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.”