by Harry Hoge
Gerry passed and pulled next to the curb in front of him. She was out of the car quickly, and smiled as she walked toward him. He opened the door and met her in front of his car.
"Ready to arm wrestle?" he asked as a greeting.
"Let's pass up the competition. I need a beer. I'll buy."
"If you can hold off for a few minutes, I'd rather we brief each other outside of the club."
Gerry gave an exaggerated sigh and reached her notebook. There wasn't much she hadn't told him over the phone. "Nguyen seems to be squeaky clean other than working under aliases. His family has been Americanized so completely they list most of their personal information under the name Wynne."
Frank told her what he had learned. "1 have a gut feeling that the perp is Reuben Rankin, but I can't establish motive or opportunity. I think we should pay him a visit in the morning."
Gerry screwed up her face in disappointment. "I planned to search for an apartment tomorrow. I don't want to keep commuting so far, and I'm real tired of where I live."
"Okay. I'll talk to Rankin alone, but keep your cell phone on."
Frank tried to call Pauley again, but couldn't reach her. He didn't leave a message. Gerry was already walking toward The Wit's End. He checked his voice mail and found a message from Lieutenant Barker asking him to come by her office first thing Monday. He winced and hurried to catch up with Gerry.
The Wit's End looked exactly like the Ha Ha House except it was newer: less wear on the hardwood floors, less dust on the beams, a fancier mirror behind the bar, and a more colorful curtain on the stage. Frank glanced at the posters of the comics. The headliner was an out-of-towner, booked for a short run. Like before, there were two women and two men on the early part of the program.
No wheelchair sat near the bar. No monsters with ponytails were in sight. The bartenders were clones of Marsha and Gretchen. The place was full, but there was no loud banter from the customers. It was early in the evening, too early for the rush to accumulate, so Frank and Gerry found seats at a table for four on the far left side of the stage. Frank went to the bar for two beers. While he waited for service, he tried Pauley again. No luck.
When he returned to the table with the beer, Gerry was staring pensively at the ceiling. Frank startled her.
"I was thinking about how the press hasn't picked up on this case," she commented. "That's highly unusual."
"We're lucky so far, but it won't hold," Frank agreed. 'Someone's bound to call it in. If not Sumbitch, then someone we've talked with. It's too bizarre to go unnoticed for long."
"You know," Gerry continued, "at one time I considered stand-up as a career. I worked up routines and practiced, even developed a demo and sent it out to small clubs. I picked up a few jobs that helped support me while I was in school, then did it once during a sting while I was working in Kingwood."
"I'm glad I never considered such masochism. It looks like a tough racket to me."
The house lights dimmed and the emcee bounced on stage. "Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen, and welcome to Wit's End. I'm Al Lamode, and I'll be your host this evening." Frank watched, amused, wondering to himself why all show people used stage names. He wouldn't have been surprised if the next performer was Lance Boyles.
"Saturday night in H'town and we're here to blow off a little steam, drink a few brews and laugh. Sometimes we laugh because the entertainer makes us, and sometimes we laugh despite the comic's lines, but don't forget we're all here to laugh. We can experience all those other emotions anytime and anywhere, but at The Wit's End, it's time to enjoy. If this is your first time to visit us - where the hell have you been? Under a rock?"
Little response - a few smiles.
"Seriously folks, we have a tradition at The Wit's End. All entertainers get greeted with loud and exuberant applause. Let's practice that. Ready? Let's hear it for Al Lamode!"
Some of the patrons went along with the emcee and yelled and whistled as they clapped, others hissed and booed.
"Well, I expected that," Lamode grumbled, "but don't embarrass our stand-ups that way. Greet them with cheers. After that, they're on their own. If you like what you hear, keep the applause coming. If you're lukewarm, drink your beer, unless it's lukewarm too, and ignore the act. BUT, if you really don't like what's on stage, what do you do?" He held his hand to his ear.
"Get the Hook!" the crowd screamed.
"That's right. We hook the hooter off the stage and wait for the next act."
The emcee took a sip of water from a bottle he'd carried on stage. "Our first act tonight is an out-of-towner from Albuquerque, New Mexico. That's on route 10 a few miles past 'resume speed.' Give a big Houston welcome to this young lady... Miss Laurie Lowe."
Most of the crowd ignored Lamode's warm-up suggestions, a few clapped, but it wasn't a hearty response.
Frank watched a short, heavy, young girl in a shapeless, loose-fitting, canvas colored dress walk onto the stage and take the mike from the emcee. She looked nervous. "Good evening," she started. "I hope you like my dress. I had it made special for this evening. You may have heard of my designer... His name's Omar." She paused, hoping for a response from the audience, but it wasn't forthcoming. The silence filled the room, heavy and cold, like dawn on a stark winter day. Laurie Lowe shifted her feet and went on. "Omar's the chief designer for Houston Tent and Awning."
Nothing.
"It's not my fault I'm overweight though. When I was a young girl, my mother put me in charge of all the hungry kids in the world. I can still hear her. "Clean up your plate. There are hungry kids all over the world.'"
The only sound was someone moving a chair. Laurie Lowe looked down at her dress.
"I must have saved a bunch of them."
"Her delivery is horrible," Gerry whispered to Frank. Frank nodded.
"I talked to Mom the other day. I asked her how come I never got that other think I had coming... She said if I thought I was going to confuse her with a dumb question like that, I had another think coming."
A shout came from the audience, "Get the Hook!" Another voice joined in. The edict caught hold, there were hoots and people yelling for the hook as Laurie Lowe, the out-of-towner from Albuquerque, New Mexico fought to regain control. Only partial phrases could be heard over the microphone. Frank decided that if this had been vaudeville, there would be missiles of tomatoes and cabbage flying through the air. For the next few seconds, which must have seemed like hours to the comedian, the crowd bellowed. Graciously, the lights went out. Someone yelled, "All right!" and the shouting fell to a rumble of inaudible comments. When the lights came up again, Laurie Lowe was gone and Al Lamode stood with the microphone in his hand.
"Tough crowd," Frank yelled, bending over the table so Gerry could hear him above the drone. She did likewise.
"Worse than that. Vulgar," Gerry added.
"Aren't you glad you didn't go through with stand-up as a career?"
"Oh, yeah."
"You should count your blessings." "Blessings" came out in a loud voice because the crowd had quieted and were looking at the emcee.
Al Lamode drowned out what Gerry answered. "But really, folks, how did you like our first comedian?" Inane and predictable as the line was, it got more laughs than Laurie Lowe. Lamode made a few more forgettable remarks before he introduced the next entertainer, by the single name, Wolfgang. Evidently the crowd was familiar with him and his routine because they remained civil, and even chuckled at some of his lines. Frank didn't think he was any funnier than the previous act.
After Wolfgang finished to polite applause, Al Lamode announced that there would be a thirty minute break so everyone could refresh their drinks.
Frank went to the restroom. There was a short line. He listened for any noise coming from behind the door marked Private. He heard nothing. Later he tried to call Pauley. No answer. He paid for two more beers and went back to the table. Gerry was leaning back in her chair, talking over her shoulder to the woman at the table behind her.
He sat at the bar for a while, trying to pick up on any conversation that might involve Nguyen, without any luck. He showed the photo to the bartenders. They indicated they knew of the comic, but admitted their knowledge of him was marginal. He waited, hoping someone would come or go through the Private doors, until the emcee came back on stage to introduce the next act. He carried his beer back to the table. Gerry raised an eyebrow as a tacit question. He shook his head. The lights dimmed.
The next two acts, one, a tall woman named Dawn something, did a better than average routine about a single mother trying to raise a teenage daughter, and a skinny 'Tejano,' Bernie, who concentrated on ethnic humor, went by without raucous reactions from the crowd. Frank liked the woman. When Bernie spent half his time discussing what 'his people' should be called by the 'gringo,' Frank lost interest. He didn't find the on going flap about Hispanic versus Latino or Mexican American worth the time most people spent debating the subject. When Bernie finished, Frank looked at his watch -11:15, and the main act was yet to come. He called Pauley once more, and when she failed to answer, he left a message explaining where he was and what time he expected to be home.
"This last act is an out-of-towner," he whispered to Gerry. "He isn't likely to know anything about Nguyen. You enjoy the rest of the show, and I'll go back and talk to the others. Maybe we can get out of here before dawn."
Gerry looked at her watch. "I don't need this guy. I'll go with you."
Frank nodded, then they walked up to the bar area and asked how they might talk to the comics. One of the bartenders motioned to a man whom Frank took to be a bouncer, calling him to the bar. Whatever she said to the man caused him to cast a brief look at Frank and Gerry before he nodded and walked toward the door next to the room marked Women.
Moments later, Dawn and Bernie emerged. Laurie Lowe had headed back to Albuquerque, New Mexico, and Wolfgang had left for the night. Dawn had never heard of Nguyen, but Bernie said he had worked with him often.
"He's probably the best stand-up I've ever known," Bernie volunteered. Frank noticed that his Spanish accent had disappeared. "He worked hard," Bernie went on. "Took copious notes on how the audience reacted to lines and combinations. Man, The Monkey could switch from one bent to another in mid stream. I knew he'd move up fast, but I didn't expect Vegas to call so soon."
Frank didn't bother to correct Bernie's assumption that Nguyen was smiling somewhere between Houston and Las Vegas.
"I've noticed that many of you are different on stage and off. How did he act off stage?"
"He was the one that suggested I use more dialect in my performance. Other than his ruse of being an emigrant, he was pretty much the same. Always in a good mood. Always crackin' and jivin.' Funny, funny man. I got the impression he was always acting."
Frank and Gerry stood by their cars discussing what they had learned during the evening, and decided there was nothing new.
"You're sure it's all right if I skip the visit to Rankin's pad tomorrow?" Gerry asked.
"Yeah, I can fill you in Monday. You need to get settled. By the way, where are you looking?"
"I've got my eye on a three story townhouse in the Heights. You know, one of those that are only about one room wide with lots and lots of stairs?"
"More of the 'keeping your figure' stuff?"
"You're on to me, cousin."
During the drive home, Frank mulled over the case. Was he missing something? There were no road signs that pointed anywhere but at Rankin. He arrived in the parking lot to the apartment at a beat or two before 1:00 am. He expected Pauley to be asleep. He was mistaken. Although she looked tired, she was propped up in bed with a hard-bound copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix supported on her stomach.
"Hi," Frank smiled. "Did you get my message?"
"I did. That's why I'm still awake." Frank thought her response unusually cool.
"I didn't expect you to wait up for me."
Paulette didn't answer. She appeared to be reading the book. Frank shrugged out of his jacket and sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots.
"Did you enjoy all day and all night with your new partner?" Paulette asked, a definite tenseness in her voice.
"Yeah. Right. Investigating a murder is always a jolly time."
Silence.
"How about you?"
"What about me?"
"I tried to call you several times. You never answered your pretty much the same. Always in a good mood. Always crackin' and jivin.' Funny, funny man. I got the impression he was always acting."
Frank and Gerry stood by their cars discussing what they had learned during the evening, and decided there was nothing new.
"You're sure it's all right if I skip the visit to Rankin's pad tomorrow?" Gerry asked.
"Yeah, I can fill you in Monday. You need to get settled. By the way, where are you looking?"
"I've got my eye on a three story townhouse in the Heights. You know, one of those that are only about one room wide with lots and lots of stairs?"
"More of the 'keeping your figure' stuff?"
"You're on to me, cousin."
During the drive home, Frank mulled over the case. Was he missing something? There were no road signs that pointed anywhere but at Rankin. He arrived in the parking lot to the apartment at a beat or two before 1:00 am. He expected Pauley to be asleep. He was mistaken. Although she looked tired, she was propped up in bed with a hard-bound copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix supported on her stomach.
"Hi," Frank smiled. "Did you get my message?"
"I did. That's why I'm still awake." Frank thought her response unusually cool.
"I didn't expect you to wait up for me."
Paulette didn't answer. She appeared to be reading the book. Frank shrugged out of his jacket and sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots.
"Did you enjoy all day and all night with your new partner?" Paulette asked, a definite tenseness in her voice.
"Yeah. Right. Investigating a murder is always a jolly time."
Silence.
"How about you?"
"What about me?"
"I tried to call you several times. You never answered your phone."
"Well I was busy. I spent the day scrabbling with Mark over the details of our deal."
"Mark?"
"Yeah, Mark Simeon. The man who wants me to open the new stores. Don't you remember?"
It irritated Frank when she accused him of not remembering in that tone of voice. What she really meant was that he didn't care enough about the things that were important to her.
"Of course I remember. But you never called him Mark before. It was Mark Simeon or simply Simeon. That's all."
"Oh. That's all? What are you trying to say?"
Frank carried his boots to the closet, thinking about advice his father had given him when he had gotten into a fistfight in high school. "You'll never get to be a big bass if you rise to every bait that hits the water." He decided to ignore Pauley's last comment and walked to the bedroom door as he unbuttoned his shirt.
"Aren't you going to answer my question?" Pauley asked.
He stopped and looked at her. Why was she picking a fight? He decided she was overly tired, or that the negotiations with Simeon hadn't gone well and had ground her down.
"I didn't consider it a question. We'll talk about it in the morning."
She looked back at her book. "I have to meet with Mark in the morning." she mumbled in a low tone.
"That's fine. I need to interview a suspect anyway."
She let the book sag. "With your new partner? What's her name? Gigi?" Frank was too tired to resist a rejoinder.
"Now I'll ask it. What is it you're trying to say?"
She slammed the book shut and flung it to his side of the bed.
"Only that you seem to enjoy being with her more than with me lately."
> "Come on, Pauley. It's been one tough day. And you didn't even answer your phone."
"One long, long day, Frank. It's nearly two in the morning, and you come home with alcohol on your breath."
"We were casing a comedy club."
"You never drink on the job."
"Under the right circumstances I do."
"It's those circumstances I'm talking about."
"Are you jealous of Gerry?"
"She's very attractive, Frank." She never called him Frank unless she was making a point.
"She's a cop. She's also Afro-American, if you hadn't noticed."
"I can't imagine that either of those facts would thwart a man like you."
"What do you mean, 'A man like me'?"
"You're a sexy guy, Frank. Who should know better than me? And you don't have a prejudiced bone in your body. Again, who knows better than me. I don't like you spending eighteen hours a day with such an attractive woman."
"But it's all right for you to spend all day with a wealthy investment broker and not answer your phone?"
"If you'd left a message I would have called back. What were you doing? Checking up on me?"
"Get real, Pauley. What's wrong? You got PMS or something?"
She grabbed the book and threw it at him. He pulled the door closed and heard it whack against the wood. He growled and pulled a blanket from the linen closet next to the bedroom. He needed sleep and would find the couch more comfortable than the bedroom.
Chapter 8
Frank was wrong. He couldn't get comfortable. He tossed around, hoping to find a good position, and trying to turn his mind away from his spat with Pauley. Their fights had been rare of late, but he remembered the other time. It had been a terror for them both. He, a hard-headed young cop parading about like a crusader in armor, wearing his intent to rid humanity from wrongdoing like a holy bunting about his neck, and she, a fresh young clothier with a sparkling new shop in a prestigious mall, both eager to be their own person and succeed in spite of a common non-glamorous background, and neither willing to relinquish control of their lives for the sake of nurturing the other. Pauley claimed to hate cops. Frank openly spurned merchants as fraudulent and predatory. Because of individual pride and inability to forgive, they had parted ways. Reconciliation had not come easily. Was it all beginning again?