Killer

CHAPTER 34

Morning can bring clarity or confusion. By six a.m. the following day I was experiencing a strange mixture of both. I woke up thinking about Lonesome Moan, couldn’t shake the feeling that the band had occupied my dreams.

No nocturnal music video; Ree’s long-lived friendship with all four members was the issue.

Half the quartet had been marked for murder, the other half left out of the crosshairs.

Did that make Chuck-o Blatt a target? Along with the guitarist I hadn’t met — Spenser “Zebra” Younger?

Or was one of them Rambla’s dad?

I thought of Blatt’s protectiveness when we’d talked about Ree.

If you really are a psychologist and not spying for her fucking sister …

You know the kind of person she is. You hear me? You didn’t say nothing.

She’s a nice person.

Not just nice. Good.

Aggressive sort. Suspicious — he’d held back giving me anything of substance until I proved my identity. Had ended up supplying a rationale for Ree’s disappearance: Ree figured the bitch was going to keep harassing her.

Unlike his bandmates, Chuck-o was a hard-nosed businessman who’d managed to parlay gig money into ownership of three bars. Whom I’d watch handle an array of serious drinkers with effortless dominance.

Boris Chamberlain had his muscles and Blatt was built soft, but from what I’d seen Blatt was the likely alpha in the band. And alphas were all about protection, so who better to turn to when you were feeling threatened?

Especially if your relationship with the alpha had produced a child. Then there was the matter of Zebra Younger, a total question mark. If either man was in danger, warning them was the right thing to do. If one of them was Rambla’s murderous daddy, additional face-time would be interesting.

Either way, time for a return visit to Virgo Virgo.

At eleven a.m., I drove into the Valley. One parking spot was available across the street from the bar, situated ten yards west with a gently oblique view.

Papered over the Happy Hour!!! banner was a new announcement.

I remained in the Seville, playing my phone as I tried to find personal data on marvin blatt. Nothing. I tried charles, chuck, and chuck-o. The last led back to the Lonesome Moan website and I was figuring out my next step when a man approached the bar’s front door.

Seventyish, basset-faced, shiny blue suit well past salvation, white dress shirt, droopy tie.

The boozehound with a penchant for history — Lloyd. Maybe he was also into current events. As I got ready to sprint across the street, he pulled on the bar’s door handle. The door swung open and he stepped in, exited moments later toting a brown paper bag too small to conceal the bottle it held. Full fifth of something amber, glass neck reflecting sunlight.

He stood there, talking to someone inside Virgo Virgo. That person stepped closer. Chuck Blatt’s soft face caught sunlight.

I watched Lloyd reach into his pocket and draw out cash and try to pay Blatt. Blatt shook his head and patted the older man’s shoulder, then retreated and closed the door.

Lloyd waddled away, jaunty, bearing his treasure.

My turn.

Chuck-o stood behind the bar, boxing up liquor. The stage was empty. Blatt’s drums were gone. A solitary bulb lent the bar the ambience of a root cellar.

I said, “Donating the inventory?”

Blatt stopped working and studied my approach. Plucking a bottle of Crown Royal from the shelf behind him, he eased it into a carton atop the bar.

I said, “Just saw Lloyd—”

Blatt placed his hands flat on the bar. “Lloyd’s an untreatable alcoholic, drinking’s what he does, he considers it his profession. That’s why he doesn’t make heavy six figures selling insurance anymore. That’s why I’ve stopped trying to educate him. So if he comes in jonesing for Jackie-D, what do I care?” He looked around the room. “It’s all over, anyway.”

“Because of Winky.”

His teeth clacked together. “Well, shrink-friend, it’s kind of hard to rock anyone’s world when your singer gets murdered, don’t you think? You here to tell me something about that? Like who ruined the world by offing one of the coolest, most gentle human beings ever to set foot on this godforsaken planet?”

Reaching into the box, he yanked out the same whiskey he’d just carted and flung it across the room. The bottle hit the wall behind the empty bandstand, shattered, and skittered down the plaster. Shards landed on wood, tinkling like a harp glissando.

Chuck-o Blatt said, “Fuck this world and the assholes who live in it.” Turning away, he snatched a fifth of vodka from the shelf and boxed it.

I said, “Thank God Boris got away.”

He turned toward me, eyes blazing. “What?”

“You didn’t hear about it.”

“Hear what?” Suddenly he came around from behind the bar, arms bent and bunched, fists lofted at nipple level. “Don’t dick around, pal, this isn’t a game. You got something to tell me, tell it.”

I told him about the attempt on Chamberlain.

He sagged. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“Wish I knew.”

“You think I can tell you? Only reason I found out about Winky is my check — the money I give him for the Monday gig — was still magneted to his fridge. The idiot was terrible with finances, I’d have to bug him to cash the damn things so my books would be straight. Cops took the checks, figured I was his employer so they came here to tell me — some big fat guy just lays it on me: Your pal’s been shot to death. I just about had a heart attack, I mean I really thought I was seizing up.”

Slapping his chest. “Then I realize he’s there because he either suspects me or he thinks I can answer his prayers. Winky’s murdered and I’m supposed to know who?”

The door opened. A man stepped in and headed toward us. Bumping along laboriously using a pair of elbow-mounted metal crutches.

Middle-aged and thin, he had neatly parted white hair and heavy eyebrows to match, wore an oxford blue buttondown shirt, pressed jeans, white sneakers.

He maintained his dignity with a determined smile as he struggled. Glanced at me briefly but made prolonged eye contact with Blatt.

Another regular angling for free booze? Neat and clean preppy garb didn’t shout desperate alcoholic but I was well past the point of generalization.

As he got closer, I saw that his eyes were bloodshot and his bony face was pale — an unnatural pallor that left his skin almost translucent. As if he’d been drained.

Chuck-o exhaled and said, “Hey, man.” The new arrival hobbled to the nearest chair and sat down laboriously, took some time laying his crutches on the floor.

Once settled, he gave me another look.

Blatt said, “This is the shrink I told you about, man. Helped Ree in court but now he’s doing some kind of police thing, came here to pump me for information I don’t have.”

The neatly dressed man’s scrutiny continued. His eyes were brown and mild. “That so.”

Chuck-o said, “Doctor whatever-your-name-is, meet the best slide guitarist this side of Johnny Winter — Spenser Younger aka the Zebra Man. Reason for that is his ax of choice is a black-and-white-striped Strat. That’s a Fender guitar, should you not be educated in the way of strings.”

I held my hand out. “Alex Delaware.”

Spenser Younger offered me five limp fingers. “Anything new on Winky?”

Chuck-o Blatt said, “What’s new, Zebe, is someone tried to off Boris, too.”

Younger gripped the sides of the chair with both hands. His upper body trembled but the denim-clad sticks that claimed to be his legs remained inert. “Good God. You’ve got to be kidding.”

Blatt said, “Wish I was, man.”

“That’s crazy, Marv, that’s just too nuts.” To me: “Someone tried? Meaning Boris is okay?”

“Fortunately.”

“Jesus. What happened?”

I told him.

Zebe Younger said, “Oh, man, jogging at night in Hollyweird, yeah, that would be Boris.”

I said, “Confident because of his muscles?”

“Ten years ago, he was totally out of shape. One day he changed. Told me he was tired of getting turned down by chicks and made a resolution to get buffed and boy oh boy, did he. He was always strong, played football in high school. But still. The transformation.”

Massaging his wasted left leg.

Blatt said, “Guy’s a monster, hundred-pound curls with each hand.”

Younger said, “We should go see him, Marv. Give him support.”

I said, “He’s left town.”

Chuck-o placed his hands against his temples and lowered his head. “What the hell’s going on?”

His shoulders shook.

Zebe Younger said, “Marv?”

When Blatt looked up his cheeks were tearstained. When he spoke, his voice was constricted. “Stupid Boris. Muscles up the wazoo matters? Bullet’s gonna laugh all the way in.”

“Aw, man,” said Younger. He eyed the few remaining bottles.

Chuck-o said, “Sure, man, name your poison.”

“Love to, Marv, but the doc says there’s interactions with the new meds.”

“They got you on new meds? Awesome, man, you’re gonna be jogging before you know it.”

Younger smiled. “Sure, training for a 10K.” To me: “Got what they call a rare degenerative neuromuscular condition, basically I’m melting. Hereditary, one of my uncles had it, he lasted eight months. But now they’ve got better meds, I’m four years in and the fingers are still working.”

Chuck-o Blatt said, “Winky, now Boris. That’s why you’re here, Doc? You’re thinking someone wants to genocide the band? What for? That’s nuts.”

Spenser Younger said, “I’ve heard of bad reviews, but c’mon.” He laughed. Turned serious. “Yeah, that is ridiculous, Doc.”

“Crazy ridiculous,” said Blatt. “Who the hell’s doing this?” He stared at me. “Cops have no idea?”

I said, “Sorry, no.”

Younger said, “Winky was the nicest guy, it makes no sense. If it wasn’t just a street shooting, which is what I assumed.”

I said, “I’m wondering if it had something to do with Ree’s court case.”

“How so?”

“Winky and Boris were both named as possible fathers in Connie’s legal papers.”

“Connie,” Blatt broke in, “was a stone psycho cunt so anything she said was either psycho or total bullshit. I mean there’s no way. Like I told you the first time you were here, any partying Winky or Boris did was a long time ago.”

I looked at Younger. Impassive.

Finally, he said, “We’re all past the partying stage.”

I said, “Obviously, Ree wasn’t—”

“Because she had a kid?” said Blatt. “That’s not partying, that’s what chicks do, they have kids. It’s a hormonal thing, you’re a doctor, you know that. If it was partying, all she had to do was terminate like … the ball was in her court.”

I said, “Like she did before?”

“Like nothing,” said Blatt. “Her business isn’t yours or mine or anyone’s.”

Spenser Younger said, “I’m still not getting what being a father has to do with getting killed.”

“Exactly,” said Blatt.

Both of them waited.

I said, “A theory has come up. Someone wants Rambla to themselves and is trying to eliminate the competition.”

Both men looked puzzled. Tears pooled in Chuck-o Blatt’s eyes. He wiped them away violently, pulled out a bottle of gin, twisted the cap off, swigged and grimaced.

Spenser Younger said, “I guess I could see that kind of nasty with someone like Connie, but — oh, man, I wasn’t even thinking about Connie, she’s another victim, isn’t she? This is crazy.”

Blatt said, “Like I keep reminding everyone, Connie was a psycho bitch, anyone could hate her. Winky? Just the opposite, he was fucking Sara Lee, you couldn’t not like him.”

Spenser Younger nodded. “And he always wanted kids.” His eyes saucered. “Oh, man, I never told anyone because he swore me not to, but now …”

He reached for the bottle in Blatt’s hand, said, “Screw side effects,” and took a swallow.

“Winky couldn’t have kids,” he said. “Low sperm count. Even a long time ago, he had a chick — remember Donna, Marvie?”

“The redhead,” said Blatt, outlining a female hourglass.

Younger said, “She loved Winky, would’ve done anything for him. Kept begging him to knock her up, this was I don’t know — twenty years ago. When we took the bus through Ohio?”

“Rock on, Cleveland,” said Blatt, without joy.

“Winky finally agreed but it never happened,” said Younger. “One day he asks me to drive him to some place — the Cleveland Clinic, bigtime medical situation. I’m doing the driving because his license wasn’t renewed, he couldn’t get an out-of-state rental. I drive him to the clinic, he goes in, comes out, real quiet. I’m thinking he’s got some bad disease, he says nope, don’t worry, just routine. Then he clams up. Couple weeks later he’s looking real down and we’re all pretty … remember that sensimilla we used to take with us on the road?”

“Hundred-proof,” said Blatt.

Younger smiled. “So Winky and I are both getting high as an asteroid and he goes on one of those weed-speeches, tells me the test was for his sperm count and guess what, it’s lower than low, he’ll never be a daddy. Then he cries, then like he’s forcing himself to get happy, he gets happy, and the topic never comes up again.”

Blatt had stared at him throughout the monologue. “No shit. Poor Wink.”

Younger turned to me. “Anyway, he’s not the dad, Doc, and if Connie thought so she was off by miles.”

“Connie was always full of shit,” said Blatt.

I said, “If Connie made a mistake, someone else could’ve.”

“Like who?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“Well you won’t figure it out here,” said Younger. “Hell, why not just ask Ree?”

“Shortly after Winky was shot, Ree left town.”

“Shortly after? You’re making it sound suspicious.”

I said, “Whenever someone splits without notice the police take it seriously.”

“They think she’s behind all this shit?”

“You guys don’t watch the news?”

“What for?” said Blatt. “News is all bullshit.”

“Hear, hear,” said Younger, raising the gin bottle.

I said, “Ree’s face was all over the nightly broadcast. The police consider her a person of interest in Connie’s and Winky’s murders.”

“Person of interest?” said Younger. “That mean suspect?”

“A rung lower,” I said. “Suspect minus hard evidence.”

“That’s totally absurd.” His laughter was unforced.

Same for Chuck-o Blatt, though his “Ha!” was tinged with anger. “Yeah, sure, two of the coolest, gentlest people on the planet, one’s dead, the other takes a trip which is her God-given unalienated right, so the stupid cops think she did bad stuff? Give me a break.”

I said, “That’s why I’m trying to come up with an alternative explanation.”

“Yeah, well, whatever.” Blatt curled his finger at Younger. Younger passed him the bottle, said, “I wish I could help you, Doc, but one thing for sure: It wasn’t Ree. She’s too good a person.”

Blatt downed two swigs, put the bottle down on the counter hard.

I said, “Thanks, guys.”

“An alternative explanation,” said Blatt. “Maybe it’s just some fucking maniac shooting people.”

Younger said, “Who just happen to be Winky and Connie?”

Blatt said, “Yeah, that is lame … okay, maybe he’s right.” Turning to me. “Maybe you’re right, it has something to do with the kid. But what? Fuck if I know. I mean she’s a cute kid but what’s the big deal? It’s not like she’s an heiress or something.”

“Hey,” said Younger. “Wouldn’t that be something, Ree partied with a rich guy and now he’s worried about getting soaked, so he takes care of business.”

“Yeah, right,” said Blatt. “On Lifetime network, tonight.”

Younger said, “It could happen, Marv. Ree named the kid Rambla, said because the conception was in Malibu. What’s Malibu? Rich folk.”

“If that ain’t the truth,” said Blatt. “Million bucks for an ounce of sand.”

I said, “You guys remember anyone specific from Malibu?”

“Hell, no,” said Blatt. “It’s not like we’re in that world.”

I turned to Younger.

He said, “Can’t remember the last time I was even at the beach.” Blinking. “Now that I lost my taste for surfing.”

“You surfed for shit, anyway,” said Blatt.

“Yeah, I did.”

“I was even more for shit. Couldn’t stay on the fucking board.” Slurred words. Third swig.

Younger took the bottle. “You were beyond for shit, man. You were the fourteenth level of hell filled with elephant shit.” Burp.

“Yeah but gimme skins, I’m fucking Krupa incarnated.” Blatt laughed. “Put me on a fucking board and I’m super-spazz — oh, man, sorry.”

“Cut it out, man,” said Younger.

“Cut what out?”

“Being sensitive, I like you just the way you are, as an asshole. Me and Mr. Rogers.”

“Mr. Rogers liked jazz.”

“Mr. Rogers was cool.”

“Miss him,” said Blatt.

“Miss everyone,” said Younger. “ ’Member we were in that motel in Harrisburg, watched Mr. Rogers when we were loaded, he had this guy playing a D’Angelico Excel? Handyman whoever, he’s supposed to be a janitor and he’s got this twenty-grand guitar and he’s bopping off notes like Tal Farlow?”

“Handyman Negrino,” said Blatt.

“No, no … Negri.” Younger beamed. “Handyman Negri, cool dude.”

“Mr. Rogers,” said Blatt. “Go know.”

I slipped out of the bar just as the topic segued to Captain Kangaroo.