The Kill Riff (15 page)

    That was Kirk Moore.

    At San Francisco International, he loitered around the ticketing lines until he zeroed in on an elderly gentleman, one Nathan Downey. He explained that in order to fly at the standby rate, he could take no check-in luggage, and since Mr. Downey was only checking a single bag, could he render one small favor? Mr. Downey looked at the man who had introduced himself as Philip T. Longley and, while they were standing in line, delivered a brief speech on how the airlines were still gouging people despite the drop-off in business caused by terrorism. He would be happy to help Mr. Longley out. To Nathan Downey, this trifling subterfuge held all the thrill of cheating the phone company, and he relished the opportunity. Lucas promised to spring for at least one cocktail on the flight to Denver.

    He had made sure to hit the counter up for standby rates in the middle of the week, so as not to get choked off by weekend commuters. Traffic was light, and his standby seat was ultimately secured. He and Nathan Downey toasted each other with overpriced airline liquor.

    Standby flying was a worthwhile gamble. It probably would have been just as safe to check in as a normal passenger under an assumed name. Airlines never requested ID if you slapped cash on the counter. But that way he could not divorce himself from the bag that had to be checked-the bag containing the huge Randall knife in its combat sheath.

    The temptation to employ ironic noms de guerre was amateurish. If any single thread of his trail attracted notice, then investigators would rapidly fix on joke names or names drawn, as Lucas had first considered, from the various record albums or performers themselves, such as "Bryan Harding" from Brion Hardin.

    Despite the eastward loss of an hour, the Delta Airlines 727 arrived early enough to give him most of the day in Denver. Lucas slept through most of the flight.

    He knew Denver was his next destination thanks to the latest issue of Creem magazine. Creem and others of its ilk were chock full of advertisements for current groups. If a group had a new album in the past two months or the coming two, inevitably there was a tour schedule included with the ad. Record companies were trying to make tours more "album supportive" these days. It had all become one grand, unending commercial-like the epic special-effects film that is nothing but a two-hour commercial for its own sequel. In turn, the videos made to boost album sales frequently included concert footage shot while on tour. Lucas thought of the snake swallowing its own tail. And in Creem he had unearthed an ad for Electroshock that included a tour roster. In the middle of the microscopic column of dates and venues, he had found the show slated for the Currigan Exhibition Hall complex in downtown Denver.

    The half-page ad showed two members of Electroshock engaged in a guitar duel onstage. Electroshock had begun existence as a hillbilly-rock band full of mountain men under the name Moonshine Express in 1977, just when punk was working up a full head of angry steam. Moonshine Express reorganized as the Badd Boyz and did an album's worth of what later came to be called "alternative country," more popularly known as "country punk" when the Vandals and the Beat Farmers came along later. Then bass player Roarin' John Masterson drove his Harley hog off a freeway overpass and met a
Toys 'R' Us
semi head on. Electroshock was born from the ashes a year later, with a decidedly heavier bent. Their promotional guys had crowed loudly about how an ex-member of the infamous Whip Hand had decided to link up. They were still an opening act, without their "breakthrough" song or album as yet, but they were respectable, reliable. Their following was strongest in the western deserts and the South.

    Brion Hardin was just barely visible in the Creem ad, fortressed behind his keyboards next to a big Peavey box. Grizzly-bear size, with a full beard. Much clearer views were available on both previous Electroshock albums, Force Me and The Crash of '86. He was the biggest guy in the band.

    Currigan Hall was a massive showroom suited to automobile exhibitions and Shriners' conventions; its concert arena was an adjunct that was more properly a part of the Denver Convention Complex. But the locals referred to the whole facility as "Currigan." So be it.

    After thanking Nathan Downey for his help, Lucas grabbed a taxi from Stapleton Airport to the "Denver downtown" branch of the Holiday Inn on Glenarm and Fifteenth Street. He checked in as David Klein and gave a home address in Fort Worth, Texas. He paid cash for two days. His seventh-floor room overlooked Glenarm. A few floors higher and he could have seen the arena building from the hotel; it was only three and a half blocks away. His room in Denver was nearly identical with his room in San Francisco.

    Electroshock was opening for Straight Razor, a speed metal riot that drew as many fans with spiked hair and marine corps buzzcuts as it did sullen teenagers in leather vests and studs. Both bands would most likely be holed up at the Denver Hilton, two blocks away from Lucas in the opposite direction. Or maybe the Executive Tower Inn. He was right in the middle of the hotel web.

    He broke open the small suitcase containing the Randall and pulled out a Panasonic radio/tape rig, tuning it to KOA-FM, a power pop station targeted at highschoolers and commuters. KBLO seemed too new wave for what Lucas needed. KPPL was a bit dirtier and more musically interesting than KOA's rigid commercial playlist format. Whenever songs were being broadcast, he tuned from KOA to KPPL and back. He was searching for commercials, not music, and he found plenty.

    He had listened to both Electroshock albums enough times for the likely airplay tunes to be obvious to him. If a station dropped its needle on an Electroshock tune, it would be as a lead-in to an announcement of the concert. He shopped and waited for the taped and live ads to start repeating, to form a pattern. Simultaneously, he sifted through the local Yellow Pages and telephoned alternative papers as a fail-safe. Within twenty minutes he had the sort of information he was looking for.

    Three members of Electroshock, not including Brion Hardin, were scheduled to do a half-hour live radio interview on KPPL that evening at 8:30 P.M. they would reprise the same gig on KOA-FM the next day, a few hours prior to concert time.

    It was nearly four o'clock. Finding KPPL was easy. Lucas unpacked a silver-gray business suit and let it smooth out, knocked off his shoes, and ordered a strip steak from room service. Its price was breathtaking.

    Downstairs, Fifteenth Street was littered with some of Denver's most colorful winos, panhandlers, and sundry dregs of humanity. Lucas finally found a liquor store that would sell him a case of Beck's dark, which he carted back to the Holiday Inn. Eight-thirty approached slowly.

    As soon as the KPPL deejay cut to his in-the-booth interview, with the Electroshock contingent snorting and sniggering in the background, ready for anything, Lucas knotted his maroon silk tie and slipped into his suit. With the case of Beck's perched on one shoulder, he hailed a cab for KPPL.

    He spotted them clogging the street corners and being hustled firmly out of the lobby. Groupies, fans, hangers-on. He passed the cabbie ten bucks over fare and told him to idle. Donning a pair of steel-rimmed glasses, he heaved the case of beer out of the taxi.

    The crowd was not as hairy to dance through as he had predicted. They parted at the sight of the suit, the intimations of authority. Next problem was the brigade of security guards in the floor lobby of the building housing KPPL. But the one manning the heavy glass doors admitted him, reacting automatically, his eye contact suggesting that he accepted Lucas as an adult and unconnected to the general rabble.

    The guard pushed the door shut, forcing the hydraulic closure to hiss at being rushed. The crowd jabber dropped in volume. The guard was young and did not quite fill out his gray uniform shirt, which was girded by a Sam Browne belt and festooned with patches, tags, and security passes in plastic. A matte-finish.357 Magnum hung heavy off his left hip. He was a day behind in shaving, and his complexion needed sunlight. He did not need more aggravation than he already had.

    "Oh, now, what the hell kinda crap is this?" He indicated the Beck's box.

    Lucas smiled. The brotherhood of the weary and put upon. "The rock stars in yonder booth have cried out for imported brew. Regardez- Any problem?''

    "Problem," the guard snorted. His embossed name strip read TRENCH. He sighed and waved his walkie-talkie toward a check-in table. Lucas set the case down. More guards braced the elevator doors. Behind the table was an older man who seemed amused by all this craziness.

    "Only problem I have," said Trench, "is that nobody bothered to tell me anything about this."

    "I hear you," Lucas said while the guy behind the table peeked into the box. His eyebrows went up. "They never bother to do anything except give us orders. I don't even think the KPPL guys know. Marc Tobler phoned in the order."

    "Who the hell is Marc Tobler?"

    "Bass player for Electroshock. He's up there now, doing the interview. Look, you can check out the box. It's only beer. I'll be in and out in five minutes. You can even pat me down if you want. No weapons and no autograph books."

    Trench snorted again, but this time it was like a laugh.
Fucking rock stars thought they could walk all over anybody, go over anybody's head…

    "Hey," Lucas said. "Escort me if you want. I know you've got better things to do with your time. Me too. You want me to sign something?"

    At last Trench was being consulted. He eased up. "Go ahead on," he said. "Fifth-floor suite. The booth is obvious. You can leave it with the girl at the desk. Houghton, let this gentleman go upstairs."

    KPPL's receptionist was a gum-popping, eraser-chomping university dropout with a green streak in her Ish Kabibble haircut. She had pimples around her mouth and perpetually stiff nipples that punctuated the front of her jersey.

    "Oh, jesus," she said when she saw the Beck's case. She rolled gray, vacuous eyes. "I dunno if you can take that into the booth, y'know what I'm saying? I mean, we got in trouble for the jocks smoking dope and drinking during the on-air stuff, y'know, like there's the FCC and stuff, and the jocks were sneaking in their friends who were high and they said 'shit' on the air and like we can't do that, and if my boss knew I let it pass without an okay I'd get reamed out, you know what I'm saying? If he says it's okay, then it's okay, but jesus, I wish to christ they'd check with us first, I mean, everything really got fucked up last month when Giant Human Sandwich was here, and the guys were cussing on the air and one guy farted into an open mike during a call-in, and I mean the shit really flew, right? And we're going out live right now, and I don't think I can, y'know, say yea or nay to-"

    Lucas held up both hands, as though pressing down a huge manhole cover to choke off the torrent of babble. "Look, honey, it's no problem. I understand."

    She finally shut up. Understanding was hard enough to come by.

    "Just tell me where to deliver it. That way we keep the demon alcohol out of their hands while they're on the air, and they get it later, so nobody gets cheated… and my arm's about to give out from lugging this thing all over the building."

    "Huh?" She actually looked at his arm. "Oh… right. Take it down to the Denver Hilton. Straight Razor and Electroshock have got most of the tenth floor, but don't tell nobody I told you." Then she grinned, a gamine, empty headed smile. "A case ain't gonna be enough. They put it away like-"

    "Like a trout puts down eggs," said Lucas.

    "What? Oh, yeah-like a fish."

    When the burnished aluminum elevator doors parted to admit Lucas back to the lobby, case in hand, he immediately sought out Trench.

    "Say, Trench. Do you have someplace to stash this?"

    Trench turned his attention from the milling fans outside. Some fair-looking young heartbreakers were pressing up against the glass. "You mean hold it for the baijd?" Hostility lurked in his voice.

    "No, I mean hold it for yourself and your buddies here."

    Guard conversation in the foyer stopped, and all eyes fell to the Beck's case. It was the correct answer.

    "To hell with those bozos in the band. All they have to do is snap their fingers, and alcohol condenses from the very air. You guys look like you could use some refreshment."

    "Jesus… uh, thanks, I mean."

    "No prob," said Lucas, tipping an imaginary topper. "You boys take it real slow, now. Enjoy."

    Trench returned a mock salute as Lucas made his way back out to the waiting cab.

    
What a decent dude,
he thought.
Should be more like him
.

    

    

    Lucas had known the utter futility of phoning up hotels and asking outright for Electroshock's room numbers. Trying to penetrate the tenth floor of the Denver Hilton would require James Bond. Neither Straight Razor nor Electroshock would even exist, according to any registration desk in town. It was another groupie/fan deterrent mechanism. The exits, the elevators, ali access to the tenth floor would be strictly monitored and regulated.

    What was required was an audacious ploy. Out-grandstand the grandstanders. Shoes off, Lucas sat on his Holiday Inn bed and phoned the Denver Hilton. When the switchboard operator at the desk answered, he requested a random tenth-floor room number.

    There was an official hesitation. "Who is calling, please?" There would be a screening list to consult.

    Lucas made sure the man heard him sigh. "Mark Fawcett of Wolf and Rissmiller, okay? And I'm in a hurry, pal-we got a concert to put on, and I don't like having my time wasted."

    "Oh. Oh. Just a moment, please." Lucas was put on hold. He knew that the operator would be scanning the list. There would be no Mark Fawcett. But there would be Wolf and Rissmiller-the firm that had booked the show. The deskman would assume, like Trench, like the KPPL receptionist, that no one had bothered to tell him. He would check the expressions of his fellow workers on the desk, making sure no one had noticed his little faux pas. Wolf and Rissmiller, of course. The firm was familiar to Lucas from his PR experience.