Steel Guitar

by Linda Barnes

  “Did the two of you have a thing going? You and Brenda?” Mooney asked.

  Dee didn’t approve of his question. I did. Mooney was treating her like a suspect, not worshiping at her feet like one of her adoring fans.

  “Does that matter?” she snapped. “I didn’t kill her. And no, we did not have a ‘thing’ going.”

  I sipped at my coffee and said, “The way I read it, Brenda helped Ray out with the blackmail, only she didn’t know it.”

  “How?” Mooney said.

  I asked Dee, “Do you remember when Brenda started going with Ray?”

  “It was one quick pick-up, let me tell you. Guy made the play for her, sent her flowers, said he’d loved listening to her with Silverhawk, her last group. Brenda—well, she was flattered. Who the hell wouldn’t be? The guys in the band all have young chickies who wait at the hotels, hoping some guy who can play a C chord will give them a toss. It’s a little different for women on the road. Some women, anyway. Brenda didn’t have a guy in every port. She’s getting—she was getting older. A young lover’s not bad for the road.”

  Mooney raised an eyebrow.

  I said, “Stuart Lockwood claims he turned Ray—that’s Ray pretending to be Davey—down the first time he came to the office because Ray hadn’t brought any proof. So Ray goes to work. First he steals old pictures of Dee from Davey. But that’s not enough, so he makes a play for Brenda. Once she’s hooked, he hands her a line: I’m such a fan, maybe you could give me your sheet music to copy? Or maybe he asked her to get him the originals. It would be easy to come up with a story: I’m broke, and some collector will pay big bucks for the original transcription. Maybe he just stole her sheet music and to hell with finesse. He didn’t know music; he never figured Brenda would just have the bass line.”

  “Wait up,” Mooney said. “Why didn’t he steal the music from Davey? If he could rip off all this other stuff? Why’d he need Brenda at all?”

  Dee signaled the waitress for a second drink and said, “I can tell you that: Davey wouldn’t have music. He couldn’t read music. He could play like an angel, back you on any song in any key—but he never learned to read.”

  Mooney sighed. “Three hundred thousand dollars. People have done stranger things to get it.”

  “If he’d asked for a thousand, forged Davey’s name to a note, I’d have paid, no questions asked,” Dee said.

  “See, Mooney,” I said. “That’s the whole thing. Ray went for too much. Davey—Davey’s sickness—must have talked the money angle way up. He’s in and out. Sometimes he makes sense; sometimes he doesn’t. Maybe he really believes, sometimes, that he wrote part of ‘For Tonight,’ or maybe he believes Dee owes him the royalties for that song because she wrote it about Lorraine, and he kept quiet about Lorraine. And Ray listens to him babble and figures Dee for the perfect golden goose. Brenda must have realized something was going on. Maybe Ray was too insistent about the music, maybe she noticed how jumpy Dee was getting.”

  “So she asked the boyfriend what it was really all about,” Mooney said.

  “She could have suspected the sudden come-on. She asked a question too many, that’s for sure. Maybe she threatened to tell Dee she’d given Ray some music. That alone would have started Dee thinking, maybe ruined the whole plan. If Dee even suspected it wasn’t really Davey demanding the money, no way she’d pay, right? I mean, Ray can’t exactly stand up in court and give evidence about Lorraine’s death, no matter what he might have overheard at the hospital. It’s not only hearsay, it’s hearsay from Davey, and a dozen doctors will testify that Davey is out of it most of the time, with AIDS-related dementia, or drug-induced hallucinations. Ray had to go through a lawyer, through some kind of go-between. Hell, have you seen him? He looks like he was in diapers when Dee wrote ‘For Tonight.’”

  “I’ve seen his mug shot,” Mooney said.

  “Not a citizen?” I asked.

  “Amazing he had gainful employment. Must have lied on his application, unless the hospital’s big on taking Deer Island alumni. Saint John’s is probably missing half its equipment.”

  I said, “He ever work in a hotel?”

  “I can run a check,” Mooney said. “He could have killed Brenda in her own room and moved her to Dee’s with a maid’s cart. Remade the bed in Brenda’s room with linen off the cart and stuffed the dirty sheets into a laundry bag. He was an orderly, right? So even if he didn’t do hotel stuff, he’d be able to make a bed.”

  I said, “Remember the two circles on the magazine cover, two drinks, but just one glass? I think he got Brenda started in her own room, maybe fed her most of the booze and pills there, made the mess there, cleaned up there, like you said. Brenda was probably pretty pissed off at Dee; Dee had yelled at her during rehearsal. So Ray says something like, let’s go see the bitch, and half carries Brenda down the hall. Who’s gonna see them in the middle of the night? And if somebody sees them, he can change his plans. Maybe he knew Dee was out; maybe he figured he’d leave Brenda’s body in the living room if Dee was asleep in the bedroom. We can assume he got a key from a desk clerk; it wouldn’t have been hard. Dee’s not in, so he says to Brenda, let’s do it in her bed, show the bitch what we think of her. And he keeps feeding Brenda pills, giving her booze, till she passes out.”

  “I’ll buy it,” Mooney said. “And he’d have the syringe for the finishing touch. Two birds, one stone. Get Brenda out of the way. Scare Dee.”

  Dee’s second drink arrived. She moistened her lips, said, mainly to me, “Then you don’t think Ray snatched Lorraine’s suicide note when he was stealing Davey’s stuff?”

  I said, “Come on, Dee. If he had it, if it reads as ugly as you say it does, he’d have made a direct approach, tried to sell it to you. Davey probably destroyed it years ago. He loved you, Dee. Lorraine loved you. Hell, we all loved you. Cal, the whole damn group, I suppose. Isn’t that what you want? For everybody to freaking love you?”

  I kept my voice low. Both Mooney and Dee pretended they hadn’t heard my outburst.

  A young man wearing a suit, a tie, and an overeager grin approached our table. “Excuse me,” he said, “but aren’t you Dee Willis?”

  “I’m going up to the room,” she said abruptly, finishing her drink in a single gulp. “No, mister, I’m not. You made a mistake.”

  Thirty-Seven

  I glanced up and saw Roz waving at me from an alcove behind a palm. I almost choked on my coffee.

  “Can you wait a minute, Mooney?” I said calmly, glad he was carefully eyeing Dee’s departure, making sure she headed straight for the elevators. “I need to hit the bathroom.”

  “I’ll dial upstairs,” he said. “Meet you back here.”

  A waitress pointed me in the direction of a small hallway. The ladies’ room had three stalls, three complete bathrooms, really, each with its own sink, so you wouldn’t have to wash up in semipublic view. Roz joined me while I was drying my hands on an individually rolled towel I’d taken from a decorative basket. No brown paper towels from a dispenser here.

  For her role as undercover groupie, Roz had dyed her hair the color of red licorice, then cornrowed a small section near her right temple. The corresponding section at the left temple, crimped and puffed, looked like some exotic foodstuff, not hair. Starting from the bottom she wore black boots, ultra-tight shiny black stirrup pants, and one of her most prized T-shirts, a souvenir of a trip to New Orleans. Purple, with a row of oysters across her more than ample breasts. Beneath them, three lines of print said it all:

  “Shuck me, suck me, eat me raw.”

  Just the tone the manager sought to cultivate in her hotel. I could imagine her urgent memo to her supervisor: No more rock groups. No more blues groups. No more music groups. Perhaps a dispensation could be considered for the Vienna Boys Choir.

  “Subtle,” I said to Roz, as we exchanged glances in the mirror.

  “I didn’t know groupies went for subtle,” she said while applying lipstick to a mouth that could hardl
y have been redder. “And I haven’t even met a guy I’d like to shake hands with, anyway. The drummer’s strictly off-limits, according to Mimi. The keyboard man’s so drugged out he hasn’t gotten it up in years, also according to Mimi. The lead guitar’s a hunk-and-a-half, but he’s so stuck on himself he probably does it with mirrors.”

  “Cut to the good part, Roz. Mimi may decide to visit the little girls’ room.”

  “There aren’t a whole lot of good parts,” Roz said. “Little bitch doesn’t want a sister or a best girlfriend, that’s for sure. I’m the competition.”

  “So what have you got?”

  “For starters, Mimi is not Mimi. Try Matilda Hooper. Honest. I borrowed her wallet. I’ll bet my T-shirt she has a rap sheet, but it’s probably a sealed juvie. Fifteen, she says, but I’d make it seventeen. Been on the scene since she was ten, but I think most of what she says she makes up on the spot. She brags about dealing drugs, using drugs, doing guys, doing breakins. If she does half what she says, she’s gonna be dead by the time she’s twenty.”

  “She do our breakin?”

  “She was busy that night, and she giggled when she said busy. If she was having sex with one of the guys in the band, one of the techies, one of the roadies, she’d have told every detail, no giggles. Sex with musicians—that’s, like, her business. She keeps their names written down in a book.”

  “What else?”

  “Look, this isn’t working out real well. Mimi seems to hate my guts. What I’ve told you is everything I’ve managed to wedge out of her, and everything I’m likely to get. I bought her drinks, the whole bit, but she’s gonna just pass out if I keep it up.”

  “Has she said anything about Hal?”

  “She thinks he’s pretty cute for an old guy. That’s all she said, but you want an impression, I’ll give you one. I think she’s close to him. He’s the road manager. He provides access to the stars.”

  “She sleep with him?”

  “Doesn’t brag about it. She once licked Mick Jagger’s right nipple. That she brags about.”

  “Freddie bring in the drugs, or Mimi?”

  “Not sure, but I’d say Mimi. Maybe both. You like my hair like this?”

  “Awesome.”

  She was accenting her eyelids with a substance that looked like a cross between glitter and clown makeup.

  “I’m really picking up some fashion tips. You got to swing with a younger crowd, I guess,” she said.

  I’m never sure when Roz is joking. I left it alone. “So you figure you’re finished as a groupie?” I said.

  “Mimi’s gonna have some goon beat me up if I stick around,” Roz said. “That’s what I think.”

  “So quit,” I said. “Go to the library. Do a periodical check. I’m not sure if the BPL collects stuff like Guitar magazine, but maybe they do. See what you can pick up about Hal Grady. Like what groups he’s managed. I think Mimi said one was called the Bow-Wows—”

  “They weren’t bad,” Roz said. “I heard they made big bucks on tour, but their album went nowhere.”

  “A road band,” I murmured. I started washing my hands all over again.

  “What’s that mean?” Roz asked. “What are you thinking?”

  I said, “Some bands, they’re great live; make a lot of money on tour. Exciting show. Good-looking players. Some bands are studio bands. Close harmony, special effects. They score big on album sales. Very few groups do both.”

  “So?”

  “I was wondering whether Hal specializes in road bands, bands that do a whole lot better on ticket sales than they do on albums, tapes, CD’s, what have you. Like the Bow-Wows.”

  “Would that be unusual?” Roz asked.

  “It would sure be interesting,” I said. “Check it out, if you can. The bands Hal’s managed, see if they all happen to be money-making road bands and studio zeroes. You know where to look?”

  “Everyplace from Variety on down, I suppose.”

  “Good,” I said. “And you can always ask a librarian, if they talk to people who wear obscene T-shirts.”

  “Tell me the truth,” she said. “You think I should leave my hair like this?”

  Thirty-Eight

  Mooney had finished his coffee by the time I got back to the table. “This stuff makes me jumpy,” he said. “Or maybe you make me jumpy. Why do I have the feeling you’re holding something back?”

  “Because I am,” I said flatly. “But before we talk about it, I want to know what’s gonna happen.” I nodded in the direction of the elevators in case he didn’t catch my drift.

  “To Dee Willis? Nothing. Nobody’s gonna bring up that old suicide. Christ, the guys at Jamaica Plain are bitching about me having the nerve to even ask for the file on that one. Say they can’t find it; it’s in some warehouse. I can fill out a form and maybe they can get it to me in six to ten weeks, if anybody ever bothered with the paperwork.”

  “Cooperative,” I said. “I thought suicide was still a crime in this state.”

  “They are cooperative,” Mooney said defensively. “They’re also overworked. Look, nobody’s ever gonna know if the girl was dead or alive when Dee left. Nobody’s ever gonna know if your friend could have been saved. I mean, let’s say she might have been barely alive. Maybe if Dee had called the cops, the paramedics, somebody, this Lorraine might have stayed in a coma for the rest of her life, another Karen Quinlan. What I mean is, maybe Dee did her a favor by walking out. You were the dead girl’s friend, right? Does it make a difference to you? Do you think I should rake it all up again? You think this Lorraine’s parents want to hear that maybe their daughter didn’t just kill herself, maybe she tried to take Dee Willis along for the ride?”

  “That’s Dee’s story,” I said.

  “The corpse ain’t talking,” Mooney replied. “You think the parents really want to know their little girl slept with other little girls? How come you didn’t know that? Being her friend and all?”

  “Tell me about it, Mooney,” I said angrily. “You know all the gay guys in the squad room? You can pick ’em out? All I know is she never came on to me. Neither did Dee. I must not be her type.”

  Mooney said, “I don’t plan to call a news conference and neither do you. Let it lie. Let the people who can sleep nights sleep.”

  “And Ray?”

  “We’ve got a warrant, and we’ll keep looking till we find him. Sooner or later, unless he’s smarter than the average killer, he’s gonna show up at his sister’s house, go see an old girlfriend or some cousin in New Bedford, and we’ll nail him.”

  “You don’t think Dee’s in any danger?”

  “From him? I think he wants money, pure and simple. If he’s real dumb, he’ll get in touch with Lockwood, and from what I understand the lawyer will roll him over.”

  “He killed somebody. He might figure he’s got nothing to lose.”

  “There hasn’t been any public outcry about Brenda’s death. One more musician suicide doesn’t rate newsprint, unless the victim’s a star. Still, if you want to beef up security around the concert, we can do that, a little.”

  “And I can ask her road manager to add some bodyguards,” I said slowly. “On second thought, maybe arrange something myself.” I wondered if Gloria’s big brothers might like a chance to earn some of MGA/America’s money.

  “Now,” Mooney said, “you want to tell me the rest? Like what Roz is dressed up to be?”

  “You saw her?”

  “I’m not blind, Carlotta.”

  “I thought you were fully occupied watching Dee swing her butt.”

  “My, my, that lady does attract vipers to her camp,” Mooney said, shaking his head at me.

  “Maybe it takes one to attract them,” I said. “You want to hear about the others?”

  “Like who?”

  “Like who stole my handbag.”

  “Ray, right?”

  “Uh-uh. Ray has been a very careful guy. He’s been working as an orderly, listening to Davey for months; he’s
been cool. And I know he didn’t trash my house.”

  “So who did?”

  “That’s where Roz comes in. She’s researching the situation.”

  “In that getup?”

  “Of course, you could do it better, but then you’d say I was using the department’s resources to do my own work.”

  “Does it have anything to do with Mickey Manganero?”

  “It does.”

  “Drug enforcement drools when they hear his name,” Mooney said. “And the Boston Police are, of course, interested in helping out DEA.”

  “Want to go to a concert with me?” I asked. “It’s a hard ticket to come by, but I’ve got a friend.”

  “Two tickets? Just you and me? Like a date?”

  “Three tickets,” I said, “and a chance to earn major points with a cooperating law enforcement agency. You get to invite a colleague from DEA.”

  “Sounds okay,” Mooney said cautiously.

  “Pick somebody who likes music,” I said, and then I told him what I knew about Hal Grady—that he gambled, that he’d recommended a local loan shark to Dee Willis, that Dee had mentioned Hal’s particular fondness for Atlantic City, Manganero’s old stomping ground. I asked him if he had ways to find out whether Hal Grady was handling more cash than he ought to be.

  “You think Manganero’s using Grady to launder money?”

  “Offhand I can think of half a dozen ways to do it, and I’m not even a crook. Say Hal’s touring a real dog band, low ticket sales. Well, he gives away big blocks of tickets—to hospitals, charity groups, fills the house. I think they call it ‘papering’ the house. The auditorium’s full, but there’s not much money in the till. Grady gets the extra cash from Manganero.”

  “Another way?” Mooney asked.

  “On a tour like this one, a guaranteed sellout, Hal can cook the books. Top tickets for this show are a little under thirty bucks. When Hal writes it up, he adds ten bucks a ticket. The extra comes from Manganero. Or Grady can lie about the size of the house. You think somebody goes through the books and wonders whether some stadium really holds forty-two thousand seven hundred and sixty-two seats? Or he could jiggle the number of premium seats. You know, a place like the Performance Center, they must have different prices for orchestra seats and balcony seats. Hal doubles the number of expensive seats, halves the number of cheapies.”