by Harry Hoge
The screen went blank and then lit up again, showing a setting similar to the one displayed by the poster in Nguyen's apartment, except the backdrop curtain was black with gold letters advertising 'Ha Ha House Comedy Club.' An announcer holding a hand mike shouted, "And now the one you've all been waiting for. Let's bring them together for our feature stand up. Here he is! Hon Cu Loa."
There was a loud round of applause, and the camera scanned an audience sitting around cafe tables clapping; amused, expectant faces directed at the stage.
Nguyen ran onto the stage and grabbed the mike.
"Hi folks. My name's Hon Cu Loa, and as you probably guessed, I'm Vietnamese. Of course, Hon Cu Loa is my stage name. Guess you could say it's my Viet Nam de plume."
Polite laughter.
"Boy! What a change, coming to America. I've been in Houston several years now. When I got here, I rented a furnished apartment out on Bellaire. When I moved in, I looked around the place to see if there was anything I needed so I could be more American. I realized I needed a dog." A murmur moved through the crowd. Nguyen paused, scanning the audience with a humorous look, allowing the innuendo to sink in. "I asked the guy next door where to get one. He told me where to go..."
few twitters. "So, I told him where he could go too, and asked another guy." Polite laughter. More, Frank decided, for the comedian's sense of timing and expressions than for the old rejoinder. "He gave me some directions. When I got there, the sign outside said Pet Store. "When I went in and saw the prices, I realized why you have so many vegetarians in Houston." The laughter was more exuberant, if a little nervous. "The clerk looked at me and asked, 'You're Vietnamese, Right?' I nodded. He told me, 'You might be interested in our family pack.'"
Frank and Gerry listened to the rest of the promo, admiring the delivery and amused but unable to laugh with the knowledge that such an exuberant, bright young man was dead. After the screen went blank, they sat quietly, staring. Finally, Frank said, "Who could be angry enough with that guy to hang him up on a meat hook?"
"You've got to remember, Frank, On stage, he was funny and acted happy, but for all we know, he may have been a real horse's ass. We still don't know the real Nguyen Qui Mang."
He looked at her. "That's right. And that's your job. Go meet his friends and family."
She sent him a mock salute and stood. “I’m on it. Have fun at the club.”
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 cak
e 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."
Chapter 7
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.
