Lenny Brennan Barnes
. That was the guy putting the squeeze on his boss.
Little pimp motherfucker
. That’s what Potempa had called him.
Behr ran him and discovered the résumé of an undergraduate hood scratching his way toward a master’s. There was a drunk and disorderly, a grand larceny for a car theft that he’d pled to, possessing stolen goods, possessing drug paraphernalia, and pandering. All it told him was that Barnes was a dirtbag, as advertised. Behr was tempted to go to his house and have a real personal conversation about all things Potempa, but he couldn’t risk pushing and causing the guy to go public with the video of the girl. It wasn’t his move to make.
Behr had gotten to the office early, and he left just as early, making his way out while the place was still humming with activity, the Payroll Place file on his plate hardly an afterthought, his concentration fragmented, and Potempa nearly in tears. The conversation had only gone on another minute or two. There was no point in asking whether he’d been to the police, but Behr had done so anyway. A defeated shake of the head was Potempa’s answer, and there was nothing else to say.
Instead of sticking around, Behr went to Donohue’s, where he hung on the bar through dead early afternoon quiet and into the fore-end of the minor happy hour wave. He got a hold of the
bartender Arch Currey, the gatekeeper of Pal Murphy’s time, and requested an audience.
Pal owned the place and sat like a cardinal in a back booth, holding court. Nearly every piece of business information, both legitimate and illegitimate, of any consequence in Indy flowed through that booth. Pal would certainly know if any high-profile hit had been ordered in town. Whether he would tell Behr anything about it was the only question. Pal wasn’t in the taproom when he arrived, and most of the barstools around Behr were full by the time the familiar visage of white hair, chrome glasses with tinted lenses, white dress shirt and smooth leather blazer took the seat in the booth that had magically remained empty despite there not being a reserved sign resting on the table.
They’d always been on terms. Nothing Pal had ever helped Behr with had come back to hurt him. For his part, Behr had shared some things that had been useful to Pal over the years. Other than that, Behr was a good customer, a regular, at Donahue’s. Which made it all the more strange that Behr got no traction whatsoever tonight. Three hours and three nursed beers didn’t yield him an audience. Pal was there, five yards away, occasionally talking to his waitresses, shaking hands with other patrons, conferring head-to-head with some old-timers, and getting his coffee refilled by Arch Currey every once in a while. Behr tried to keep his cool, but at the two-hour mark he broke protocol.
“Arch,” he said, when the bartender moved by, “he’s aware that I’m—”
“He’s aware,” was all Arch said.
Behr was trying to gauge whether it was a case of Pal having an inkling of what he was there for—because he would certainly have heard it was Behr in that parking garage—and had no information to share, or if some more direct insult was being communicated. Things were pretty chilly when it came to acquaintances willing to help him. He wondered if it was coincidence or like forest animals going to their burrows before a storm. Maybe Pal knew something, but it was too big for him to get involved. That thought made Behr uncomfortable. Then he got a new idea.
He needed someone who knew things but didn’t know any better. There was a different Murphy besides Pal—a
McMurphy
anyway—who might be able to help.
“Some other time,” Behr said to Arch, and tossed a quick two-finger wave Pal’s way as he headed for the door.
“Uh-oh, nightmare walking, psychopath stalking,” Kid McMurphy said, his face falling, when he saw Behr.
Kid swallowed a gulp of his drink, which looked to be only water. Stepping off a riser after his sound check, Kid looked pale and much thinner than the last time Behr had seen him. “Kid McMurphy” was a stage name. The singer was Pal’s nephew, and he shared the family talent, albeit unpolished, for information tracking. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Here” happened to be the Vollrath Tavern, which had been in operation on Palmer since the day it opened as a speakeasy back during Prohibition. It still retained the old-time saloon feel, with its ornate wood-and-mirror bar and tile floor, as when John Dillinger used to frequent the place. Nowadays it was a live music venue, and tonight it happened to be hosting one Kid McMurphy and band.
“Hoping to ask you a few questions,” Behr said.
“What makes you think I’d help
you
?”
“I just think you’re a helpful guy,” Behr said evenly.
“You know, that dude was plenty pissed off about that thing,” Kid said a bit sulkily. Kid had introduced him to a source of information when they’d first met, and Behr had been none too gentle with the man.
“I’m guessing he got over it,” Behr said. He hadn’t come here to
discuss past matters. “You don’t need him as a friend anyway—you’re better than that.”
This seemed to brighten Kid’s mood. “You think so?”
“Yeah. Come on, you’ve got talent and what does he got?” Behr had heard Kid on the radio, and the last few bars on the stage just now. He wasn’t bad.
“You know anything about your uncle cooling me? I can’t seem to get booth time with him,” Behr asked.
“Could be. I don’t know anything about it directly, but that’s ‘how he do,’ as the bros say. Either way, the minute I saw you here, I figured you must be fresh out of friends.”
The truth in the musician’s words landed on Behr like a cold, wet blanket. He thought of his usual sources and how little they’d yielded—and those were the ones he could find. The news about Pal was more troubling. The old man was secure enough to say “I don’t know” if it came to it, but he’d refused Behr an audience altogether.
Bad sign
.
“Maybe I could buy you a few of those whiskey and Cokes you love so much and we can have a talk?” Behr asked.
“I don’t think so …” Kid said, causing Behr to think he was on the verge of another strikeout. “Caught a wicked case of pancreatitis a little while ago. If I drink now, I die.”
“So you’re sober?” Behr asked. Kid’s pupils were the size of pinheads and he didn’t look fully zeroed.
“I still take pills.”
“Oh, good,” Behr said.
“But they don’t do shit without mixing ’em with booze.”
“I’m sure you’ll keep trying.”
“You got that right.”
They moved off to a corner of the bar, away from Kid’s band-mates and the tavern staff, and Behr broke down what was happening from the night of the shooting, his visit with Kolodnik, the lack of security footage, and Breslau telling him to leave it alone. Kid appeared to half listen, his head turned away, bobbing to some inner sound track, until Behr got to the part about the
sex DVD he’d recovered, then Kid slowly turned and faced Behr and suddenly became all ears. When Behr mentioned the name Lenny Brennan Barnes, Kid came to life.
“That’s a name I’ve heard,” he said.
“You know him?”
“Nah. Never met him. Been at places he’s been at, but never met. Word is he’s one scurvy motherfucker.”
“He runs girls? What else?” Behr wondered. He noticed the Vollrath was filling up around them.
“Hmm,” Kid said, scratching his stubbly chin, “I don’t know about his business. But if I wanted to, I’d talk to this girl Sunshine Jane.”
“That her real name?” Behr asked, writing it down.
“No, Ann Marie something. Who cares? She goes by Sunny. Everyone knows her by that.”
“Okay. What’s her deal?”
“She’s this freaky-deaky massage girl. Smoking hot. Works on all the big business dudes and politicos in Indy.”
“Hooker?” Behr asked. “Rub and tug?”
“Not even,” Kid said. “She gives regular rubdowns, but
she
gets off. Grinds her snatch on the corner of the table while she works or something.”
“Classy,” Behr said.
“Whatever. She told me about it one night after a gig, but I was mad wasted, so my memory’s not too crisp … Those days are sure over, though, I’ll tell you,” Kid lamented of his liquor-soaked past.
“Where can I find this Sunny?” Behr asked.
“She’s got a Web presence. You could book an appointment. You look kind of tense.” Kid broke into a sniggering laugh at this, which Behr rode out. “But this time of year, long as it’s not raining, she’ll be at the Palms, no doubt.”
“You want to take me down for an intro?” Behr chanced. Kid winced like he’d stepped on a nail.
“No, dude, and in fact if I’m left completely out of this shit this time, it’d be much appreciated.”
Behr just nodded and felt his BlackBerry buzzing, as a guy who seemed like the club manager walked up and tapped Kid.
“Two minutes,” he said and moved on into what was building into a decent happy hour crowd.
“You gonna stay and take in the future of rock and roll?”
Behr shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” Then his BlackBerry beeped, announcing an incoming text message. It was from Susan and read:
Where the heck R U? The Deckers have been here 4 half hour
.
If Susan had mentioned the dinner to him, he’d forgotten it completely.
“Gonna have to be when you play Conseco, Kid. I’ve gotta be somewhere,” Behr said, sliding off his barstool.
“Your loss,” Kid said. Behr took a step for the door. “Hey, man,” Kid called out. “What was it like getting shot at?”
Behr looked at him for a moment. “You know how it is not drinking?” Kid nodded. “It’s even worse than that.”
Behr headed for the door.
The house smelled like rack of lamb with olive oil and rosemary, Susan’s specialty, when Behr walked in the door and found them at the table.
“This is restaurant quality, Susan,” Decker said, waving his fork over his plate.
“You’re not drunk already, are you, Eddie?” Susan shot back.
“Maybe just a little,” Decker said. He wore a weathered, olive drab polo shirt with sleeves that cut into his biceps, Gina a dress that was shorter than most pregnant women would’ve dared.
Then Susan saw Behr and turned her face up to him for a kiss. “Sorry, Frank, it was ready to go so we didn’t wait.”
“Rightly so,” Behr said, sitting. “How are you all?”
“Jealously watching Eddie suck down all your liquor,” Gina said. Behr saw a prim glass of white wine in front of the women, while Decker had a tumbler filled with what looked like Wild Turkey on the rocks.
“Where were you?” Susan asked. “I tried the office.”
“I was out.”
“I called your cell.”
“You used the landline. It comes up ‘blocked,’ which is what happens when people from work call from their private lines, so I didn’t answer.”
“Ah, the artful dodger,” Decker said.
“Gotta be. Second thing they teach you in detective school,” Behr said.
“What’s first?” Gina Decker asked.
“How to bill,” Behr said, with Decker murmuring the line along with him. It was an old saw in law enforcement.
“By the way,” Susan said, “I spoke to Chad and heard what happened the other night at that bar.”
Behr and Decker looked at each other guiltily across the table.
“Like a couple of schoolboys, the both of ’em,” Gina said, obviously having heard the story from Susan.
“Don’t worry—you two get your merit badges,” she said, “and thank you,” and that was the end of it.
A pleasant meal passed, filled with lots of chatter, mostly on Susan and Gina’s part, and some laughs. The men bussed the plates to the kitchen and the ladies took over from there. Behr and Decker retired to the living room for yet another drink while they waited for the blueberry cobbler to warm up. Decker had had a good three or four refills of his bourbon during the course of the dinner—not measured shots, but big, generous home pours—and Behr had stayed head-to-head with him, so neither was feeling any pain as they hit their seats.
“Extremities almost completely numb,” Decker said, “almost where I want to be.”
“So when are you back on active duty?”
“Staycation’s over tomorrow,” Decker said. “Modified for a week, and back to the gerbil wheel.”
“Is that what the job feels like?” Behr wondered. It had been a long time since he’d been on, a long time wishing he was—he couldn’t remember anymore.
Decker stared out over the rim of his glass. “The job’s not so bad. It’s me.” Behr understood him well enough but was surprised to hear him go on. “When I was in—the time I spent training, going out with Cal—he was my spotter. We switched it up, but he was mostly the spotter. We’d set up in a position near the airport, in places I can’t mention, and lay hell down on the Ali
Babas for forty-eight hours straight before they’d dope us out. Back here, I can’t sit still for half an hour. Without a drink in my hand …” He laughed. “Over there things were just … clear. Take out this target. Set a pomzie surprise on a trail—”
“Antipersonnel mines?”
“Yeah. Or a mud cutter—they were sort of my specialty.”
“Mud cutter?”
“It’s when you bury a short-fuse grenade on a heavy-use trail and remove the pin but leave the handle in place. Step, step boom. Or throw a fifty-caliber party on this group of unregistered bad guys. We’ve got wounded and you need to use your snipecraft to allow the cas evacs in. I knew exactly what I was supposed to do and how to do it. Now, being back. Living like this. Sleeping with my boots off. In a bed. Married. With a pregnant wife. Trying not to crack dipshit motorists and to act like a normal clean-cut citizen … I don’t know … It’s great. I’m lucky … But now, I’m just powered down. Like I hit the mute button or something …” Decker raised a hand in front of him and rubbed his fingers together as if he were trying to grab a hold of something slippery. “Life now’s like eating steak with a balloon on my tongue.”
Behr just looked at him and took a big drink of his bourbon. He rattled the ice in his glass when he was done. Behr felt like another, and he could see that Decker just about needed one, but he couldn’t move. Then Decker leaned in.
“Look, I don’t want to get too personal, but I could use some intel on what’s coming down the pike on the kid front.”