“Not working tonight?” Brian asked the new member of their party.
Krista knew the young woman worked as a waitress at another, more tourist-slanted bar, Gracie’s Grape Minds.
Holly shook her blonde head. “No. Slow going at the Grape right now except for the weekend. That’s most of my hours.” She looked toward the little stage in the window, and said to Brian, “I kinda like what they’re playing. You can really dance to that.”
Was that a hint? Krista thought, managing not to frown.
But finally “Green Onions” wrapped up, and the musicians came down off the stage and headed for the bar.
“Tell ya the truth,” Holly said, with a sad little shrug, “I don’t see much of Dad these days. He and Mom are poison to each other. I don’t know how they ended up together! He’s so . . . loose. Mom’s so . . . straight.”
Brian said, “She may be ‘straight’ now, but she goes way back with the band. You know, everybody around here followed the Pistons. Must’ve been exciting, particularly after they got on the radio.”
Krista said, “My pop was a one-man road crew for them, y’know, early on. Ran sound. Their one-and-only roadie.”
“Really?” Holly said, brightly. Then she smirked and said, “Well, I’m pretty sure my mom was one of the groupies, and I hear there were plenty of those.”
“Hey,” Brian said with a good-natured smile, “I work with your mom. You were right the first time—she’s straight all the way.”
“Not in the ’80s she wasn’t,” Holly said, smirking again.
Somebody who could have confirmed that rumor, but was unlikely to be asked about it, leaned in with a hand on the table: Holly’s father, Steve.
“You old enough to be in here, honey?” he asked Holly, grinning at her.
“Barely,” she said. “Join us!”
So it’s Holly’s party now, Krista thought grouchily, but didn’t show it.
Steve slipped in beside his daughter. The husky, silver-haired drummer was wearing a black T-shirt with the old Hot Rod & the Pistons logo, the words REUNION TOUR angled across.
The sweaty drummer gestured toward the little stage with a bottle of Fat Tire in hand. “I always get a kick out of playing this Memphis stuff. That Lily is fantastic. She’s always right in the pocket.” To Brian he said, “You could learn from that little lady, my man.”
“Sweet rhythm section you got there,” Brian admitted with half a smile, though as the bass player in the current Pistons lineup he might well have taken offense.
Krista sipped her Carlsberg, then asked, “How are rehearsals going, you two?” She looked back and forth between Brian and Steve.
“Great,” Brian said with a shrug.
“Pretty fair,” Steve said. “I mean, some of the old b.s. rears up. Some people never change. Human nature, I guess.”
Krista, interested, asked, “Like what?”
Brian said, “Well, Danny wants to sing, and he’s not bad, for backup anyway. But the lead vocals, that’s strictly Rod’s domain.”
“You’re just too nice, Bry,” Steve said. “That’s your problem. Too damn nice.”
“Well . . . I’m just trying to fit in y’know . . . What right do I have to—”
“Danny’s pitchy as hell,” Steve said. “Throws us off. Decent enough rhythm player—he can find the groove, if he looks around for it hard enough. And, also—well, he thinks he should be taking over for Rick. On lead.”
Holly asked, “Is he good enough?”
“Hardly,” her father said. “We’re lucky to have Phil, who played for years with the band and knows all the shit.”
He nodded toward Phil at the bar, talking to Booker, two bald musicians chewing the fat.
“You know,” Steve went on, “Rick was a pretty heavy drinker. And I wasn’t there . . . this was later days, understand . . . but I hear there were nights when Rick was half in the bag, and Phil had to cover for him, fill in for him. It’s why they call him Fill-in Phil.”
Brian glanced at Krista and said, “Yeah, Phil is tops. Terrific guitar player. You’d think it was Rick himself standing there playing those signature riffs.”
Holly asked her dad and Brian, “Where are you guys rehearsing?”
But it was Krista who answered. “Right here at the Stop. Mornings and afternoons . . . right?”
When the two musicians nodded, Krista asked them, “So how’s it going, besides the inevitable egos and such?”
“Okay,” Steve said, shrugging. He swigged the Fat Tire. “Hard to get past anything but just the music and, you know, the showmanship goes by the wayside. I mean, I’m behind the drums, but the others are crammed in. We’ll have whole stages to fill on tour.”
Brian was nodding. “Yeah, the stage in here is a postage stamp. We need a bigger area.”
Holly said, “I can ask at the Grape. Plenty of room there. No stage, but lots of space. Don’t open till four.”
Brian said, “That would be great, but . . .”
Steve finished that for him: “Don’t wanna piss off Donna.”
Donna, the late Rick’s ex, owned and operated the Corner Stop, and had offered up the club for rehearsal in off hours.
Brian said, “Wouldn’t want to offend her.”
Steve’s eyes flared. “You mean, you wouldn’t want to cross her. She has some temper on her! And talk about groupies! Who didn’t she pork, back in the day?” He’d forgotten about his daughter for a moment there, and looked at her with an uneasy grin, adding, “’Cept of course for your lovin’ daddy, Honey.”
Embarrassed, or as close to it as he might be capable, Steve edged off the bench and got to his feet. Said, “Got a drumhead I need to change. See you folks next break, if you stick around. Good set comin’ up. Darling girl, you be good! Your daddy’s watchin’!”
He headed back up to the stage, passing Booker as he did. The organist slid in where the drummer had been and grinned at everybody, offering up a general “hello.”
About fifty, Booker—with an Isaac Hayes beard—was Krista’s colleague at the PD. In fact, he had taken over her role as the station’s lone detective when she was promoted to chief. As usual when he was gigging, Booker wore a white shirt with open collar and rolled-up sleeves, and black trousers.
“I’m feelin’ kinda humiliated,” Booker said, making a mock sad face.
“Why’s that?” Krista asked.
“Well, Galena ain’t that big a burg. How do you think I feel, bein’ only the second most celebrated black keyboard player in town?”
Everybody laughed a little at that.
“Life is hard,” Krista reminded him. “You guys sound great.”
“We do. But I’m gonna have to line up some replacement talent, Chief Larson, for when your friend Brian there . . . and your daddy dear, Ms. Pike . . . go runnin’ off all summer, playin’ rock star.”
Then Booker excused himself to get a bottle of water—he did not drink on the job (neither job)—and as he ambled toward the bar, Donna passed by. They exchanged smiles and spoke a few friendly words, and then the owner of the club came over, not looking so friendly.
Wearing a long-sleeve black Corner Stop T-shirt and blue jeans, Donna was an unpretentious, attractive blonde woman in her fifties, affable and outgoing to her customers and known to be hell on earth to employees. This Krista had learned from Booker, one of the few on Donna’s payroll who took no crap from her.
“She’s a hard one,” Booker told her once, “but runnin’ a bar is a hard business, and Donna’s made a success of it for one hell of a long time. She deserves respect. Doesn’t mean I have to put up with her shit, though.”
Donna filled the recently vacated seat next to Holly and across from Krista and Brian.
“I have a bone to pick,” she said. Her voice was alto and raspy; she was a smoker. A heavy one. You could find her in the alley out back with a Camel going more often than inside the place.
Krista asked, with a smile and in a light tone, “W
ith anybody in particular?”
“Not sure,” Donna said. “I just got told the Pistons are playin’ at the Col Ballroom in Davenport this weekend. Why’s it this is the first I heard of it?”
Again, that was thrown out there generally, and Krista and Brian exchanged glances; even Holly seemed unsure if she was supposed to take a swing at an answer.
But it was Brian who stepped up to the plate. “It’s an invitation only for the media and, uh, area VIPs. Kind of dry run for us.”
Donna’s frown was almost a scowl. “Area VIPs? What am I, chopped liver? My husband was the star of your damn band.”
Her ex-husband.
Donna went on: “Now that he’s dead, he’s the damn James Dean of the group. Or the Eddie Cochran!”
Krista had no idea who belonged to that second name. But she’d seen Rebel Without a Cause.
“Furthermore,” the bar owner said, tapping the tabletop with a forefinger, “why not have your dry run, your damn dress rehearsal, right here? Where I’m giving you boys rehearsal privileges?”
Brian said, “Really, Donna, this just came up. Just came together.”
Krista helped him out. “Yes, the Col is closed, you know. It’s going to shutter completely, very soon. This event got put together almost overnight. We didn’t confirm it till yesterday.”
Donna was steaming. “Fine. But why wasn’t I invited yesterday?”
Lady, Krista thought, you must have known as soon as anybody!
Donna lived with Fill-in Phil, who also bartended here when the Stoplites weren’t performing. He’d have been among the first to hear about the engagement, and surely would have told her. And, anyway, Phil could easily have brought her along to the Col gig, and no one would have said a word.
No, this was about Donna feeling insulted. Feeling dissed.
So Krista played the game. “Not everyone has received their invites, Donna. It’s mostly been by phone. I am sure you’re on the list.”
The club owner frowned suspiciously. “Why are you involved in this?”
“As police chief,” Krista said, rather stiffly, “I have been, and continue to be, active in every phase of the Music Fest. This ‘dress rehearsal’ is a necessary part of that. Donna, I’m sure no offense was meant. I’ll see to it you are invited, although I would be surprised to learn you aren’t already on the list.”
The woman sat back. Swallowed. Composed herself.
“Thank you, Ms. Larson,” Donna said. “All I ask is a little due consideration.”
Krista worked up her best smile, public servant that she was, used to dealing with unreasonable citizens. “And that is what you will get. I’ll be at the dry-run concert myself, and look forward to seeing you there.”
Donna slid off the bench and stood, facing the little group. “Another round? On the house?”
Krista said, “For everyone but me. I’m driving.”
“And you’re the police chief.”
“And I’m the police chief.”
Everybody smiled. Everybody friendly. All was right with the world. Donna disappeared.
Holly leaned forward and said, “Wasn’t that weird.”
“It was that, all right,” Brian said. He gazed fondly at Krista and said, “Thanks.”
“No worries.”
Then Holly was on her feet, saying, “Got some friends here I need to check in with. See you guys later!”
A second Goose Island was on its way to Holly, who snatched it off the waitress’s tray and went off to find younger people to consort with.
With his second bottle of Potosi in hand, Brian said to Krista, “So you had dinner with Rebecca Carlson herself, did you? How was that?”
“Fine. No. Well.”
“Interesting answer. Almost meaningless, but interesting.”
“I, uh . . . I guess I misbehaved.”
“Screaming match. Hair pulling. Full-scale catfight?”
Krista shook her head. “No. She was fine. Friendly. Charming. Me, not so much. I would say I was kind of . . .”
“A bitch?”
“No! Do you want Carlsberg in your face?”
“A hothead?”
She smiled. “I resented her. I could tell that . . . I could tell.”
“You could tell, huh? Anything in particular?”
“I could tell they’re having . . . sex.”
“Right there in front of you?”
She laughed through her frown. “You are terrible! No. They’re just . . . intimate together.”
“Crawling all over each other?”
“No! I could just . . . tell.”
Brian studied her, his smile barely perceptible. “Well, we’re having sex, aren’t we? Not at the moment, but . . . three times, isn’t it? Not that I’m keeping score. Bad choice of words. Keeping count.”
Her eyebrows went up. “If you didn’t live at home with your mother, we might have a bigger box score.”
“Did you really just say that?”
“Came out bad, didn’t it? And I am living with my father, so . . . I’m as big a problem as you.”
“No you aren’t.”
“Well, that’s sweet, but . . .”
“You’re a bigger problem than me, Krista. You’re the police chief. No. You’re the damn police chief. No. You’re the fucking police chief.”
She smirked. “If I were able to be that more often, we wouldn’t have a problem.”
“You can’t check into a motel with me, because someone might recognize you. You have a morals clause in your contract. Also, if we went old school, and parked, and got in the back seat like the kids used to, and some patrolman stopped by and flashed his flashlight on us, and . . .”
“Morals clause?”
“Morals clause. So what do we do?”
She shrugged. “Make sure my father isn’t home when we get together at my place? Make sure your mother isn’t home when we get together at yours?”
“It’s a plan. But limited. Or . . .”
“Or?”
“We could be adults. We could recognize that your father is a healthy older man with a gorgeous older woman and they want to know each other in the biblical sense now and then, or so I assume.”
“You really think that?”
“Of course I do. They’re healthy and probably lonely and—”
“No, I mean—you think she’s gorgeous?”
“Don’t you?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“Is it all right with you if they have sex?”
“When I’m in the house?”
The band started up again.
Working his voice up over the music, Brian said, “I don’t think we’ve resolved this yet.”
“What about my mother’s feelings?” she asked, and it came out before she realized how absurd that was.
Brian said nothing.
“I guess we haven’t,” she said. “Resolved this.”
Booker was singing into a mic at his portable Hammond keyboard: “Everybody Needs Somebody to Love.”
FIVE
When she went to the band’s invitation-only preview night at the Coliseum Ballroom in Davenport, she hoped murder was behind her.
Really, though, she didn’t consider what she’d done at Arnolds Park last year murder at all—she’d only been defending herself against Rick and his thoughtlessly cruel behavior. That videotape, had it ever surfaced, would mean embarrassment and ridicule, turning what had been youthful misjudgment into adult shame.
And it hadn’t been at all premeditated. She had loved Rick, and though both of them had long since moved on, the memory of what they’d had—what she’d thought they had, at least—had been exposed as something tawdry and cheap through his reckless disregard for her.
In his early twenties, Rick had been a bad boy, and bad boys always had a certain charm and appeal. She’d hardly been alone in succumbing to Rick’s allure. But in his fifties, sitting in a hot tub, callously contemplating making her a subject of la
ughter and lechery, he’d become a bad man who deserved what he got.
In the many months since Arnolds Park, she’d felt no guilt and suffered no sleepless nights. What she had done was righteous. Justified. Her only misgiving, her sole lingering concern—even fear—was that one of the other band members might know that tape still existed. That perhaps Rick had mentioned it to one or all of them. That one or more of the Pistons knew Rick had intended to share it as a nasty nostalgic capper to their Arnolds Park triumph.
No thought of what that might mean had crystalized past just wondering about it. She would hardly contemplate, in any serious way, killing everyone in the band. Ridiculous. Absurd. Impractical. Anyway, some of them would be as embarrassed about that party tape as she was; they had their own reputations to worry about.
The only threat that had manifested in her mind was what knowledge of the tape might mean if one or more of the boys had grown suspicious about the circumstances of Rick’s “heart attack.” That would put her at risk, certainly. But if that were the case, what could she do about it?
Still, she wanted to know. Not from a standpoint of doing something about it, much less what that something might be. But just to grasp where she stood.
These thoughts accompanied her on the solitary hour-and-a-half drive from Galena to west Davenport. When she started out, dusk was fading, the rolling, rock-ridged landscape of northwest Illinois soon giving way to the flat farmland of Iowa; but when she got to Davenport’s West Fourth Street, night was waiting and so was the familiar extending sign glowing in it, outlined in red neon:
CoL
BALLROOM
The massive three-story brick venue, its upper floor arched, with C O L I S E U M in white letters following the curve, rivaled the Roof Garden in Arnolds Park for history. Duke Ellington had played here and Frank Sinatra; B.B. King and Johnny Cash; the Everly Brothers and Little Richard—the Animals, Beach Boys, Vanilla Fudge, and so many more, including Jimi Hendrix, whose big bold autograph was on the wall backstage. She’d seen Stevie Ray Vaughan here herself! And, of course, Hot Rod & the Pistons at their ’80s peak.
She left her car in the side parking lot, looking around at a neighborhood she didn’t remember as being this bleakly secondhand-store commercial. When she fell in with a group going inside, she found the box office unattended, but followed the others through to the coat check station. There she signed in and got her name tag, nodding and smiling to other Galenians doing the same.
Girl Can't Help It: A Thriller (Krista Larson Book 2) Page 5