?”
I shot him a conspiratorial look. People like to be let in on secrets but he said, “Sorry, I got customers.”
“How about another round on me? Fill ’em up, then give me a couple of minutes of your time.”
“This is about Ree?”
“This is about Ree cutting town. I’d like to know that she and the baby are safe.”
I waited.
He said, “She split? When?”
“Last couple of days.”
“Well, I’m sure she had a reason.”
I didn’t answer.
He said, “Why wouldn’t she be okay?”
“There’s been a complication.”
“Like what?”
I shook my head. He faced the barflies. “Merry Christmas, this here is Santa Claus, he lost weight and he’s here for your drinking pleasure.”
Lloyd said, “Santa’s a doctor?”
A voice from the end of the bar said, “Adeste fidelis—what kind of doctor?”
The woman next to him raised her glass. “Gotta be Dr. Feelgood.”
Lloyd said, “Hear, hear,” tried to fist-pump again and lost his balance, nearly toppling from his stool.
I caught him, set him right.
He said, “Meeting you, my good man, is my lucky day!”
Chuck-o wiped his hands on a soggy towel, stepped through a half door that freed him from the confines of the bar, and pointed to the bandstand. Taking a seat behind his drum kit, he lifted his sticks and ran off a silent paradiddle on his knees before motioning me to the piano bench.
One of the barflies said, “You gonna play a sola, Chuck-o?”
“Not today.” Waiting until everyone was back drinking in earnest, he shifted both drumsticks to his right hand. “Let’s hear it for substance abuse. Never got into it myself. Not even on the road.”
“Teetotaler?”
“Moderate, one cocktail before I go to bed. That’s why I own my businesses. Including the land we’re sitting on.”
“Congrats.”
“So what’s the complication?”
“Like I said, Ree cut town. I was hoping someone here could tell me why.”
; “Someone?”
“Maybe Winky or Boris.”
“You know Winky and Boris?”
“I was told they were close to Ree.”
“We’re all close. Like I said, we go way back.”
“High school,” I said.
“Junior high, actually. For me and Boris. You didn’t answer me about the complication. What, Connie’s taking her back to court? Yeah, Ree figured she’d do that, said Connie never took no for an answer.”
“No chance of that. Connie’s dead.”
“What?”
“Murdered,” I said. “Last night. The police are wondering if the court case had something to do with it. I’ve told them Ree’s not a violent person, but—”
“Violent? Hell, no. Ree’s got to be the most un-violent chick I ever knew. Connie’s dead? And you’re asking about Ree because—oh, man, you can’t be serious—”
“Doesn’t matter what I think, Chuck-o. The cops always begin with people close to the victim. And someone related who’s had serious conflict—”
“Oh, no, man, no possible way.”
“I went to Ree’s place before I came here. Figured I’d tell her about Connie. That’s when I found out she’d split. Cleaned out her apartment and stuck her landlady with unpaid rent.”
“Geez,” he said. “Maybe it was, you know, stress—all the shit she went through. Maybe she needs to breathe.”
“Maybe. But on the surface, it doesn’t look good.”
“Oh, man.” He used his free hand to skitter a roll on his tom-tom.
The same barfly said, “Hey, you are doin’ a sola—”
“Shut the fuck up!”
The man’s jaw dropped.
No one else looked back.
Chuck-o Blatt said, “Murdered? This is psycho.”
I said, “If you have any way to reach Ree, you’d be doing her a favor by telling her to check in. She can do it through me.”
He studied me. “You’re sure you’re who you say you are? I mean a card can be bogused.”
Same thing Dee Martolo had said. Suspicion born of the digital age.
I said, “Got a computer?”
“Why?”
“Go on the med school webpage, plug my name in, and see if the photo matches.”
“Fine, fine, sorry … I’m just freaked out. So how do you know what the police are thinking?”
Killer: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 14