Send Out The Clowns (Frank River Series) (6 page)

Chapter
6

Frank found a parking place on Bagby, less than two blocks
from the Ha Ha House. Bagby was a cross street with West Gray. He took his time
walking to the club, assessing the neighborhood. Many of the businesses were
housed in old residences and carried a resemblance to brownstones in New York
City. One block was occupied by a delicatessen that announced its success with
a lack of available parking both in front and along the side. It had the aura
of an old neighborhood left behind by urban expansion. He realized he was only
a few blocks from Montrose, in the area where he had interviewed Anthony Oliver
during the Ingersoll case.

As he turned the corner to enter the front of the Ha Ha
House, he bumped into a man in a wheelchair and nearly fell in the man's lap.

"I'm so sorry," Frank apologized. "I need to
watch where I'm going."

"No harm done, young man."

The man in the chair was dressed in an expensive suit, and
had shocking long white hair, combed in an elegant style—no part, swept back
and blocked. The man looked familiar, but Frank couldn't place it. A
once-robust face, sagging with age. Frank decided that exercise and cosmetics
were losing the battle with Father Time. Wrinkles, bags under wide brown eyes,
and heavy jowls gave the appearance of cookie dough that had been slapped
against the wall.

Behind the chair, leaning on the handles, ready to push on,
was a tall man with close-set green eyes and salt and pepper hair drawn into a
ponytail. He wore a plain gray suit with a red tie that was meant to downplay
the massive shoulders of one familiar with working out at the gym. Both men
gave Frank more study than was normal under such circumstances. The man in the
chair then broke out into a broad smile, nodded and offered, "Good
day." The disguised gorilla pushed the chair around the corner and out of
sight.

Frank pondered the odd encounter for a moment, shrugged and
pushed into the heavy glass door of the Ha Ha House. Bright lights met him. He
glanced at his watch -

5:30; not yet ready for prime time. On either side of the
entrance were posters similar to the one he'd seen in Nguyen's apartment: two
men and two women. Below each poster was the time of their nightly appearance.
Frank did a quick assessment and decided each act ran thirty minutes. Allowing
time for breaks, the headliner came on at 11:00, and after that was an
innocuous ad for '"Dips and Dolts— first time tyros bidding for
recognition."

Frank stood on a floor that surrounded a pit, like one meant
for an orchestra in front of a stage, except this pit was much larger and was
filled with various forms of seating and imbibing. A padded bench swept around
the back of the pit with a counter in front, and two aisles for access to the
pit's floor. Here were tables and chairs spread around designed to be united or
separated to occupy various numbers of people — two, four, six, eight and so
on. He recognized the arrangement from Nguyen's demo video.

The upper floor where Frank stood was wide enough in the
middle for additional tables if they were needed for a large crowd. At the
moment, it was bare and tapered both to the right and the left. Two closed
doors were at both ends. In each case, one door had a smiling drama mask, one
with long hair and the other with a crew cut - obviously restrooms. Beside each
restroom door, was another with "PRIVATE" on a brass plaque. At the
widest part of the floor was a well stocked bar. On either side of the bar, platforms
were suspended from the ceiling to provide for spotlights, cameras, or whatever
might be needed to enhance or film the workers on the stage. The only people
apparently in the place besides Frank, were two women working behind the bar.
One, a blonde, was washing and stacking glasses, the other, current hair color
unknown, was bent over deep into a stainless steel beer case loading it with
brown bottles. Frank headed for the bar.

"We really aren't open yet," the blonde smiled.
"But for you, good looking, I'll let you sit on a stool and wait."

"How long of a wait?" Frank asked. The blonde
checked her watch. "We open at six, but nothing starts happening until
seven or seven thirty."

"I need to ask a couple of questions," Frank
replied as pulled one of Nguyen's photos from his pocket and held it out to the
barmaid. "Do you recognize this man?"

The blonde's face turned sad. Not the bereft sad, Frank
realized, that she would have used had she known that Nguyen was dead, more of
a happy sad used by people who knew a friend had left them and would not be
coming back.

"Oh, yes. Monkey. I miss him already."

The second bartender straightened from the cooler. She was
taller than Frank had guessed. Her expression told him she'd made him for a
cop, but probably thought, because of her guilty look and the way she fussed
with her long, unfurled, auburn hair, that he was a health inspector.

"Monkey?" Frank asked.

"Yeah, sort of a stage name he used. He was a headliner
here until Wednesday night."

"Was a headliner? What happened?"

The redhead had turned to check the bottles on the shelf
surrounding a huge mirror. She wanted to know what was going on, but didn't
want to join the conversation.

"Monkey hit the big time," the blonde answered.
"We're all happy for him. He signed a contract for one of the big rooms in
Vegas. The rat."

"If you're so happy for him, why call him a rat?"

"Well, I'm teasing, but he's on my "dis list"
after Thursday. Mr. Rankin, the owner of the club... Reuben Rankin?" The
way she uttered the name and watched him for his reaction, told Frank he was
expected to know the man. He made a mental note to research the Houston
Chronicle archives. When he offered no comment, the blonde continued.
"Anyway, Mr. Rankin made the place open for Monkey all day Thursday. Sort
of a going away party, you know. We decorated, bought a cake and waited for
hours. He never showed."

"This Mr. Rankin, was he here the entire time
Thursday?"

"Yeah, from just after noon, until we closed at one
a.m." She squinted at Frank. "You ask questions like a cop. What's
going on?"

"He is a cop," the redhead agreed without turning
from the mirror. "Might as well have it stamped on his forehead."

Frank held out his badge, watching the blonde as she read
his ID. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Homicide? My God." Frank snapped
his eyes to the mirror to watch the redhead react. Her expression left no doubt
in his mind that neither woman had known Nguyen was dead.

"I'm afraid you'll have to take Monkey off your shit
list. We found him murdered early Friday morning."

Frank had seen delayed reactions before, where people almost
fainted after the news sank in. The blonde had to grab on to the bar to keep
her balance. Her head sagged under her shoulders. The redhead turned and
slumped against the bottle shelves. She was the tougher of the two, but
couldn't hide her shock at hearing of Nguyen's dying.

"I'm sorry," Frank offered. "I've distressed
you both. Let's sit somewhere. You might know things that will help me catch
Mr. Nguyen's killer."

The redhead nodded. The blonde didn't move until her
co-worker took hold of her and guided her to the booth on the aisle nearest the
door. The women slid in on the bench and Frank followed. The redhead was
between him and the blonde. He didn't like the arrangement but decided not to argue
the point.

"I didn't catch your name," the redhead commented.

"Detective Rivers. Frank Rivers."

"I'm Gretchen Sullivan, but everyone here calls me 'The
Grinch.'"

"Who would want to kill Monkey?" the blonde asked
as she held her hands to her face.

"She's Marsha," Gretchen explained, "Marsha
Meyers."

"What's she called here?" Frank asked

Gretchen almost smiled. "Just 'Mars'. You know, like
the planet. You're pretty sharp, Detective."

"I'd guess the others who work here think you're too
tough on Marsha."

Gretchen nodded. "Something like that. Everyone here
thinks he's a comedian."

"Monkey was," Marsha pronounced.

"I'll give her that. He was funnier offstage than
on."

"Is that why he got the deal in Las Vegas?" Frank
asked.

"Probably. You have to be good to move up in this game,
but funny ain't enough. Reuben pulled the strings."

"That would be the owner, Reuben Rankin," Frank
stated.

"He's such a sweet man," Marsha said

"You can see there are reasons people call her 'Mars.'
It's like she’s from outer space. Not the type you’d expect working in a joint
like this.”

Marsha uncovered her face for the first time since she had
heard the news about Nguyen and yelled, "This is not a joint,
Grinch." Frank saw a distraught face streaked with makeup and tears.
"This is a nice place and Reuben makes sure of it."

Frank looked at Gretchen. "Is Reuben around?" He
glanced toward the nearest door marked Private.

Gretchen shook her head. Marsha had found a tissue and was
dabbing at her mascara-streaked eyes. "He just left," she mumbled.
She slapped at her nose with the tissue and sighed. Finally she looked at
Frank. "You should have run into him. The door had barely closed behind
him when you came in."

She was still assertive from finding the spunk to yell at
Gretchen. Frank didn't mention how factual her comment was about running into
Reuben.

"He was the man in the wheelchair?"

"Yeah."

"And who was the Sumo wrestler with him?"

Marsha looked quizzical. "That was Gus," Gretchen
stated. "He's never more than a heartbeat away from his boss, ever."

"Gus? And what do they call him around here?"

"I've never heard anything except Gus. Have you,
Marsha?" Marsha shook her head. "They met when Reuben was at his
prime in Las Vegas," Gretchen continued.

"Rankin is a comic?"

"Was. He had an accident on stage and lost the use of
his legs," Gretchen explained. "Hey, Detective, it's been awhile. Do
you mind if I smoke?" Frank shook his head. "Good. You'll have to let
me out. My cigarettes are behind the bar."

While Gretchen was gone, Frank focused on Marsha. "Your
friend doesn't seem to like your boss."

"She doesn't like anybody. Reuben is the sweetest
person. He owns this club and The Wit's End over on Westheimer, and I don't
know how many others. He devotes his life to helping young comics make it in
the business. You know he was famous... is famous. They've even named a street
after him here in Houston."

"Yeah, he's a sweetheart." Gretchen was back.
"Ask any performer. He pays peanuts and hooks anyone who dies on stage
without so much as a 'thank you man,' Not only that, if one of his stable
leaves for a better gig, Rankin forces them to pay him a percentage."

Marsha was winding up for another attack, but Frank cut her
off.

"You commented that he hooks anyone who dies on
stage?"

"Yeah, you know, like in old vaudeville. We don't use a
real hook anymore, but the expression is common. 'Get the Hook.' The audience
yells it, and Rankin turns off the stage lights. That's the end of that
act."

"Did Rankin ever hook Nguyen?"

"Are you kidding? Nguyen was his protégé. Reuben would
have killed to protect that boy."

Before Frank could ask another question, the front door
opened with a bang that startled all three of them. When Frank looked toward
the door, he couldn't tell if it was open or not. A man filled the entire
frame.

"That's my man," Gretchen smiled. "Old Sammy
the Stick - my husband, and the club's bouncer. It must be after six
o'clock."

Sammy the Stick glowered at Frank, and stalked all the way
to the men's room without a word.

Once he was out of sight, Frank turned to Gretchen.
"Why The Stick?'"

"You've heard the expression, dumb as a stick? Well
Sammy's the stick. Get it?"

Frank didn't respond to the question. "How many
bouncers do you have?"

"Only Sammy. If he can't handle the problem, it's time
to

call the National Guard."

"Do you have a list of the people who work here?"
"Sure," Gretchen answered. "I'll get one." She followed

Sammy's route to the door marked PRIVATE.

Frank turned to Marsha. "Will your boss be back
tonight?"

"He went to eat. He visits all of his clubs every
night. He generally gets here around eleven."

When Gretchen came back and handed him the list of
employees, Frank folded it and put it in his pocket. He smiled at Marsha and
Gretchen, and handed them each a business card.

"Do you think any of the other comics here resented
Nguyen enough to want him dead?"

"Oh, no," Marsha replied.

"No way," echoed Gretchen.

Frank smiled. "Thank you, ladies. I'll be back. In the
meantime, if you recall anything that might help, give me a call."

Frank stopped on his way out of the club to compare the
employee after hours list with the posters by the door, and then, with a mock
salute to Marsha and Gretchen, he pushed out into the bright evening sun. He
sat in the squad car for a few minutes entering notes about the interview. When
he satisfied himself that he had the important aspects recorded, he flipped
open his cell phone and called Gerry. She answered on the first ring.

"Hey, Frank. What's goin' en?"

"Got some good stuff at the Ha Ha House, how about
you?"

"I talked to the family. They were horrified at the
news. I met Mamma, Daddy, and more brothers, sisters, and cousins than dirt. If
what I've been told is true, Nguyen will be the next nominee for sainthood. I
did find out that he lied to us, though. On that demo tape, he claimed to have
just come to the U.S. from Nam, and used an accent. He was born right here in
Houston. So were his mother and father. They talk better English than I do. It
was Grandfather that came off the boat more than fifty years ago. That was
before we got mixed up in that mess."

"Theatrical license."

"Yeah, there's that. Where you headed now?"

"Turns out the same guy owns both The Wit's End and the
Ha Ha House. "I thought I might swing by Westheimer before I call it a
day."

"I'm on the Southwest Freeway near Bellaire. Why don't
I meet you there? We can arm wrestle for a beer."

"Good idea. See you there."

The address for The Wit's End was between Shepherd Drive and
Montrose. Frank knew he would beat Gerry there by a good fifteen minutes. He
didn't want to park two HPD cruisers in front of the business, and he didn't
want to arrive like Marines on a beachhead. He drove past the club and found
parking on Hawthorne, a block south. He called Gerry and gave her his location.
He tried to reach Pauley at the store, but she'd gone out for something to eat.
He didn't leave a message. He stared at the windshield of the squad car and
tried to organize what he knew.

The victim was a rising star of comedy, a solid citizen, unless
there was something in his private life they hadn't uncovered yet. Reuben
Rankin fit his profile for a serial killer, except he was an invalid and didn't
appear to have a motive. Both Rankin's bodyguard and Gretchen Sullivan's
husband, Sammy the Stick, had the body strength to hang a man on a meat hook,
but neither had a motive or the mental skills to use an exotic poison or
sanitize a crime scene. He doubted that Marsha could bring herself to step on a
bug, and Gretchen, although she had the personality to whack someone, didn't
seem motivated or inclined to go to such lengths. Rankin was the only viable
suspect.

Why the elaborate scheme? What did the bag of cocaine mean?
And, why wrap rocks up like candy? Red herrings most likely, but he would check
that out. He also needed to talk to all the employees who had contact with
Nguyen. Sunday wouldn't be a good day, and by Monday morning he should have
results from the lab on the crime scene and Nguyen's apartment. One break he
hadn't counted on was that the press hadn't latched on to the story. That
couldn't last, but it had been fortuitous so far. No one he'd talked to seemed
to know Nguyen was dead. Only the killer knew, and that probably bothered him
or her. The whole operation looked like an attempt to grab headlines and
chuckle as the cops struggled to find clues. Hopefully, the unidentified
subject would get anxious and make a mistake.

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.

"I think I'll mingle around and see if I can learn
anything," Frank stated. Gerry nodded.

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.