A Stranger Lies There (21 page)

Nudging my way between two customers, I went up to the near bar and flagged down the bartender. A big guy with an apron and greasy, thinning hair.

“Is the band around?” I inquired.

He glanced toward the stage and shook his head. “You just missed 'em. They just finished soundcheck. Need a drink?”

“Ahh … no thanks.”

“By the way, you'll need a handstamp if you wanna stick around for the concert. Eight bucks.”

“I'll come back,” I said over my shoulder on my way out to hunt down some food, but then heard the barkeep say, “Oh, wait a sec, here's one of 'em now.”

When I turned around the guy was coming from the area behind the stage. One of the musicians pictured on the Web site. He wore boots over black stretch pants, a fringed black leather jacket and a psychedelic tie-dyed T-shirt. Short hair, gelled over his forehead and dyed a bright yellow. He took a seat at the end of the bar, asked for a mineral water. The bartender put a sweating bottle of Evian in front of him and pulled off the top. I told the bartender I'd pick it up.

“No need,” the musician answered. “I'm comped tonight. But thanks anyway.” He took a long swallow.

I grabbed a stool next to him as the bartender moved off. “I came out from California to see you guys tonight.”

He raised his eyebrows. “No shit?”

“It's not what you think,” I explained. “I've actually never heard your music.” That admission didn't seem to surprise him, given my age. “But I was really hoping to talk with you. I need some help.”

Another swig of the Evian. “Help? How do you even know me?”

“I don't, obviously. But somebody you may have known ended up dead on my front lawn a few days ago.”

He'd just taken a drink, and the news provoked a fit of choking. Water sprayed out of his mouth. Staggering off his barstool, he continued coughing, leaning over with the spasms.

“Jesus Christ!” he croaked when he was done choking. Red-faced, he sat back down, breathing deeply as he recovered. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Sorry. I shouldn't have just blurted it out like that.”

“That'd be a good assumption. Now who are we talking about?”

“I'm not sure. That's what I came here to find out.”

“I'd like to help you, but I think you got the wrong person. I don't know anybody who died recently. Especially out in California.” He drained the last of the mineral water as the bartender addressed him from near the taps.

“You okay, man?”

“Yeah, I'll live,” he replied, raising his voice along with the empty bottle. “But can I get another one of these?”

The bartender came over, whisked the empty container away and placed a new one on the bar. “Everything cool?” he asked, eyeing me.

“Yeah, no problem,” the musician answered. “Thanks.”

The bartender tossed the empty below the counter, slowly wiped his hands on his apron and gave me a long, deliberate look before leaving.

When he left, I went on. “The victim had a Gravity Throttle T-shirt on. Young white guy, early twenties maybe, with longish brown hair.” No response. “Sound like anyone you know?”

“Sure. A few people. But they're all alive and well. Some of them may even show up here tonight.”

I looked down to the other end of the bar and saw the bartender on the phone. He turned away when I caught his eye. “I heard you guys were talking with someone about managing the band.”

A pregnant pause, his eyes on me, the bottle frozen at his lips. “Who told you that?”

“The clerk at the record store on MacDougal, right around the corner. It wasn't a secret was it?”

“Not really.” He gulped the water, then slowly shook his head. “It's just kind of freaky when someone you've never seen before appears out of nowhere and tells you one of your friends may be dead. And knows things about you. See what I mean?”

“I really don't know anything. I'm just trying to find out who that kid was.”

“Why's it so important to you?”

“Because the killer didn't stop with him.” I hesitated, wondering if I should say it. “My wife was next.”

“You're telling me your wife was murdered?”

My eyes must have answered yes.

“Geez, I'm sorry,” he continued, and seemed to mean it. He thought for a moment before admitting, “Yeah, there was somebody that approached us a few weeks ago about taking us on.” More thinking. “We'd noticed him a few times at previous shows, back before Rob joined. The new singer. Young guy, like you said. Usually had a friend with him.”

“He did?”

“Seemed like it.”

“What did the friend look like?”

“Oh, gosh, I don't know. Generic rocker I guess. Not that different from his buddy. Little rougher around the edges, though.”

“What do you mean?”

The musician paused. Scratched his cheek. “I spent a few years in a group home when I was young. This dude came off like he did too. Maybe some time in juvie too.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I don't. Not for sure. But you can kind of recognize the type.” He shrugged. “Birds of a feather, I guess.”

“Okay,” I said. “Go on.”

“Anyway. At our last gig—”

“I thought tonight was going to be your first as Spine.”

“We opened for another band a few weeks ago. Unannounced. The guy you're asking about was there and he loved Rob's voice, so he came backstage after our set. We got the impression he was trying to break into the business. You know, get his feet wet with us. Guess he saw some potential.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Just talked with him that one time. Told him we'd think about it.” A shrug. “Haven't seen either of them since.”

“That was it?”

He nodded, sipping from the bottle.

“What were their names?”

“I don't remember.”

“Damn.” Another brick wall.

“Look, I'm sorry. We shake a lot of hands, meet a lot of people after a show. I wish I did remember. But it wasn't a very serious discussion at that point because we had other things on our mind. Like breaking in Rob, coming up with some new material.”

“Think your bandmates would remember?”

“Beats me.”

A tiny glimmer of hope. “Could I talk to them?”

“They left to get something to eat.” He glanced at his watch, then at me. “Get ahold of us after the show. Backstage.” Then, before I could ask: “
After
the show. I don't want all of us freaked out about this while we're trying to play.”

“Sure, no problem.” I'd force myself to wait until then even though a voice inside was screaming for information now. I didn't want to risk going away with nothing by being overbearing. Hopefully, the show would go well and they'd all be in a talkative mood. I got up to leave, then realized I was forgetting something. “How's the old singer? Still strung out?”

“Man…,” he said, shaking his head. “What else do you know about us?”

“Nothing. Other than what's on your old Web site.”

“Yeah, we gotta update that. But to answer your question, he made it through rehab and moved back with his parents in Jersey. I just talked to him so he's not the one who was killed.”

I asked the next question as delicately as I could. “You think he was mixed up in anything shady? While he was using?”

“Like dealing?”

I shrugged.

“Nothing that would get anybody killed. Far as I know.”

“Okay.” I hesitated. “So we'll talk later.”

“Just come on back.” He pointed to the dark corridor beside the main stage.

“Appreciate your help,” I said, shaking his hand. “Brad?”

He seemed surprised that I knew his name, then smiled. “The Web site?”

“You got it. See you in a few. I'll be here for the show.”

“We go on at ten.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

On the way out, I handed eight bucks to a girl sitting behind a small desk they'd set up in the foyer. She put the money in a heavy antique cash register and gave me a ticket instead of the handstamp. Outside, full darkness had fallen and the area was busy with pedestrians and shoppers. My watch said it was close to eight.

Dinner was pizza and a Coke a few doors down. Afterwards, with over an hour until the concert at ten, I took a walk, hoping to be able to shut down for a while. I passed several small live theaters, an organic food market, and an erotic boutique trumpeting what it called “Weightless Sex!” which, from what I could gather, involved the use of bungee cords. I hurried by. On Sullivan Street, a small, crowded coffee house had patrons spilling out onto the sidewalk. A singer with just a guitar and a microphone was performing inside. I stopped and listened to a few songs. His voice reminded me of Jackson Browne. Next door, in front of a used bookstore, a hand-lettered sign announced a poetry reading later that night.

I'd read in front of a few people once, back in college. Drunk and high, I vomited on the stage halfway through. I thought about the sit-ins and the campus gatherings and the student strikes I'd half-heartedly supported. Scenes of Vietnam War protests, some from vividly remembered TV newscasts and others I'd participated in myself, resurfaced in my mind. If I'd had the strength to put all that behind me … but I couldn't outrun what had happened. Then or now.

I headed up toward Washington Square, where cholera victims were once buried centuries ago, back when it was just a swamp. The furtive movements of what could only be dealers shadowed me as I entered the grounds. The park's stone chess tables in the southwest corner were unoccupied. In the distance, at the park's north entrance, the great marble Washington Arch stood richly illuminated, grand and heraldic as the nighttime trade picked up. I took a seat on one of the benches, knowing it wasn't a smart thing to do with the company I had. But I couldn't bring myself to care, almost hoping someone would give me a problem. There were still a lot of people, mostly young, many of them probably NYU students from right next door, cutting through the park on their way to the evening's diversions. I thought I saw several transactions take place. A few minutes later, a young guy with tattoos on his arms, wearing a headband to secure his long hair, approached slowly, not speaking but catching my eye as he walked by.

I held his gaze a moment, then shook my head. “Tell your friends I'm not interested too.”

He put his hands up in an “Excuse me” gesture and sauntered off.

“Wait a second,” I called out after him, unsure of how it worked and even less sure of how to broach the real subject.

All afternoon I'd been going on instinct, taking opportunities as they came with little thought or planning. But this would require the exact right playbook if I expected to get anywhere. In the few seconds it took him to come back, I changed my mind about trying to buy anything other than information. A drug purchase would only have been to loosen him up, not me. I was tightly coiled, ready for action, and wanted to stay that way.

“Make up your mind, bro,” he said.

“I don't want any product,” I told him, pulling a ten from my pocket, “just information.”

“You a cop?” he asked, looking around nervously.

“Relax.” I stuffed the ten between two slats on the bench beside me. “This'll be the easiest ten bucks you ever made.”

He didn't look convinced but sat down anyway, eyeing the bill. I covered it with my hand. “So whattya want?” he said. “And make it quick.” There were slashes all up and down his pant legs, and a large hole left his right knee exposed.

“Heard about anybody turning up missing lately?” I wasn't sure how to phrase it. “Associates? Friends of friends? Enemies?”

“You mean business-related?”

I nodded.

He looked at me like there was a catch. “That's it? That's all you wanna know?”

“A name if the answer's yes.”

“What about the dime?”

“Try me.” I lifted my hand, leaving the bill exposed.

He looked down at it, then back up at me. “Nope. Haven't heard anything like that.”

He reached for the money and I put my hand on top of his, holding it there. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I got no reason to lie.” I took my hand away as he stood.

“How about asking a few people?” I inquired. “So I can get my money's worth.” A dubious look. “Just your coworkers in the park tonight.”

“I got a business to run, man. What's in it for me?”

“Twenty. If you come up with a name.”

“I could just make one up. How would you know?”

Fuck it, I thought. This was going nowhere. “Give me a bogus name and I'll come back here tomorrow and kick your ass.”

That pissed him off. He planted his right foot and stiffened. Nodded tensely as he surveyed the area. I concentrated on staying relaxed, at least coming off that way. Hands in my lap and one foot crossed over my knee. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a switchblade, which he didn't bother to open. Just tossed it up and down in his left hand. “Even with my friend here?”

“I got friends of my own, bud.” Out-machoing him.

He stopped with the knife and pocketed it. “Yeah? Well fuck you and fuck your friends. I don't need this shit.” He took off angrily, but turned back after a few paces. “Twenty?”

“That's right.”

“Wait there.” He circulated a bit. Joined a small group of people near the arch, which looked down impassively at the sordid activity taking place below it. I saw something change hands, then two of them left the park. The other two separated, one of them the person I'd just spoken to. They hung around at opposite ends of the northern perimeter, occasionally approaching people to do business. After twenty minutes he still hadn't returned. I figured I'd been blown off or there was no name to answer my question, neither of which surprised me. The whole encounter had been spur-of-the-moment, unlikely to yield anything useful. I gave it a few more minutes, but nothing happened, so I left.