Girl Can't Help It: A Thriller (Krista Larson Book 2)

by Max Allan Collins

“Looks like everybody who got an invite,” Krista said to the women at the high-top, “said yes, and kept their word.”

  Lisa said, “The Pistons were a very big deal around here, when a lot of us were younger. Half the women here, anywhere near our age anyway, used to follow the band.”

  Maria nodded toward the bar, where a good-looking zaftig woman in her late forties with purple hair and purple-framed glasses in a low-cut white dress with purple polka dots was bartending and smilingly chatting up customers. That was Gracie herself—the owner.

  “Surely Gracie wasn’t old enough,” Krista said, “to tag after the Pistons back then.”

  Lisa, typically droll, said, “Haven’t you ever encountered a fake ID in your police work?”

  Krista’s dad and Donna had wrapped up their conversation and the rival bar owner, defiantly wearing a Corner Stop tee, was heading toward the high-top. Krista said some quick goodbyes and slipped away, nodding and smiling to Donna as she did.

  Her pop—not a regular Grape Minds customer—was at the bar accepting a bottle of beer from Gracie, and complimenting the woman for carrying Carlsberg Elephant brand.

  “Anything for you, handsome,” the woman said with a wink. Her bare arms bore cartoony tattoos, fun ones, but Krista was pretty sure her father wasn’t into women with that kind of art collection.

  Behind her purple cat-eye frames, Gracie squinted at him. “You aren’t a right-wing nut, are you, handsome?”

  “Not so it shows.”

  “We’re a progressive bar, you know.”

  “All bars are. They get people progressively soused.”

  Gracie roared with laughter. Pop had passed the test.

  The owner-bartender moved on. The two Larsons remained at the bar, where a pair of leopard-print cushioned chairs had miraculously presented themselves.

  Krista sipped her chardonnay, then asked, “Why didn’t you tell Gracie you haven’t voted in the last two or three elections? That your political position is a pox on both their houses?”

  Keith shrugged, sipped at the bottle of Elephant beer. “I figure my politics are my business.”

  “In a bar you do?”

  He was making a face.

  “What’s wrong, Pop?”

  “Turns out I don’t care for this stuff. Asked for Carlsberg and this is what I got. Too much bitter hops. Too much alcohol. Seems not everything from Denmark is as sweet as you.”

  “We’re not from Denmark, Pop. We’re from Galena. What did Donna buttonhole you about?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means she said she wants to talk, but not here. I said we could slip outside and she said no—it could wait till tomorrow. Should she stop by the house or come over to the PD? I said the house was fine, I’m not at the station that much, but why not wait till the next Pistons rehearsal, on Monday? She said it couldn’t wait that long. I said, well, fine, call first, but coming over to the house is cool. Whatever.”

  “Any idea what this is about?”

  “None. And one odd thing?”

  “Yeah?”

  “She kind of dragged it out, or anyway that was the impression I got. Repeating herself, talking loud.”

  “Well, it is noisy in here.” No music was blasting over a sound system, but with all the people, the talk was enough. “Listen, Pop, that’s the owner you were talking to—that bartender?”

  “Yeah? Really? That’s the ‘Gracie’ of Grape Minds?”

  “Sure is. Do you know her?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Well, maybe you do. She supposedly followed the band, back in your day.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t remember a Gracie or Grace or anything like that, back then. You have to remember, honey, I only roadied with the Pistons in the early days, when they were strictly local. It wasn’t till the national record hit that the groupies came out of the woodwork.”

  “Didn’t you still follow them?”

  “Yeah, but I was no groupie.” He seemed to be getting used to the bitter hops because he was having no trouble swigging the beer. “Your mom and I were dating, big-time, and used to drive around and follow the boys, all over Iowa and Illinois and even Wisconsin.”

  She liked seeing him thinking about Mom that way—the two of them young, in love, having a good time. Seeing him with Mom in his eyes and no sadness there at all. Maybe that was why everybody liked nostalgia. It was the past with only the good parts left in.

  “Hey, you two,” Rebecca’s familiar voice said behind them.

  They turned to her. She was a fetching woman, which was about all the reporter had in common with Krista’s mother. Karen had been small, somewhat plump. Cute. This was a tall, almost willowy beauty.

  “I’m doing quick interviews,” she said to Krista’s dad, “with people who were fans of the band back in . . .”

  The newswoman paused, obviously seeking a less insulting way to phrase it.

  Her father finished it his way: “The good old days? Sure.” To Krista, he said, “Save my seat. Let’s watch the band from here, all right?”

  He got up and went off to do a stand-up interview with Rebecca. Krista put her purse on her father’s chair. The owner-bartender came over.

  “Another glass?”

  “No, I’m still working on this one.”

  “He doesn’t recognize me, does he?”

  “What, my dad? Did you know him?”

  “Didn’t know him, really. But he was a camp follower like I was.”

  “How old were you?”

  She shrugged her tattooed shoulders, bare against the straps of the polka-dot dress. “Maybe thirteen.”

  “Really? That young?”

  “Oh, yeah. I was a wild thing. Terrible parents, which was great for a kid in those days.”

  “How, uh, wild, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “What’s the statute of limitations in this state?”

  “For what?”

  She laughed; it was a hoarse but pleasant thing. “Well, I wasn’t the one it would’ve got in trouble. But let me tell you, that Rick Jonsen would’ve gone to the graybar hotel back then. And he wasn’t the only one in the band.”

  “Only one who . . . ?”

  She leaned in. “What do you think groupies did in those days? Ask for autographs? When Me Too catches up with rock ‘n’ roll, baby, look out!”

  Gracie roared off laughing and Krista felt a chill.

  Her father came over quickly and resumed his chair, which he turned around to face the lounge, and she did the same—the brick wall with the archway had two huge windows cut out of it, one of which framed the stage area by the windows.

  Meanwhile, the band was coming up from the back of the room and people were clapping and hooting. From where Krista and her dad were seated, they didn’t get a good look at the Pistons till they were framed in that big hole in the brick wall at right. So it was a fun surprise to see that the boys were clad as they would be at the Music Fest—unlike the Col Ballroom appearance, this really was a dress rehearsal.

  In wardrobe that tied them to the Stray Cats, the New Wave band that had paved the way for the more minor success of Hot Rod & the Pistons, the musicians took their positions at their mics with their instruments.

  Rod got behind his two stacked keyboards (the top one said VOX, the bottom NORD), facing the audience, no chair or stool. Like the other band members, he wore tattered jeans and Beatle boots, but his trademark look included a black sleeveless Sun Records tee and a neck-knotted red-and-black bandana. Steve was in a black, red-collared bowling shirt, open to reveal his still toned chest, while Phil had assumed the notorious LIVE FAST, DIE YOUNG! black tee with skull-head motorcyclist for which Rick Jonsen had been known. As for Brian, he wore his late father’s black button-up RAT FINK shirt.

  Krista had heard this four-piece Piston lineup rehearse, and had been at the Col of course, but the combination of their energy and musicianship with an en
thusiastic, demonstrative crowd in close quarters made for a kind of alchemy—kinetic, dynamic. The little dance floor filled up almost from the opening bars of “Long Tall Sally.”

  The familiar rockabilly tunes with that almost heavy metal–style guitar was mesmerizing, Phil incredible at sounding like Rick Jonsen, maybe even . . . better? Rod was alternating New Wave combo-organ keyboards, like in Elvis Costello’s early songs, with piano right out of the Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard songbook.

  Yes, she knew these artists. Her father had given her a solid musical education.

  She’d heard the Pistons do all but a couple of these songs before, but the pace and energy seemed amped now. Each player had his own moves, which together created a unique synergy. The hour flew by like fifteen minutes, and when they finally played “The Girl Can’t Help It,” the hipster bar was suddenly actually hip.

  They played their original, “Bad Boy, Good Girl,” the minor hit follow-up, as their encore. And after that, as the Grape rang with stomping feet and chants of “one more, one more,” they put their heads together and came back with an unrehearsed “Great Balls of Fire” that was as fine as anything they’d done in the prepared set.

  Through the archway, Krista could see the high-top where Chloe, Maria, Lisa, and Donna sat. She had a very good view of Chloe, who was smiling, an almost Madonna-like smile, and not in the “Material Girl” sense. Rod’s wife was never keeping time or laughing and, while she applauded, she almost seemed to be elsewhere. And Krista could swear the limited lighting caught a glint from the woman’s eyes of what might have been tears.

  Krista couldn’t guess what emotions might be roiling through Rod’s life partner of so many years. A middle-aged man recapturing his youth, in a trip she couldn’t take with him. That same man risking his life by continuing that trip, despite the real possibility of a murderer in the mix.

  How did Chloe process seeing the rock ‘n’ roll star of her younger years, who had transformed into the celebrated but socially acceptable teacher of high school students, sharing his musical gifts in so different a way?

  And considering how many of his former students were here witnessing who he’d been when he was young, Rod Penniston must have been an incredible teacher. Still was, undoubtedly.

  The stage lights came down, leaving Grape Minds in its usual dim ambience. The boys disappeared through the crowd, heading back to the green room to get freshened up and perhaps into clothes that weren’t dripping with sweat. Along the way, they chatted with audience members and signed a few CDs and vintage albums.

  Next to her, her father was smiling.

  “They’re very, very good, Pop.”

  “Yes they are. It really does bring it back.”

  But there were tears in his eyes now. It had come back too fully—not just nostalgia, but actual memories.

  Rebecca and her cameraman were circulating again. She had shot some of the set, with the powerful little camera on a tripod; but now camera and man were mobile and so was she, as she stopped at tables and caught brief interviews with almost giddy crowd members.

  Krista turned to her dad. “Your girlfriend’s pretty terrific, Pop. Awfully good at what she does.”

  He blurted, “I want to ask her over tonight.”

  “You don’t have to ask.”

  His eyebrows went up. “I don’t have to put a lamp in the window or hang a ‘Do Not Disturb’ on the front door?”

  “Or the side door, either. Anyway, I’m having Brian over.”

  “Well. That’s fine. I’m fine with that.”

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “You just stay on your floor, and I’ll stay on mine.”

  It took just a second for that to register with him as a joke, but then he laughed.

  “Deal,” he said.

  Brian came over, still in the ragged jeans but with a fresh Hot Rod & the Pistons T-shirt. He looked at Keith, said, “We killed, didn’t we?”

  “You did,” Keith said.

  Brian turned and looked at her; he seemed almost drunk from the performance. “We did kill, didn’t we?”

  “Knocked ’em dead,” Krista said, but she didn’t love all the fatal terminology. That was show biz, though.

  Brian said, nodding over toward the high-top, “My mom says my dad would be proud.” He swallowed hard.

  Nobody disagreed, but nobody went any further with the thought, otherwise Brian might break down. And nobody likes to see a rock ‘n’ roller cry.

  Steve Pike ambled over. His T-shirt was fresh but he looked tired, as well he should. “We killed,” he said.

  “You killed,” Krista and her dad said in near tandem.

  “Keith, uh . . .” Steve was clearly embarrassed. “You got some people I know in custody, I hear.”

  “I do. Well, the sheriff does. They’re working with the next county and a search warrant this afternoon turned up some things that are going to keep your pals away from the farm for a while.”

  “Not my friends,” Steve said, shaking his head. “I already broke ties with them, before they even . . . If they did you any harm, man, I wasn’t—”

  “I know,” her father said. “We’re fine, Steve. No hard feelings on this end.”

  “Mine, either. I want a new start.”

  Steve’s daughter, Holly, was suddenly at his side and she was smiling so hard it must have almost hurt. “Daddy, daddy . . . you were so good tonight! I love your band!”

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said to her, and hugged her around the shoulders.

  Krista was suddenly glad she hadn’t talked Chloe and the others into pressuring the men in their lives to cancel the Pistons reunion.

  This was a feeling of the moment, however, and would not last.

  SEVENTEEN

  As she mingled among, and threaded through, the enthusiastic audience at Grape Minds, the woman whose actions had necessitated the change in lineup of Hot Rod & the Pistons was pleased that this new version sounded so good, so . . . authentic.

  Yes, it was unfortunate that the Pistons were forced to perform in their reunion appearances without two of their original members, she thought, but then all bands go through member changes. In some ways, this new lineup seemed an improvement.

  “Fill-in” Phil Deeson really did capture the late Rick’s style with that driving, edgy lead guitar, and the absence of dear dead Dan’s rhythm guitar, sad to say, only emphasized how little he ever had really been needed. The other two original members were as good as they ever were—age hadn’t compromised Steve’s playing a whit and Rod sounded every bit as fine as in his prime. And the other replacement, Brian, was honoring his late dad by reproducing his bass lines to perfection.

  Plus, the boys had so much more showmanship than at the previous preview at the Col! Adversity had only inspired them.

  Earlier, with the bar already packed by eight o’clock (the Pistons went on at nine), she had overheard a troubling conversation between Keith Larson and Donna Jonsen.

  Donna had spoken up over the crowd noise to say, “We need to talk!”

  Keith, nursing a bottle of beer, said, “How about right now?”

  “No. We need more privacy than this!”

  He shrugged. “Step outside then?”

  “That’s where the smokers go. I should know! I’m one of ’em! Make it tomorrow!”

  “Sure thing, Donna. Tomorrow morning sometime? Ten maybe?”

  “Ten is good! At the station? Or your house?”

  “House is fine.”

  Donna even went over the last part of that a second time.

  Then the two had gone their separate ways, leaving their conversation to play on a continuous loop in the eavesdropper’s brain.

  After the band completed their set, she circulated, Apple Tini in hand, having brief conversations with friends, and finally allowing herself to be cornered by the transplanted Chicago news anchor, Rebecca Carlson. A striking woman, but so heavily made up and, thrusting that microphone at her, unnecessari
ly assaultive.

  “Are you a longtime fan?” the KWQC reporter asked with a big red-lipstick smile and eyes reflecting the nearby Christmas lights.

  “No,” she lied, “they’re a little before my time. But I’m a fan now!”

  That interview went on a little longer, but when she turned, Donna stood right behind her, smirking over a bottle of Blue Moon.

  “You shouldn’t lie to the media,” Donna said, laughed and went off. A nasty laugh, raspy from too much smoking. Didn’t the woman know those unfiltered Camels could kill her?

  She watched Donna go over and slip an arm around guitarist Phil’s shoulder as he stood talking to Krista and Keith Larson.

  Working the room, saying more hellos and agreeing with the glowing assessments of the band’s set, she wound up within hearing distance of Donna and the Larsons, even while nodding her way through a conversation with a talkative city council member.

  Phil was saying, “We can’t load out till closing. But after that, the guys are going over to Dubuque to the Smokestack. Chow down on some flatbread pizzas.”

  That was a bar across the river, in the Millwork District. The Grape would be closing at one, but over there the bars could serve till 2:00 a.m.

  “Kitchen stays open,” Phil said, “till last call. How about it, Keith?”

  “I’ve got company tonight.”

  Phil grinned. “Company by way of that tall drink of Chicago water?”

  “I’m gonna pass,” Keith said, grinning back, “if it’s all right with you and the other guys. If you think you can survive without me babysitting.”

  What did that mean? she wondered.

  Donna said, “I don’t suppose Chloe’s going along. Or you, Krista?”

  “No,” Krista said, not looking at all like a police chief in her tasteful ensemble. “I have company, too.”

  Phil said, “Oh, then so our youngest member won’t be getting shit-faced in Dubuque like a real rock ‘n’ roller, either?”

  Krista smiled knowingly. “I’m pretty sure Brian’ll choose another option.”

  “Sounds like just the real road warriors.” Phil kissed Donna on the forehead. “I should be back by three or so, babe.”

  Hanging over Donna’s shoulder was a purse, yawning open. The eavesdropper spied something in that purse, helped herself, and slipped her plunder in her own purse.