A Tiny Segue, before Meg moves on to Renfield

•March 30, 2012 • 2 Comments

Meg rolled her eyes and glanced at her watch.   They still had to talk to the the drummer, that odd, blank-faced bass player, and the keyboard player (where the hell is HE, she wondered,) not to mention the crime scene techs who had actually examined the body already. She doubted Ebola knew anything about the murder, and he was too busy celebrating his own fetid charisma to tell her much about the victim, not while he was standing there thinking of ways to present himself as the center of the circumstances. Still, maybe if she let him think he’d gotten a rise out of her, he’d be willing to show off a little for Octavio.

“I’ve had enough of this guy,” she said curtly.  “Octavio, could I ask you to wrap things up with young Mr. Glasser here, so I can speak to some of the others?”

She turned away so they wouldn’t see her smirking a little, as Ebola tried to suppress his surprise over the fact that she knew his last name. The Sparkling Douchebags collectively, and specifically Ebola, aka Mitchell David Glasser, were not exactly household names, but apparently the longwinded late night deejay – a guy well past 40 who volunteered to man the local college station during odd times, when no college kids were interested – was a big fan. A few weeks ago, upon learning that they’d be playing in the area, he had devoted several hours – or maybe it had just seemed that long – rambling on and on about the band, their first album, their history before Baby of Shame arrived on the scene, their roots in west-coast glam rock and punk, and way more about their relationship to vampire culture than Meg had ever thought she’d care to know. Now she was actually glad that she hadn’t sprung for satellite radio in her car, and that the overnight gasbag’s show was the only thing she’d been able to pick up on her drive home in those pre-dawn hours.

Ebola checked himself, and made a point of glancing at Meg as she walked away.

“You hittin’ that?” he asked Lopez.

In the months since Wallace had taken early retirement and Octavio had been assigned to work with Meg, he’d heard that question so often he was bored with it.  He knew it didn’t faze his partner; he’d rarely met a woman who was so unconcerned with, possibly even unaware of,  her own good looks.  Glasser wasn’t stupid, and probably wasn’t as vulgar as he pretended to be – something about his diction and posture spoke of an urge to rebel against an affluent upbringing – but he was a performer, and a young performer, at that. Now that Baby of Shame was out of the way, thought Lopez, he was revelling in his chance to monopolize the spotlight. If he did know anything useful, he’d have a hard time keeping it to himself, but he might not be above embellishing the facts in order to appear more important.

“You may find, as you gain more life experience, that if you speak to women with respect, you may actually have more opportunities to enjoy their company, rather than merely talking as though you do.”

 

Watching the Detectives

•March 25, 2012 • 6 Comments

Ebola sat on top of a table, one leg planted on the floor. He watched the two detectives enter the club.This was going to be a long night. The police had separated all the band members to await their turn to be questioned. They took a few minutes talking to the cops who had been first on-scene, watching the cop point out the various band members, and gave them a mock salute with smile as the cop indicated him. They seemed to take that as an invitation to start with him and headed in his direction.

“I’m Detective Lopez, this is Detective Urbanowicz. Sorry about your friend, but we need to ask you a few questions.”

“Sure, no problem.” Ebola took a sip of whisky from his glass, and dragged on his cigarette.

“You don’t seem too broken up over your friend’s death,” Lopez said. “Any particular reason for that?”

Ebola took a drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out casually, looking at the detective with one eye closed. “‘Friend’ might be too strong a term. Let’s just say we had our differences.”

“Differences over what?” The woman smelled of ‘freshman’, had to be straight out of the academy, he thought. He watched her eyes go over him, head to toe, taking in his six-inch high spiked blond mohawk, skin-tight, sleeveless black mesh shirt, and linger ever so slightly on his toned pecs. He returned the favor, giving her the once-over as obviously as he could. He chuckled to himself as they both watched him.

He shrugged. “The usual shit. She took too long in the shower.”

“So you two were a couple?”

He sniggered. “Hardly.”

Both detectives shifted a little, he could see the impatience forming on their faces. The woman glanced at the older detective. Yeah, she was taking her cues from him. This was probably her first time in the field. A virgin, he thought with sardonic enjoyment.

“So, what then?” the woman asked.

He continued smoking, taking his time just because he could and it annoyed them. “Look, when you’re on the road, sometimes we all have to share one room. People get…short-tempered.”

“Short-tempered enough to kill?” the man, Lopez, asked.

“Jesus, she was our lead singer. Now the band’s out of business. I don’t kill my meal ticket.”

“Any idea who might want her dead?” The woman seemed determined not to let him intimidate her, but he was just getting warmed up.

“I don’t know, gorgeous. She could piss off just about anyone when she wanted.”

The female detective almost sneered back at him. Well, maybe she wasn’t such a putz after all, Ebola thought.

The woman pulled out a pad of paper and a pen and slapped them down on the table next to Ebola. “Tell you what, you write down anyone you can think of who might have been pissed off at her. Think you can do that for me?”

“Sure, gorgeous. Should I bring it to your house… later?” he said laughing.

“Yeah, do that. Here’s my address,” and she handed him her business card. “We’ll need to talk to you again later, don’t leave town.”

Ebola blew her a kiss as they turned to go talk to someone else.

Lopez/Urbanowicz

•March 16, 2010 • 5 Comments

Detective Meg Urbanowicz had stepped off the elevator to the fourth floor and was cautiously balancing two paper coffee cups, a large black, no sugar, atop a medium cafe con leche. Taking care not to drop the sugar packets pinned to the side of the con leche with her pinky finger, she was steadying the whole caffeinated little tower with her chin, freeing up her left hand to open  the grimy glass door to the bullpen, when her partner, Octavio Lopez approached from the other side.  In one graceful motion, he slid the door open and relieved her of the con leche, saying “This’ll have to be to go – a shooting in the harbor district, at one of those dumpy no-name clubs down there.” 

“Yeah, I picked it up on the hand-held.  You hear anything else inside?”

“Only that the club’s on the corner of  Hench and Third, and there’s a lot of blood”

“Hench and Third? That used to be Benny Jackass’s place. I can’t believe that hole is still open. ”

As he slid behind the wheel, Lopez raised one eyebrow, almost imperceptibly. This, Urbanowicz had learned, was as close as he ever came to looking surprised. “Benny Jackass?”

Meg explained, “Years ago there used to be a punk club at that corner run by this seedy Lithuanian guy named Ben Jakanauskas; everybody called him Benny Jackass because, well, he was. The drinks were watered down, the bathrooms were disgusting, and the bartenders were usually hideous-looking trannies, but it had sort of a skanky mystique about it, because of the rumour that the Sex Pistols played there at the tail end of that misbegotten U.S. tour. ”

“OK, them I have heard of, although I couldn’t name any of their greatest hits.   How is a punk show a rumor, Meg? Either they played there or they didn’t”  The cop in him just didn’t see how this would be a hard thing to prove.

“You have to understand the the whole tour was a clusterfuck – cancelled dates, truncated shows, fights instead of performances.  In hindsight it just adds to the whole skanky mystique, and of course every aging punk in America swears to have seen them  in ’77.   If everybody who claims to have been there the night they supposedly played at Benny’s, and saw Sid supposedly throw up on Benny’s shoes, the place would have to be bigger than the Hollywood Bowl to have held them all.” 

“I assume that it actually is not”

“Nah, I think it used to be a paint warehouse or something, although everybody in my high school swore it had been a slaughterhouse, and that you could still smell the blood on the walls. More skanky mystique – the only stank I ever noticed was stale beer, stale smoke, stale vomit and stale pee – same as any dive bar.”

“You went there a lot, did you? ” Lopez’ eyebrow remained in place, but the tiniest hint of a smile hovered at the corner of his mouth.  Urbanowicz didn’t exactly carry herself like a prep school girl, but he wouldn’t have picked her for a punk, either.

“I sneaked out of the house once or twice when I was in high school, just so I could say I did and impress my friends. Not only were the bands unknown and untalented, but the second time I went there, the bass player on stage was this dorky stoner substitute band director from Upper Valley Regional. I stopped going after that.” 

“Besides watered drinks, underaged guests, and nauseous musicians, did the place attract trouble back in the day? I never got a call there before, although vice picks up hookers in that neighborhood with some regularity.”

“My understanding, since I’ve been on the job and met cops who worked the harbor district, is that Benny might have been a jackass but he wasn’t stupid.  The drinks were so weak that it was hard to get fighting drunk, and the bathrooms were so filthy that nobody wanted to have sex in them. That explains my initial youthful reaction – the place was genuinely nasty, but anybody looking for real trouble would’ve been disappointed.   Everybody says Benny’s mother was the real muscle – the poseurs were scared of her, and the real punks sort of admired her. ”

“Benny’s mother. With that kind of respectful regard, I imagine nobody called her Mrs. Jackass?”

Lopez had a  dry sense of humour that sneaked up on you when you least expected it.  They’d been working together most of the summer, since Meg passed the detective’s exam, and although she didn’t know him very well she was pretty sure she liked him.  He was punctual, his manners were perfect and his language almost elegant, but nobody seemed to know much about him. When she asked her mentor, Dave Ellis, about him, Ellis and a few of his crusty old friends grinned and said “just don’t call him Ockie.”   That’s how those guys talked – Ellis would never say “He doen’t suffer fools gladly,” but then again, thought Meg, who does say stuff like that? Mostly bad novellists, too lazy to work their way through the cliche’. Anyway, the old guys had been on to something .  Lopez was not a nickname kind of guy, and he took great care to pronounce Meg’s last name correctly. Occasionally when some of the older cops tried to throw their weight around, addressing the youngest and only female member of the squad as “OOr BAN a’wizzz” or once, “Urban a bitch,” Lopez had fixed them with a long, silent, basically terrifying stare that you couldn’t help but notice. Really, there was no reason to call a guy like that Ockie.

“I never heard her called anything other than Mrs. J., or the Old Lady. She ran an all-night coffee shop two doors down from the club. The food was lousy, but you could go there after last call,  wait for your ride, and talk about how badass you were. The rumour about HER was that some guy came in one night when she was working alone and tried to rob the place, and ran off screaming after the old lady stuck  his hand in the deep fryer. Many, many gags over the years about don’t order the chickens’ fingers.”

“Truth or mystique?”

“Hard to know, but nobody messed with the Old Lady. If the murder was at Benny’s club, it didn’t happen on her watch.”

They pulled up in front of a grimy one-story building, with a black-and-white and several EMS vehicles already parked outside.  A young EMT was applying butterfly bandages to the wrist of a young woman – barely more than a girl really – wearing black mesh T-shirt and black pleather leggings, as her boyfriend, a young guy with a pierced lip, shoe-polish-black hair, and pale Nordic complexion,  looked on admiringly.

Give Me Blood

•March 13, 2010 • 3 Comments

The most ardent fans of the Sparkling Douchebags, whose sole aim in life seemed to be following the band around and trying to convince themselves that they too were vampires, began cutting themselves to add their own blood to the scene in a ritualistic display of grief and mourning for their fallen heroine. Ghoulishly they formed themselves into a circle in the middle of the club, at first humming softly, then gradually singing louder the band’s anthem from its early days, “Give Me Blood.” The ambulance crew pushed its way through to the stage to attend to the body of Baby of Shame, all the while the puddle of blood growing larger on the floor. The few security guards were only able to disarm a couple of the fans here and there but the damage was done. Within minutes nearly everyone in the club was sliced and bleeding.

The other band members – Mellon Kali, Micro Braineater, Pus Renfield and Ebola the Rat – began playing the song the crowd was singing. Finally after a quarter of an hour of confusion during the weird impromptu wake for Baby of Shame, police units began arriving and separating the crowd, releasing some, sending the ones who had cut themselves the most severely off with more ambulances before they bled to death.

Homage to Dracula

•February 28, 2010 • 3 Comments

As the reality of the scene began to take hold, Baby of Shame’s bandmates began to gather around her bleeding body. Mostly in shock, they stood at a slight distance in a circle around her. In a seeming mimicry of the death of her fictional hero, Dracula, Baby of Shame’s expression took on a look of peace as her soul was released from its earthly torment. Her eyes were fixed on some far corner of the club as if she had spotted some unseen presence with whom she sought to be reunited. Even in her final moments her thoughts were of the undead.

The crowd by now was being corralled by security, and the doors were shut to prevent anyone leaving. They hoped to contain the shooter but unbeknownst to them the killer was already long gone. Sirens could be heard now as police and ambulances approached from various corners of the city. With the house lights full on now the scene was almost more surreal. The club kids and goths who so favored the dark squinted in the unaccustomed light, as if they too were being assaulted.

Definatly will need to be re-written (but posted to continue the story)

•February 25, 2010 • Leave a Comment

It wasn’t till the stage floor and the recently gunned down body of Baby of Shame started to flood by a familiar crimson liquid, did people react. The screams of joy and excitement, now screams of fear. Baby of Shame looked like she has finally found the peace she desperately wanted, a slight smile on her face.

Next Paragraph

•February 25, 2010 • Leave a Comment

As the band’s lead singer, Baby of Shame took the stage in a silver lamé jumpsuit, no one heard the crack of the gun over the din of the screaming fans. Mellon Kali was busy giving the crowd the finger with both hands as bass player Micro slung his instrument around his neck and played an a few opening notes of their latest single, “I Was Unearthed.” As Baby of Shame slumped to the floor of the stage, the crowd thought it was part of the act and cheered even more wildly, no one noticing the lone figure making his way to the back of the club, towards the exit.