Steel Guitar (24 page)

“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.”

“That's only four ways,” Mooney said, deadpan.

“Use your imagination,” I said.

“If Hal's reporting a bigger take than he should for a sellout, you'd think somebody at MGA would notice,” Mooney said.

“So the Gianellis have got somebody at MGA, or maybe somebody at the bank. Maybe both. You find that hard to believe?”

“No.”

“They've probably got the police commissioner.”

“Can you back that up?”

“No, Mooney, I can't. I'm just getting a little carried away here. All I want to say is there are a lot of ways that Manganero can use a guy like Hal Grady.”

“You think somebody from MGA is involved?”

“If Hal's been doing a lot of work for MGA, I'd say that's a definite possibility.”

“Think Dee knows about it?”

I shrugged my shoulders and sipped coffee, not really tasting it. “At long last, I think I can say I've learned something about Dee,” I ventured after a long pause. “There's probably nothing she wouldn't do to get ahead.”

“Try this one. Do you believe the story she told me?”

“About Lorraine?”

“Yeah.”

“Like you said, after all these years, does it make a difference? Is it gonna make Lorraine any less dead?”

Mooney said, “Did this Lorraine maybe write the songs?”

“Shit, Mooney,” I said, “no. You've got a mind like a cop, a damned devious mind. No!”

“Why so fierce?” Mooney's voice was soft.

“No,” I repeated. “Absolutely no.”

Thirty-Nine

When Mooney realized where our seats were—top row, upper balcony, on the aisle—he gave me a long look. “Thought you had a friend,” he said.

I scooted into the row, leaving him to follow. The other man, Mooney's choice from DEA, a hawk-nosed, unsmiling type, sank into the aisle seat with a grunt.

The steep angle made our seats seem so high that I felt like I might need an oxygen mask, feared that if I fell, I'd slide straight down to the orchestra pit. But when the houselights dimmed, the movement and the music and the spotlights melded in a way they hadn't from the fourth row. The stage looked like a jeweled miniature, the showpiece of a museum collection.

I glanced at my watch and hoped the dismal warm-up band—a two-girl, two-boy, no-harmony disaster—would keep to its allotted half hour. I doubted anyone would beg for an encore. I was right.

Dee entered to a roar like thunder, in her shimmery white tux, rhinestone earrings dangling to her shoulders. She muttered a brief thank you, tapped her high-heeled foot, yelled “six, seven, eight” over the crowd's salute, and opened with “Steel Guitar.”

I closed my eyes and remembered how it felt to be part of the music. I play alone now. I never tried another group after Lorraine died, after Cal left. The only group thing I do now is volleyball, and when the game's just right, when every player is in sync, when the ball floats over the net in sweet slow-motion, and you know just where you're going to hit it, and just how the opposing player will respond, there's a touch of the magic.

But volleyball's a cheap trick compared to playing behind somebody like Dee, next to Cal, hearing your own sound join other sounds, become something better, something greater. I remembered moments of perfect silence at a song's end, followed by the longing for one more verse, one more chorus, five more minutes of that close, aching harmony, soul to soul, like sex, like sorcery.

For an instant of pure hatred, I wished I could somehow prove that Dee had killed Lorraine. She'd have done it, if Lorraine had stood in her way. Not provided the pills, not urged the drink. But walked away, walked away from what might have been pure gesture, pure drama, on Lorraine's part. I
love you. If you leave me, I will kill myself. I swear I will
. I could almost hear the words in Lorraine's clear, soft voice.

I considered my years of guilt—over Lorraine, over Cal. I'd misunderstood Lorraine; I'd driven Cal away. That's what I'd thought. But Dee had taken Lorraine. Dee had taken Cal. Taken everything she ever wanted.

She started to sing again, and the hatred faded like summer mist. Dee was right. I couldn't tell the singer from the song.

I glanced at Mooney to see if Dee's witchcraft had touched him. He was staring at his wristwatch, on the job. The DEA man on the aisle, I swear, was wearing earplugs.

Freddie on drums, Ron on lead guitar, the keyboard man, a new skinny bass, all faded into the background as Dee took hold of the audience and sang. I might have searched her face for signs of turmoil if I could have seen it without opera glasses. I was glad I didn't have any. I knew what I'd see. The same look Cal had on his face when he played. Dee alone with her music.

The crowd was ecstatic—diehard fans, the old Boston bar crowd, welcoming their big-time star home. They gave her an ovation after every number. I tried to join in and found I could barely clap my hands together with a hollow echo.