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4
Jerome Robinson and John Ackerly have scrambled eggs and about a gallon of coffee at a café down the street from Happy, which John will open at eight AM, ready to serve early birds wanting that all-important wake-up shot of vodka and orange.
“So what’s up, buttercup?” John asks. “Not that I don’t appreciate a free meal.”
“Probably nothing.” It’s what he told Holly, but it gnaws at him. “Did you get the picture I sent you?”
“Yup.” John shovels in scrambled eggs. “Close-up of the May page of the Rev’s appointment book. You find the guy yet? Briggs? Because I’ve checked with a lot of Program people, and no one’s heard of anyone calling themselves that.”
“It’s a police case. I’m just an interested bystander.”
John points at him. “Caught the detecting bug from Holly, didn’t you? It’s more contagious than Covid.”
Jerome doesn’t deny it, although in his mind it’s more like poison oak—a persistent itch. “Look at it again. You can see it better on my iPad than you can on your phone.” He shows him the photo of the calendar square.
John takes a good close look, even spreading the image with his fingers to make it bigger. “Okay. Briggs, seven PM, May twentieth. What about it?”
“I don’t fuckingknow,” Jerome says, “and it’s driving me crazy. Briggs in capital letters.”
“The Rev put all the names of all the people he was counseling in capital letters.” John taps CATHY 2-T, then KENNY D. “So what? His cursive handwriting is probably shit. I know mine is. Half the time even I can’t make out what I wrote.”
“Makes perfect sense, but still.” Jerome takes his iPad back and frowns at the photo of the calendar page. “When I was a kid, I saw this optical illusion in a comic book. At first glance you only saw a bunch of black blobs, but if you looked at it long enough, you saw the face of Abe Lincoln. Blobs at one second, a face at the next. To me,this is like that. There’s something weird about it, but I don’t know what the fuck it is.”
“Then it’s nothing,” John says. “You want to break the case yourself, that’s all.”
“Bullshit,” Jerome says, but thinks John might be right. Or partly right.
John checks his watch. “Got to get going. The regulars will be lining up.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Jerome asks Holly’s question: “Who wants a screwdriver at eight AM?”
And John gives him the same answer: “You’d be surprised. So are we on for Friday night?”
“Guns and Hoses? Sure. You can be my date, or I can be yours. Only if it’s a blow-out, I’m leaving.”
“We can take off any time after the first inning,” John says. “I just have to be there for Sista Bessie singing the National Anthem. That’s a gotta-see.”
5
The band load-in crew only works half a day on Saturday unless there’s a show, and Sista Bessie’s first show at the Mingo is still a week away. This is still about rehearsing the music, the tech, and finalizing the set list. Barbara is backstage, watching Batty and Pogo show her how the breakers work with the amps and lights, when Tones Kelly finds her and says Betty wants to see her.
The Mingo’s dressing rooms are a floor up, and they’re first-class; Betty’s is actually a suite. There’s already a star on her door, and a photo of her in her sparkly Sista Bessie show clothes. Inside, Betty is sitting on a wine-red couch with Hennie Ramer, her agent. Hennie puts away her word search book when Barbara comes in, and Barbara sees Tones Kelly is also here. All at once she’s frightened.
“Am I being fired?” she blurts out.
Betty laughs, then says, “In a way, you are. No more work with the roadies, Barbara.”
“Insurance issue,” Hennie says. “Also a union issue.”
“I thought weweren’tunion,” Barbara objects.
Hennie looks uncomfortable. “Yes and no. We abide by most of the AFM rules.”
“I don’t care about that Federation shit,” Betty says, “but you’re talent now. If you sprain your back, you won’t be able to keep step with the Crystals.”