Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

34

“Uh-oh, nightmare walking, psychopath stalking,” Kid McMurphy said, his face falling, when he saw Behr.

Kid swallowed a gulp of his drink, which looked to be only water. Stepping off a riser after his sound check, Kid looked pale and much thinner than the last time Behr had seen him. “Kid McMurphy” was a stage name. The singer was Pal’s nephew, and he shared the family talent, albeit unpolished, for information tracking. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Here” happened to be the Vollrath Tavern, which had been in operation on Palmer since the day it opened as a speakeasy back during Prohibition. It still retained the old-time saloon feel, with its ornate wood-and-mirror bar and tile floor, as when John Dillinger used to frequent the place. Nowadays it was a live music venue, and tonight it happened to be hosting one Kid McMurphy and band.

“Hoping to ask you a few questions,” Behr said.

“What makes you think I’d help you?”

“I just think you’re a helpful guy,” Behr said evenly.

“You know, that dude was plenty pissed off about that thing,” Kid said a bit sulkily. Kid had introduced him to a source of information when they’d first met, and Behr had been none too gentle with the man.

“I’m guessing he got over it,” Behr said. He hadn’t come here to discuss past matters. “You don’t need him as a friend anyway-you’re better than that.”

This seemed to brighten Kid’s mood. “You think so?”

“Yeah. Come on, you’ve got talent and what does he got?” Behr had heard Kid on the radio, and the last few bars on the stage just now. He wasn’t bad.

“You know anything about your uncle cooling me? I can’t seem to get booth time with him,” Behr asked.

“Could be. I don’t know anything about it directly, but that’s ‘how he do,’ as the bros say. Either way, the minute I saw you here, I figured you must be fresh out of friends.”

The truth in the musician’s words landed on Behr like a cold, wet blanket. He thought of his usual sources and how little they’d yielded-and those were the ones he could find. The news about Pal was more troubling. The old man was secure enough to say “I don’t know” if it came to it, but he’d refused Behr an audience altogether. Bad sign.

“Maybe I could buy you a few of those whiskey and Cokes you love so much and we can have a talk?” Behr asked.

“I don’t think so …” Kid said, causing Behr to think he was on the verge of another strikeout. “Caught a wicked case of pancreatitis a little while ago. If I drink now, I die.”

“So you’re sober?” Behr asked. Kid’s pupils were the size of pinheads and he didn’t look fully zeroed.

“I still take pills.”

“Oh, good,” Behr said.

“But they don’t do shit without mixing ’em with booze.”

“I’m sure you’ll keep trying.”

“You got that right.”

They moved off to a corner of the bar, away from Kid’s band-mates and the tavern staff, and Behr broke down what was happening from the night of the shooting, his visit with Kolodnik, the lack of security footage, and Breslau telling him to leave it alone. Kid appeared to half listen, his head turned away, bobbing to some inner sound track, until Behr got to the part about the sex DVD he’d recovered, then Kid slowly turned and faced Behr and suddenly became all ears. When Behr mentioned the name Lenny Brennan Barnes, Kid came to life.

“That’s a name I’ve heard,” he said.

“You know him?”

“Nah. Never met him. Been at places he’s been at, but never met. Word is he’s one scurvy motherfucker.”

“He runs girls? What else?” Behr wondered. He noticed the Vollrath was filling up around them.

“Hmm,” Kid said, scratching his stubbly chin, “I don’t know about his business. But if I wanted to, I’d talk to this girl Sunshine Jane.”

“That her real name?” Behr asked, writing it down.

“No, Ann Marie something. Who cares? She goes by Sunny. Everyone knows her by that.”

“Okay. What’s her deal?”

“She’s this freaky-deaky massage girl. Smoking hot. Works on all the big business dudes and politicos in Indy.”

“Hooker?” Behr asked. “Rub and tug?”

“Not even,” Kid said. “She gives regular rubdowns, but she gets off. Grinds her snatch on the corner of the table while she works or something.”

“Classy,” Behr said.

“Whatever. She told me about it one night after a gig, but I was mad wasted, so my memory’s not too crisp … Those days are sure over, though, I’ll tell you,” Kid lamented of his liquor-soaked past.

“Where can I find this Sunny?” Behr asked.

“She’s got a Web presence. You could book an appointment. You look kind of tense.” Kid broke into a sniggering laugh at this, which Behr rode out. “But this time of year, long as it’s not raining, she’ll be at the Palms, no doubt.”

“You want to take me down for an intro?” Behr chanced. Kid winced like he’d stepped on a nail.

“No, dude, and in fact if I’m left completely out of this shit this time, it’d be much appreciated.”

Behr just nodded and felt his BlackBerry buzzing, as a guy who seemed like the club manager walked up and tapped Kid.

“Two minutes,” he said and moved on into what was building into a decent happy hour crowd.

“You gonna stay and take in the future of rock and roll?”

Behr shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” Then his BlackBerry beeped, announcing an incoming text message. It was from Susan and read: Where the heck R U? The Deckers have been here 4 half hour.

If Susan had mentioned the dinner to him, he’d forgotten it completely.

“Gonna have to be when you play Conseco, Kid. I’ve gotta be somewhere,” Behr said, sliding off his barstool.

“Your loss,” Kid said. Behr took a step for the door. “Hey, man,” Kid called out. “What was it like getting shot at?”

Behr looked at him for a moment. “You know how it is not drinking?” Kid nodded. “It’s even worse than that.”

Behr headed for the door.