(A Detective Dexter Roland Adventure)

8: Indiscretions.

By now we’ve all worked out what happens next, so I’ll do my best to neither denigrate the actions within nor to boast too bro-fully about how the evening transpired from here on out.  While I do not want to be accused of leaving out “the good bits,” I can only agree that they were, in fact, quite good bits, but only in the most relaxed definitions of the words could I claim this was even remotely “work-related,” and more pointedly, it seemed so cliche as to almost be too foregone – and thus, irrelevant – to mention.  It is with that in mind that I will be editing my own narrative here to my own taste, if for no other reason than to maintain the sanctity of these highly enjoyable acts.

Sam & I eventually got our food from the Tunnel, ate, drank, and flirted, and stayed one drink past when we should have, which was perfect.  I negotiated our tab, and met her outside where she was smoking a menthol and bobbing back and forth.  I explained that I was too drunk to drive, and she explained that she didn’t live that far away.  I rolled a cigarette and we walked down the sidewalk, occasionally bumping into each other like two spinning tops, that occasionally bounced into each other.

We went upstairs to her place, which largely consisted of a huge living room, a smaller bedroom & bath, and a kitchen that led off to one side.  She immediately went to her stereo and put on Funhouse, and as I fumbled around for a hatrack and bench to store my things, she produced a bottle from a modest liquor cabinet, from which she poured us each another drink.

The evening gets fairly hazy from that point on, but soon enough we were sitting next to each other, and from here I’ll let your imagination continue for me.  While we were busy imitating teenagers we flipped over a few records, drained another beverage, discussed watching the tape again, but instead found our way into her room, for a little more [censored] and [scene deleted].

Sooner than either of us would like to admit we found ourselves exhausted, the alcohol having as much effect on us than our unchecked libidos.  I was of the opinion that I could wait her out, and disappear once I was positive she was asleep, and took in the spare room that contained only a few dressers, two end tables, and the bed.  Just as I was sure she was dozing, I found myself too tired to actually go through with it, and found myself too tired to do anything about it.  Against my better judgement, I let myself fall asleep, and blissful oblivion overtook me as the various drinks, smokes & food of the day washed over me and did their work.

My dreams were obscene and repetitive, but not unwanted.

When I awoke, two things were immediately apparent: it was light out, and she was gone.  I let this sink in as I retraced where I was, and what most likely had happened.  It was clear I had been drinking.  That was most evident, and soon enough I pieced together the sex and the staying at her place, too.  Before long I had caught myself up to the story thus far, and was putting on my pants feeling fairly confident that I hadn’t made any more mistakes that I was used to making anyway.

I texted Suzanne at The Office to tell her I was on the case and making progress, but that I might have to spend a few more days working on a new suspect.  It was largely an excuse to get a glimpse of the time, and see if there were any other messages.

Suzanne pinged back, “How tall is she?”

I put my phone away and finished getting dressed.  I poked my head out into Sam’s apartment, but she was nowhere to be seen, and there were no sounds for any adjoining showers or kitchen to indicate she was home at all.  I combed back through the night, but couldn’t find any reference to her leaving or having an early appointment.  I noticed that she had moved my stuff to the couch, and on the stereo she had placed a note, standing up using a cute sort of origami that propped up the back end.

“Feel free to browse.  I should be back with breakfast.  Work up an appetite Little-man.  I’ll certainly be ready for more.”

I took the invitation to nose around the place a bit, but as I expected, there was no way she would leave me here with anything other than the record collection.  Aside from wardrobe and various accoutrements, typical kitchenware, and everything you’d find in a usual bathroom, there was little that was unexpected to be found in her apartment.  Not that I was the kind of person that regularly found things in women’s apartments that let to me suspecting them of something, but given enough time I can find a few interesting things in just about any place, but this apartment seemed entirely focused on the living room, the record player and the collection.

“Feel free to browse.”  Was she giving me a clue?  Or was that all there was to find here?  There were a few thousand LPs in the collection, and all of them were in meticulous order.  Almost, unused.  The place gave off the vibe of a prop, or a set, and her nonchalant attitude to the record collection’s safety seemed a little off-brand for her.  Any dedicated collector would never leave a stranger – even a fuckable stranger – alone if there was anything of real value here.

I rooted around in the collection a bit, impressed by not awed, and found a cabinet that I opened that contained some CDs, tapes, a few odds and ends, and strangely, an exact copy of the Mission of Burma tape I just bought from You Spin Me Right Round.  I opened the case to find a QR code that fell out too.  I compared the code to the one in my wallet from my copy, and saw that they were both very different.  I put the code and the tape back in the cabinet and paced around a bit.  I scanned the QR code with my phone, but instead of the digital data transfer, a flash of magic crossed my screen, and after a few moments, it took me to a page located at fifthelephant.com, and simply said, “Thank you!  Your package was delivered successfully.”

I paced around again.  I couldn’t trace the spell, but I can only assume that Marcus Little recieved something.

I checked the fridge, but it was no wonder that Sam had left to get food, so I put on Nation of Ulysses The Embassy Tapes, grabbed my bag, retrieved one of the joints Miles gave me, and my mind twitched.  Something didn’t seem right.  Of course, long ago I realized that I can’t trust my own mind, especially given the abuse I’d been putting in through recently.  I texted Sam, “There’s a rumbly in my tumbly.  What’s the 411?”  I sat in thought, and puffed.

“I got held up.  I might have to cancel breakfast.”

“But I’m horny now.”

“Haha.  Maybe after lunch?  My morning got complicated.  Sorry.”  And that was followed by an emoticon that completely failed to communicate to me anything useful.

I took a few more puffs on the J, then stubbed it out and applied some air-freshener to the area before closing the window.  I let the album finish, then made my own piece of origami for Sam that read, “Just let me know when I can get a rain check.”  I did another search of the place that revealed nothing useful, then I split.  It was at that moment that my phone started ringing, over and over again from a number I didn’t recognize, and was not leaving a message.  It persisted for quite a while, and I debated blocking it, but after five attempts it quit.  I made it a policy to never answer a phone number I didn’t recognize, and in particular to never do it while high.  I can only assume this practice has saved my ass innumerable times.

The truck was just where I had left it, with the addition of a parking ticket.  I climbed in and got myself settled, and plotted my next move.  It seemed worth it to get in touch with Miles again.  KLOW and Angie seemed to be connected in some way, and it might be worth it to get a little background on Dig Your Grave and see if there’s anywhere to move in that direction.  Plus, it would be nice to get some more cash and grass for my troubles.  I wasn’t quite sure what to make of Sam yet, but so far I was committed to finding out as much as possible.

It seemed odd that there was a magic imbued QR code in my Mission Of Burma tape, and I couldn’t quite make sense of what that was supposed to mean in the way all of this played out.  Sam didn’t strike me as the type who would fuck around with magic, and it was certainly not a part of the way that tape was originally packaged.  With magic involved as a part of the case, it sort of upped the ante.  This could be bigger than philanderous employees and a few broken sales dates.  What kind of spell would someone buying video tapes at a record store want to purchase?  If someone was using the store as a front, it seems like a very limited customer base.  There’s not enough traffic to indicate drugs, or worse.

Then, what?

I stopped in at one of the hundreds of breakfast food carts and consumed two waffle and sausage items that soaked up the remaining alcohol quite nicely, and made me feel human enough to want a cigarette.  I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, as a CRX came up in my blind spot when I tried to merge back into traffic, but when I tried to make the vehicle again I couldn’t find it.  Darren couldn’t be that good of a tail, so it must have been another car.  However, a few blocks later it surfaced again, and this time I was absolutely sure.  I must be really around the bend this morning, because I didn’t even notice him.  My phone rang again.

I played a hunch and pretended I didn’t see him, and he seemed to get comfortable, so much so that he wasn’t even letting a car between us.  I shook my head internally, but my hunch paid off, as he suddenly peeled off my tail when it became apparent where I was headed.  My guess was that he didn’t have an endgame ready for when I stopped my car, and whatever connection he had to all of this was in danger of unraveling if he tried to keep an eye on me at The Record Store.

I was feeling very confident for the next couple of blocks, but when I started noticing police as I got closer, a sinking feeling collected in my being that got worse when I got closer, and found an ambulance outside the store, too.  Part of me wanted to just keep driving, but as this thought crossed my mind Detective Fish made eye contact with me, and his jaw dropped.  I parked the truck, got out, and strolled over with a cup of to-go coffee and said, “Well, what’s all this, then?”

Fish turned to Fred and said, “Cuff ‘im.”

“Excuse me?” I asked.  Fred came over and whispered in my ear, “Don’t push it.”

Fish glared at me.  “Turning up at two different crime scenes – randomly.  Most people would get the hint the first time.”

“I’m not most people.”

“You certainly don’t answer your phone like most people.”

“You should try leaving a message.  I’m pretty quick on the response.”

“Well,” Fish said, and smiled angrily at me, “then you should be able to answer this very quickly: where were you last night.”

“With a friend,” and my heart sank.  A gurney began to move through the doors of the record store, and I knew instantly who was on it.

“And they can provide a pretty solid alibi for you between Midnight and 6 AM?”

I looked around, and stuck out my hands.  “Well, if you’re going to cuff me, get it over with.  I’m not gonna get any less guilty in the next few minutes.”

(A Detective Dexter Roland Adventure)

7: Rolling Stoned. (Part 2)

I glanced around the bar, and thumbed through my index cards.  Why couldn’t I just run off with her?  She would call at all hours, with hare-brained plans and adventures that wore me out but were some of the best times I’d ever had.  It was the vacation that ended everything.  After a date that ended at a party and turned into a three-day adventure with her, Carla got a call with the offer to go to Machu Pichu, essentially at a 75% discount, provided she could leave the following afternoon.  High on the lack of sleep, I couldn’t conceive of dropping everything and running off suddenly, no matter how unbelievably fun being with Carla was.  She was everything I wasn’t, and was most confident and comfortable when she had no idea what was happening next. I spent too much time in my head, laying out my next move too carefully, and always working toward a smooth and well-planned conclusion.  I had a job, and clients, and to just drop everything… what would happen when I returned?  Would we return?  These were questions I couldn’t answer then, and I can’t answer now.

I looked at Carla, and finished my drink.  “Someday, I will come here, and take you on a motorcycle trip through the jungles of Viet Nam.”  She raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t get my hopes up.”

I left another $20 for her, and began to wend my way down to the bowels of The Tunnel.

It wasn’t even that late on a random weeknight, but already The Tunnel seemed alive with more action than most places got on a Friday Night during Fleet Week.  Delinquents and kids of every denomination hung around at every table and in every corner of the place, sucking down drinks and smokes faster than the three people working the bar here could handle.  While there was never any threat of implied violence, or even danger of any kind, there were certainly interesting conversations happening here and there, and all manner of business was being arranged around me.  The bar pulsed with TSOL, and I meandered through underage and crusty sailor alike as I kept my eyes out for Sam.

I was a tad late – as I had planned – and I didn’t imagine that she would leave, and finally I caught sight of her playing pool with a pair of duds who looked bewildered.  She was clearly running the table and hadn’t spotted me yet, so I negotiated getting a beverage and rolling a smoke, an endeavor that put her well into running the table.  She didn’t look too different from her outfit in the Record Store, but her tight jeans and Stooges t-shirt certainly accentuated with more definition what I had already spent all day imagining.  Lightly made up, and with slightly more primped and pampered hair and ears, she looked amazing, and I watched as she commanded the pool table the way she dominates customers in the store.

When she had cleaned up the table, she handed the cue back to Dud 1, and picked up the money that has been sitting on the edge of the table.  She glanced at her phone, then picked up an errant hoodie.  Dud 2 looked at her and said, “C’mon, one more game.”

“Sorry, I’m tired of playing with limp-dicks like you.”  She spotted me, so I nodded and motioned with my head a table I was about to clear for us.  She glared at me, and made a b-line for the bar.  I eyed a pair of dudes in messenger gear in a heated discussion, and leaned over the table.

“You two don’t ride fixed gears, do you?”

The stopped talking and looked at me.  “Huh?”

“I just walked in, but I saw two dipshits fucking with a pair of bikes, like they were gonna run off with them.  I’ve been trying to find someone to tell.”

The pair looked at each other, and in a fluid movement drained their drinks, grabbed their stuff, and bolted up the stairs.  I eyed a bear couple on a date a few tables over, and negotiated a swap with them by using another $20 and an excuse about the lighting, then made myself comfortable at their secluded table.  My timing was incredible.  Sam emerged from the bar with her drink, only to be bumped by two careless messengers searching for someone in a hat, causing her to spill her shot and beer.  After a flurry of heated arguments and gestures toward the bears – who now felt themselves to be targets of hipster closed-mindedness – it wasn’t long before the messengers were ejected too.  Sam was given another drink for her trouble, and by the time she joined me I was completely unprepared for the slap she gave me.

“Usually I have to try and kiss someone before I get that kind of treatment.”

“That’s for being late, asshole.”

I took a drag of my cigarette, and said, “You seemed to be having a good time.  How can I make it up to you?”

“You already started; I put my drink on your tab.”

“Oh.  Is there anything else I’m not aware of getting you, or shall I just be surprised by my bill when I pay for it?”

“I depends on how long we’re here.  I haven’t finished convincing you to buy me dinner yet.”

“I suspect that will take a lot of convincing?”

“At least a few drinks, that’s for sure.”

I sipped mine.  “Am I catching up, or are you?”

Sam laughed.  “I imagine we’re about even, now.”

“Well that’s good.  I would hate for one of us to have the advantage over the other.”

“Believe me, that will never happen.”

I sipped my drink reflectively and looked her in the eye.  “Well that sure fills me with a heap of confidence.”

She smiled.  “Like, I feel really sorry for you.”

I rolled a cigarette.  “You’re waiting for me to say something first.  To make a mistake so you can use that as leverage against me as we keep talking.  It’s a good tactic to use when you’re trying to stay in control.” I looked at her as I put the cigarette in my mouth.  “I’ve used it before.”

“I can just walk out of here the moment you start getting creepy and analytical, too, what’s your point?”

“My point is that we’re both smarter than we’re each used to dealing with, and the verbal sparring that we’re both used to is probably only going to make us feel a little awkward, for a while, anyway.  You seem to have been pretty forward from the beginning, so let’s drop the bullshit and talk shop.”

Sam cocked one eye and reached for her drink.  “It’s true, I don’t meet many like you.”

“I don’t agree with your take on The Gizmos.”

She almost crossed her eyes.  “You’re off to a great start.  So you’ve been listening.”

I looked up to do the math.  “Skimming and scrubbing, so to speak.”

“Well, that’s more than most.  I fuckin’ swear, you’d think people listen to two of these at the same time.  I can never get anyone to actually talk about the shows.”

“I just think you’re missing a bigger point, a larger clue.”

“You wanna mansplain proto-punk to me, now?  Out of anything else in the world we could be talking about?  Wow.”

“It’s not like that,” I offered.  “I just want to talk about records.”  I puffed on my cigarette.  I continued, “Look, it’s clear we are birds of a very-different feather.  I’m gonna defend The Who and Harry Nilsson, and you’re gonna convince me that Miss Machine is one of the most important albums on the oughts.  I’m Oscar, you’re Felix.”

“Ouch.”

“But, my point is, we both showed up to this.”  I held up my drink, and grudgingly she held it up to give me the barest of toasts.  “Why am I letting you do some old-boy bullshit here?”

I looked her in the eyes.  “Because you like it.”

She bristled.  “Strike two.  You never get to tell me what I like.”

“Fair enough.  Lesson learned.”

She drained her glass.  “So, tell me how I’m wrong about everything, Mr. Little.”

“How about I get you another drink, and we have a discussion about music instead?”

“Music is everything, you short sighted prick.”

I raised my air and got the attention of a waitress, who went into the throng to fetch us some drinks.  “Have you seen my record collection?”

“You are treading on thin ice, mister.  I’ve been around enough piece of shit indie rockers to know that they just can’t imagine a woman knowing as much about records as they do, gosh darn it!  You wanna see a group of people with old-timey values and who use coded interactions to devalue the story we have to tell… fuck you!”  She flipped me off.

“Perhaps I got off on the wrong foot.  I’m not puffing out my chest, or trying to reinforce some bullshit that, I agree, should never have become the way women get treated in the scene.  I’m on your side with all of that.  But I’m a Gizmos fan, and I just read them a little differently than you.  I thought it would be fun to dig in, so I jumped to the offensive.  I thought you were giving off a ‘let’s gnash teeth for a bit’ kind of vibe.  I didn’t mean to jump the gun.”

As I wrapped up, the waitress arrived with another set of drinks.  “Thanks,” I offered, and handed her a $10 for a tip.

Sam sipped her cocktail, a whiskey sour.  “So you have a problem with the story of proto-punk as told by Samantha Drake.  This I gotta hear.”

“Not a problem, just an observation.  I thought your story on Debris was fascinating, and the MX-80 bit was amazing.  For someone who couldn’t have seen Suicide in their original incarnation, you have a  pretty exhaustive understanding of those early days.  I really got the sense that I was at a Rocket From The Toombs practice session, and that was pretty amazing.  And your take on The Residents is incredible.”

She smiles.  “Mr. Little, I had no idea you were so good at foreplay.”

“You should see me around a turntable.”  I puffed on my cigarette.  “My point is, I think you do all of them a huge disservice by trying to place them in some sort of archeological context when it comes to the overall narrative arc of… wait for it… Rock and Roll, with capital Rs.”

Sam looked at me quizzically.  “Look, I’m flattered that you actually read the blog.  If anyone even gives my stuff the time of day, it’s often just the podcast, and then to argue with me about how I’m wrong, or that they think I sound hot from my voice, or whatever creepy thing they’re onto that day.  But I can actually say that no one has ever actually wanted to talk to me about the stuff I write in the blog.”

“Wow… now I feel like the weirdo.”

“No, you shouldn’t.  It’s just… you just went up slightly in my esteem.”

“Well, I have a lot of ground to cover.”

“So what’s wrong with Rock and Roll?”

“Not what’s wrong with it, but the story that’s told.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“We The People.”

“Okay, I know you’re not talking about the line from the Constitution.  Yes, the Florida band?”

I nodded.  “Where would you place them in the grand narrative arc of music.”

“They’re a Nuggets group.”

“Because Rhino lumped them into the boxed set with a million other bands.”

“They have a garage sound.”

“Initially.  But the end of their run, they were starting to get a little heavy, and a little fast.  Not enough to make a difference in their time, but with hindsight, it seems as if they are doing something that is more like Blue Cheer than Bill Haley, dig?”

Sam sighed.  “I hate guys who say ‘dig.’”

“But the problem with history after the fact is that is misses the whole point of the Rock & Roll virus.  Once the idea is airborn, a linear path of transmission is no longer possible.  There isn’t a throughline that goes from Little Richard to Taylor Swift that accounts for all the random permutations and juxtapositions that tweakers in a garage in Bloomington in the ‘70’s.”

Sam took a drink and chewed her lip for a moment.  “I don’t think that there’s a throughline, but the thing that unites everyone who picks up a guitar is that they are aware of the fact that Elvis was a very real artist that made music.  It’s like that John Flansburgh quote: ‘Once people hear this it’s going to be hard to deny that we are Beatles fans.’  Your influences are unconscious, perhaps, but you can’t just create music in a bubble.  The instrument itself carrying a symbol and meaning that you can’t strip from it.”

I nodded.  “Yes, everything is intertextual, for sure.  Let me put it another way.  What do you call Link Wray’s Music?”

“I love Link Wray!  I call it Link Wray’s music.”

“But what genre is it?”

She gave me a raspberry, and said, “We both know genre is bullshit.”

I tapped the table.  “Exactly!  So when five guys get together in a garage and plug their instruments in, you know that the auteur theory of rock and roll is that together they chart a path through the topographical oceans, or whatever bullshit they create for each other.  But they don’t sit there and say, ‘let’s invent noise rock, or garage-soul, or whatever.’  They have all been infected by the idea of Rock and Roll, this powerful notion that says, ‘synthesize everything around you and filter it through this simple, three-chord format that allows you to churn out hip-shaking sounds when played just the right way.’”

Sam shook her head, “No, that pre-supposes that rock and rollers are all aware enough to filter their interests into music.  You think KISS was self-aware enough to know what they were doing?  They wanted girls and coke and handjobs, period.  It’s the intertextual nature of the guitar in a rock milieu that created KISS, because glam was the next iteration of this story cycle.”

I shook my head.  “I just don’t agree.  I don’t see the guys in MX-80 sitting around, intentionally trying to ‘be’ protopunk.  I see them all sitting around in a room, getting high, and churning out what they thought were amazing riffs, trying to piece it all together until they felt the song was ready.  The weirdness of those songs speaks to a vision not bound by their place in a narrative, but by the whims of some random guys who just so happened to be friends.”

Sam chewed her lip.  “So everything is random, chance?  There is no meaning or bigger picture, but just pointless acts that exist in a vacuum, isolated from each other?”

“No exactly.”  I puffed on my cigarette.  “Here’s a long shot: The Flaming Lips.”

Sam did not take her eyes off of my, but took a sip of her drink.

“These guys clearly had the influence of middle American squarely on the tips of their tongues.  They are the epitome of DIY.  And their mutation of punk was just their cultural melange, the stew they were soaking in.  Yes, they are influenced by the sweep of history.  A decade earlier or later and they would have been a different band, for sure.  But it is their interpretation of the virus that makes them interesting, not their place in the story.  They are their own thing.  To try and place them in a larger swing or story that involves someone else leading to them, and then to someone else entirely, diminishes the importance of a story like theirs.  Without room for them to have grown and created their own mythology, then their place in something bigger becomes meaningless, a footnote.”

I took a sip from my bourbon, and looked back at her.  “What do you want for dinner?”

She smiled.  “You.”

“I’m a meat-eater.  I taste terrible.  What about thai?”

“I’m sure we’ll get to thigh soon enough.”

I picked up a menu and said, “I have a feeling they might even have something here we could agree on.”

She nodded and took a drink.  “That’s for sure.  I have an old VHS player back at my house.”

“And what about a full kitchen where neither of us have to cook?”

“We can order in.”

I sipped my bourbon, and pointed to it with my other hand.  “But I just got started.”

She frowned.  “I don’t like waiting.”

I handed her a menu across the table.  “Look, why don’t we get a bite, have a few more, and then I can feel like I earned going home with you.”

Sam gave me her bedroom eyes again, then glanced down at the menu.  “Alright.  But I get very unhappy if I don’t get my way.”

“And I have no intention of disappointing you.  But not on an empty stomach.”

“Okay,” she said, a little more playfully.  I motioned to the waitress and we reviewed the menu together.

“Yes,” she asked?

Sam said, “Gimme another drink, and a BAMF with salad and tots.”

“And you?”

“A Luna, salad and tots on the side, and a double-shot of bourbon.”

“Got it.”

I let the silence hang there for a bit as I rolled another cigarette.

“It would be nice to watch that tape with you later,” she finally said.

And that told me everything I needed to know about who had the upper hand now.

(A Detective Dexter Roland Adventure)

7: Rolling Stoned. (Part 1)

I was fairly familiar with the police shakedown routine, and I usually learned more during those interactions than I would under normal circumstances.  In any given situation the cop is the most dangerous guy in the room, so it is often better to wrestle with a known quantity than anything else on-hand.  If Fish wanted to play alpha-male around me, then so be it.  I’ve spent my whole life being a small cod in a large ocean, just on the outside enough to get squeezed out by the “real deal,” and I couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that they have no clue what’s going on.

I wonder how often Fish is referred to is Vigoda?

I climbed into my Truck and threw my bag up on the bench.  I rolled a cigarette and turned on the radio, and KLOW continued with douchey indie-rockers trying to out-hip each other on the rarity of the import, the obscurity of group, or the cocaine glitter sprinkled all over the tunes.  Music like this was hard to milk for any substantive magic, save for a glamour or two, but the problem with vapid bullshit is that buried deep within all of it are the occasional gems that can really bring in the big spells.  For someone in my position, listening to the radio actually works great for a case like this.  I’m sure I’ll need to add a third – and possibly fourth – identity before the night was over.

I lit the cigarette but watched as various people dispersed from the area.  Diamond was long gone, but I suspected I would see him again soon enough.  Dickheads like him seem to pop up at the worst times.  Fish & Fred motored off, and I watched as I puzzled over everything that had been going on.  I scribbled a few notes on an index card and shoved it in the pile with the rest.  I rummaged around in my bag and pulled out the Crispin Glover CD Robert gave me, turned on the cab light in the truck, and looked at it.  The writing on it was the same as the writing on the station CDs in their library – N & P, for No Play, a way of cataloging albums and songs to communicate to the DJs what you can and can’t play on the air.  This disc belonged in the station, and Robert led me straight here.

Straight to what seemed like a terrible scene in a detective movie.  Another performance?

I opened the CD again and pulled out the liner notes.  Aside from what I assume was there when the album was released, there was a small “review” taped in there by one of the DJs, largely panning the review, but cited “Auto-Manipulator” and a pre-cursor to the rap-rock phenomena of the mid-’90’s.  Something caught my eye on the disc, and as I removed it from the CD from the case, a piece of paper fell out, with a phone number on it.  But the thing that had caught my eye was the two letters hand-printed on the paper inside the center-hole that held the CD in place.  I shook the case, and to my surprise, it sounded as if there was something inside the case.  I pried it apart, and found that inside there was another photograph of the person from the group Dig Your Grave, who I now knew was their drummer Angie thanks to their Wikipedia entry, who was also, conveniently, an employee of You Spin Me Right Round Records who likes to have sex in Johnny’s old office.

I switched off the light and continued to puff on my cigarette, letting all of this sink into place.  I looked at the phone number again, entered it into my phone as “Crispin Glover,” then put everything back in my bag.  Angie.  This wasn’t a coincidence, and Robert directing me here was certainly his intention.  Either there’s more to Angie than I already suspected, or Robert is working double-time to make it look that way, which was just as interesting.  Angie was probably only really guilty of being promiscuous and attractive, which can been an albatross for a lot women.  Jealousy – perhaps she’s not into Robert? – could be motivating him framing her.  Musicians and record stores go together like peanut butter & rice crackers, and her being connected to both is not a conspiracy, but the sign of a good music scene.

It was clear that whoever answered the phone when I called Mr. Glover back was going to be more relevant than I thought.  “The Big Problem ≠ The Solution. The Solution = Let It Be.”  I also realized that, no matter who answers that phone, that it wouldn’t even be close to the one behind all of this.

Accounting for traffic and other hold-ups, I would still be incredibly early (by my own standards) for my rendezvous with Sam, and considering how hot-to-trot she had been all day, it was likely I could be very late and she would still be there.  As I pieced a lot of this together, Darren exited the radio station, and began walking toward a car.  I dialed Mr. Glover’s number using the *67 prefix, but Darren made no sign of receiving a call, or what playing it incredibly cool if he was.  I hung up and started the truck.  It had been a while since I’d tailed anyone, and it seemed like it was a good idea to see if I could do it in a beast of a vehicle like this.

Darren walked to a very-used Honda CRX that he crawled into and drove off in.  With traffic as bad as it was, it was easy enough to wedge yourself behind one other car and follow someone without them getting too suspicious.  Of course it looks like the car behind you is following you very slowly.  Everyone is angry and tense because the traffic sucks.  Everything looks like you’re not moving at all.  So long as I let a new car occasionally get in between us as his immediate traffic bubble changed, I was able to keep up with him easily, and a simple glamour did what our own human frailties weren’t already covering.

Darren eventually drove up to an apartment complex, hopped out and ran up to his pad.  I sat in the truck and decided to wait for a bit.  If things got really dull, I could splitsville, but it was early enough that I just hung back a block and enjoyed the show.

It wasn’t long before something happened.  From a side street someone walked directly toward Darren’s car.  It seemed to be the silhouette of a man, but from this distance it could be anyone.  I got out of the truck and moved a little closer to improve my view.  The silhouette closed the gap between it and Darren’s car, and opened the door as if Darren hadn’t locked the doors.  (And with a CRX, why would you?)  I got a bit closer, but could only make out the silhouette setting something on the steering wheel.  The silhouette close the door quickly, and I returned to my truck.  It seemed as if I had stumbled upon a much more interesting quarry.

I targeted the silhouette and began to creep in the truck, doing my best to hide the sound of the engine and the lights while still allowing myself to drive.  The silhouette moved quickly, and I followed him to a bicycle, which he hopped on, and rode very quickly in the same direction.  I continued following him, but after a few twists and turns, he rolled into a lot for a real estate agency that was a mile or so away, where the silhouette opened a side door, hoisted up the bike, and walked in.

I sat for a moment.  There was only so far I could keep going with tailing people this evening, and I’d already interrupted one steakout to land myself in a second.  I pulled out an index card, took some notes about where I was, then rolled back to Darren’s apartment.

Miraculously, time was on my side, because I returned as he was just opening the door of, and getting back into, his car.  I could just make out that he took something off the steering wheel, and then sat in his car for bit longer than you would normally to start the car up.

I already had a lot to work with now, but as I was already pointed in the right direction, and it seemed as if Darren was too, I decided to keep following him on lark.  As I didn’t have a place of my own in this town, it didn’t make any sense to try and make myself up for getting together with Sam.  There was no way I was going to look anywhere as good as she would when I got there, and it didn’t sound like she wanted to spend much time in the light, anyway, if I was reading all her signals correctly.  I knew that it was going to be really easy for her to play me like a chump, and I was partially attempting to brace myself against that very real possibility.  If I was honest with myself, women like here were always going to be a problem for me.  Certain curves, certain sounds, certain conversations, and I’ll build you the tower of babel if you’d just touch it for me once in awhile.

KLOW sang at me, “I got an uncontrollable urge I wanna tell you all about.  An uncontrollable urge that makes me scream and shout.”

Traffic was getting interminable, and when it looked like I was about 20 minutes away, I noticed that Darren was still right in front of me.  I lit one of the joints that Miles gave me and rolled down the window.  It had been a while since I had gone to a place like this, and the coolest of the cool 20-somethings would be thick as the morning fog, rolling in around me to consume every table, chair and inch of the bar like plague rats.  It was probably a good idea for me to build up a bit of a bubble around me, to steel myself for this experience.

As I finally got to the Shanghai Tunnel, there was absolutely no parking anywhere in the vicinity.  I stubbed out the joint, and drove for another 15 minutes looking for parking quite a ways away.  I grabbed my bag, locked the truck, and began walking slowly toward the bar.  It was a pleasant night, dark and breezy, but not cold.  There were plenty of young people out, wandering to this place or that place, the city alive with activity and booze.  You could feel people dancing here or cheering there.  Movies and bands and performers of every variety all vied for a few precious hours of your time to offer you a moment of joy and excitement amid the long days of abject boredom and discomfort.

The Shanghai Tunnel began life as a small room, with an inexplicable kitchen a floor beneath.  The name was no joke; the kitchen had been built into the actual shanghai tunnels that criss-crossed the underbelly of the city, actually used by pirates and sailors in the old days to get cargo and people back and forth between the docks and the entertainment district.  Every imaginable story you can think of really did happen in those tunnels, and in some parts of the city, still do.  Over the years, the owners dug out more of the tunnel that surrounded the kitchen, until they carved out another bar, then another side room, then a third, etc.  These days, the place is a rabbit’s warren of activity and degenerate behavior, and with so much space, it is hard for even the bartenders and staff to keep an eye on everything.  It was a good place to know about if you wanted to score drugs, make connections, or have a one-night stand, and while the cool kids like to think that they can hang out in a “dangerous” bar just like everyone else, the very real dangers that are reputed to happen are actually going to a Gun Club soundtrack.

As I got closer, I slowed down and rolled a cigarette.  I decided to hang back and finish the smoke, and let the night air soak into my hat and clothes before springing it on her.  Sam was no idiot, and she was reading me as much as I, her, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she already knew I wasn’t Marcus Little, and probably a lot more.  It would be odd, in fact, if she hadn’t already pieced it together.  It was possible that she was getting ready to ply me for something she was trying to figure out, and I decided long ago that I would hold fast to my cover as an earnest Mission of Burma fan, which was not at all difficult to feign.  For all I knew, she was going to ambush me, and as I considered this, I saw Darren walk right into The Tunnel, too.  Astounding.  No matter how much I was trying, the case wouldn’t let me STOP working on it.

The Shanghai Tunnel, as you approach it, has a walled off outdoor patio, with lighting and tables for those who cannot consider the idea of drinking without a cigarette.  An upstairs bar was being manned by a woman I knew from another lifetime ago, a tall and powerful looking person with hair and tattoos that spoke of how much you should not fuck with her, and I remember our time together being intimidating and a bit wild, which was exactly as advertized by what she projected.  She hadn’t made me yet, but I was certainly going to have to make sure I don’t slight her by pretending I hadn’t noticed she was there.

Beyond the upstairs bar are a pair of restrooms, and on the right is a staircase that descends to where the kitchen and the rest of the place spread out from.  A second bar was there to accommodate the further drunks that you found spread out through the Tunnel.  I could see Darren perched at an outside table, but looking at the door into the Tunnel, not exactly a fool when it comes his job, but certainly made him a poor tail, for sure.  The only other way into the bar was through an employee service entrance, and as confident as I was that I could probably bluff my way through it again, I knew that it wasn’t worth it to blow my wad on taking a risk this early in the evening.

I pulled out an index card traced its outline while muttering the words to “Hangin’ On The Telephone,” and when it began to shimmer like a Cell Phone screen, I clipped a $20 to it, tapped the card with my phone, and floated it to Carla, the bartender.  It moved slowly toward her as I furiously typed away on my own phone, and when it was close enough to her, I moved my arm down slowly, so it would land on her bar.  It wasn’t much longer before she noticed it, the money, and the message I’d just furiously hammered out on the screen:

“How much more for you to bounce the bearded kid out front?  – Dex.”

Carla looked up and glanced around, until she noticed me poking my head out around the corner, waving in her direction.  She glanced around until she made Darren, wrinkled her nose, then typed out, “I’ll buy you a drink provided you don’t want anything.”

I smiled.  She pocketed the money, and set the card on the bar, which shifted back to its normal form.  Carla walked over to the bouncer, whispered something in his ear, and returned to her station.  The bouncer has a large and intimidating man who seemed to only to frown.  While I could not hear the exchange between Darren and this man, I could imagine it quite well, and before long the bouncer had his hands on Darren’s shoulder, urging him to get up and leave with all speed.  I made eye contact with Carla, and when Darren was finally gone, I waltzed in and took a seat at her bar.

I slapped a $20 on the bar and said, “Make it a good shot of bourbon, please.”

“No problem,” and she poured out a very healthy shot.  “Now, do I let you keep this, or are you here on business?”

“Pleasure, but while I’m here…”

She snatched the other $20 and said, “Jesus, you never give up.”

“It’s not what is seems like.”

“You’re lucky I’m not busy and I enjoyed ruining that hipster’s night.”

“I’m also lucky that you’re a beautiful woman who never saw fit to give me what I really deserved.”

“Ah, Dex, it’s like you sort of grew up, but still don’t get it, do you?”  She patted me on the head, and smiled.  “I was such a sucker for your magic.”

“And I was lucky that you didn’t break my arm like you threatened.”

“You were a horse’s ass, that’s for sure.”

“Compared to your’s it was hard to look like anything but.”

She smiled again.  “Okay, you’ve softened me up, but if I don’t like what you’re poking at, I’ll expect bigger tips.”

“You Spin Me Right Round.”

“Like a Record Store, baby, I dig.  What about it?”

I shrugged.  “I’m only just getting to know the place.  Good selection.”

Carla winced.  “That fuckin’ cunt.”

“What?”

“So you’re here to meet Sam.”

“And why didn’t you want to be partners with me in this?  You were always better at making connections than I was.”

“She’s downstairs,” Carla said, coldly, and turned away from me.

“C’mon,” I said, then sipped my shot.  “It’s not like that.”

“It is like that.  I saw how she was dressed.”

“What about Miles?”

“Why do you want to know about him?”

I shrugged again.  “He’s like a father to me.”

Carla narrowed her eyes.  “So it’s like that, is it?”

“Well, until I can figure out what’s really going on.”

Carla laughed.  “And that’s why Darren…”

“What?  Do you know something?”

“No, no.  I just thought you were in the Detective business, not trying to climb the pretentiousness ladder.”

I smiled, and pulled out the Mission Of Burma tape.  “Hey, climbing has its perks.”

Carla saw the name on the tape and bristled.  “Little?  Oh shit, you are in deep.”

“Excuse me?  Who is he?  What’s going on here?”

Carla glanced around, then looked me dead in the eyes, “I don’t know much, and I shouldn’t even be telling you this much, but I can say: Little is trouble.  Gang shit, from what I hear.  Often just a delivery man, but I suspect that he might be more.”

I raised an eyebrow, drained the glass, and tapped the side of it, into which she poured more as we continued.  “I see.  And yet, he shops at You Spin Me Right Round?”

“Have you met Angie yet?”

“Dig Your Grave?”

Carla tapped the side of her nose.  “I saw her here once, and Zorn said she was waiting for a Little.  He didn’t show.  She split.  Not much to go on, but we suspect they’re chummy.”

I sipped reflectively.  “I was starting to wonder if Little was real, or something I made up.”

Carla laughed.  “Maybe a little of each, from the sounds of it.”

I produced another index card and began writing.  “It’s funny, you don’t own me shit, and yet you’re perfectly straight with me.  It could be Darren having this conversation with you, and me snooping around the staff entrance looking for another way in.  What gives?”

She looked me up and down, and said, “No way I’d let that fuckstain talk to me.  I have some… fond memories of you, even if you were a pussy” and her bedroom eyes landed on me in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.  I looked at her for a moment.

“Yeah, those were great times that I wouldn’t mind living again.”

“Fuck off.  When you’re ready to drop everything and go to Machu Pichu with me, we can consider it.”

 

(A Detective Dexter Roland Adventure)

6: Sound Salvation

Getting to The Radio Station took longer than I anticipated, even with the traffic I suspected would be a hassle.  After a cigarette and some less-sexy thoughts to calm me down, I lit a flare I found in the trunk (which I was surprised was even there) and put it up on the road near where I “skidded” off.  It was a bit longer before someone stopped to tell me they couldn’t help, and still longer after that before someone who lived on the Island came to see what was up, and offered genuine help in the way of coffee and a blanket, as by now my feet were wet from inspecting the car.  The gentleman by the name of Tom stayed with me until the tow truck arrived, and even offered to help with the driver laughed and suggested that the three of us push the car out, which might be faster.  One changed tire and a jump later, the Bug was up and running again, and further inspection from Tom revealed that it would, most likely, continue to run for me for the time being, but he recommended that I take it in as soon as possible.

I thanked everyone involved, and before I left sent a photo of the car (pre-river removal) to texted Sam, “I’m wet with anticipation.”

It seemed like too much effort to call in a hit-and-run just yet, and I wanted to let the Deluxe Drivers feel as if I’ve been “taken care of” for the time being.  I made a quick call to a friend who lived in the area, and he agreed to let me swap cars for the time being, an old Ford Pickup, for a few days, and after a quick vehicle exchange, made it to KLOW, and managed to leave myself with plenty of time to be fashionably late for my meeting with Sam.  In spite of what I was sure to find to be exciting texts from her, I decided to leave things hanging for the moment and ignore everything from her until we met in person.

Like every radio station I’d ever been to, this one was difficult to locate, in a small and shitty space, and appeared more like a dentist’s office on the outside than it did a place where music would be.  Outside of the few big broadcasters in any given area, every other radio station in the world starts out in a closet, and if it has a door, it is nearly always somewhat sketchy.  This was no exception.  While KLOW was supposed to be a heavy-hitter in the area, and a lot of people I knew listened, access to the station itself was down a side street, turning down an alley, and beneath the light of an ill-maintained lamp, a simple sign showed the letters K L O W.  Had I known there wouldn’t be parking, I would have hoofed the last block, but as a police car was blocking my ability to pull through, I backed back to the street in a dimly-lit place in a huge truck I was not used to driving, and experience that 100% sobered me from all of my chemical intake that day.  I popped a piece of cinnamon gum in my mouth and entered the station.

KLOW was no exception when it came to the interior.  A few hanger-ons were sitting in various locations in the station, headphones on, laptops out, ironically not listening to the station.  Every imaginable surface was covered in graffiti or a poster for some album, and the rock-club visual stimuli was offset by the out-of-context, bright fluorescents that illuminated the room far too well, revealing how pale everyone was.  Various rooms led off from the main area, and above one in-particular an “On Air” sign was lit up, and through the window the animated figure of Frankie was working his magic.  Through another window, two people were seated around a microphone, chatting away, and through a third an engineer was working the faders.  Pacing around one corner was a guy with an acoustic guitar, mumbling to himself the words to a song he clearly wrote, and was about to play.  Another DJ was peering into the window where Frankie was working, and you could hear the faint sound of Frankie wrapping up his show for the day.  Amid all of this two cops were standing, very much sticking out in a room they did not belong.  One was a detective and the other, a beat cop, to whom a kid with a beard and tattoos was giving his full attention.

As the door closed behind me, the sound triggered a comical turning of heads that all rotated to meet my wandering gaze.  I waved, and lost the attention of nearly everyone.  “Can I help you?” asked the bearded kid.

“No,” I rejoined, and continued glancing around the studio.  This seemed to annoy the kid, but the detective did not care one way or another, and said, “and you didn’t hear the caller at all?”

“Hey, I didn’t know anything about this until you guys showed up!” and the kid threw up his hands, as if giving up.

“Relax, you’re not in trouble, kid,” said the Detective, and the beat cop began to walk in my direction.

“Is that you, A-” he began, but I cut him off.

“Fred!” I said in a hopefully-recognizable tone, and I thrust my hand in his as I grabbed him near the shoulder.  “It’s Marcus, you remember?”

Fred rolled his eyes and said, “What, are you a DJ now?”

“You know how it is, in this economy,” and behind us, the Detective and the bearded kid continued, clearly getting frustrated with each other.

“I know your economy, anyway.  Are you still -”

“When the money’s right.”

“And did the money lead you here?”

“Well, Frankie did, anyway.”

Fred shook his head.  “You might want to steer clear of this, then.  He just called us.”

“What?” was all I could get out, but before I could continue plying Fred with my innocent routine, Frankie burst out of the studio, his feathered hair and make-up hiding his true age, who was ready for his second performance of the day.

“Detective Fish, thank god you’re here,” Frankie belted out.  “I received another call today, while on THE AIR.  Hope you’re here to tell me when this is going to stop.  A professional like me just can’t deal with this terror plaguing him every time he comes to work.  What kind of police force is this that can’t catch a criminal like this?”

I laughed, with so many handles on this suitcase presenting itself.  But this caught Frankie’s attention, who looked over in my direction.  “Who are you?”

Fred stepped in, and said, “This is, uhm, Marcus…”

“Little,” I offered, with my had.  “Long time listener.”

Frankie started saying, “You’re n-” then cut himself off.  “Marcus Little, you said?  Interesting.”

The Detective was uninterested in me, and turned to Frankie.  “What did he say this time?”

Frankie rolled his eyes and adopted a condescending tone.  “If you’d been listening to me all this month, you’d know that the voice is in the kind of whisper that masks its gender.”  Frankie shook his head, then looked at me and mouthed, “Can you believe these guys?”

“What did THEY say, Diamond?”

Frankie sat down on the nearest couch and produced a long, thin cigarette.  “THEY, as you say, said that I had made some poor choices recently, and if I didn’t change my ways, I would pay for it.”  One of the hanger-ons seated on the couch extended a lighter, obliged Frankie, and returned to their headphone and laptop.

“Have you considered the advice?” I asked.

The Detective turned to me, and said, “I’m sorry, but I’ll ask the questions.”

“THANK YOU, Detective,” said Frankie.

I looked at Fred, then turned to walk to the other couch to seeth.

It was clear that Diamond was a problem for everyone, and that his presence in the room is enough to command the kind of patience you need for a child. I rolled a cigarette and listened to my police-approved counterpart to see if there was anything useful or new that I could get from the situation.

“Did you take the call on the air, Frank?”

“Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“And when did the call come in, again?” asked The Detective.

“How should I know?  I’m not some magic-powered robot animated by spite and frustration.”

“Darren?” the Detective asked, and the bearded kid looked up and said, “Yes?”

“How long before we can review the archives of today’s show?”

“Shouldn’t be long,” Darren said as he turned to the office and tried to flag down the attention of someone within.  “We keep a running recording of all our shows, which post to the computer a few minutes after the show airs.  If something needs to be reviewed, or if the show goes out as a podcast too, the recordings are automatically posted to the appropriate places.”

Another kid – this one with glasses, and bicycle accoutrements – popped out of the office finally, frowned as part of his usual facial expression, and looked only at Darren.  “Yeah.”

Darren motioned again, and the kid sighed, got up, huffed and puffed the entire way over, and stood next to Darren.

The Detective looked at the faux-messenger and said, “Who are you?”

“Brandon?  Who the fuck are you?”

“Detective Fish,” he said, pulling out a badge.  Brandon looked somewhat less annoyed, but still put out to be standing there.  Fish let the silence build for a moment.

“And?” asked Brandon?

Darren pipped up, “Brandon is our tech director.  Handles the gear, the recordings, the website, and everything that makes KLOW work.

The Detective looked over at his partner.  “Fred, work with this kid here and get the archive of the show so we can review the call.”  Then, looking at Brandon.  “Make sure we get Frank’s show, in full, and try not to show too much contempt for me if you know what’s good for you, huh?”

Brandon sighed, but did not make eye contact with anyone else, nodded toward Fred, then went into a different office door, through which a few computers and other pieces of gear were visible.  Fred turned to me, shook his head, and followed him.

“Look, Frank,” started the Detective.

“Look, nothing!” shouted Frankie.  “This is at least the 8th time this has happened, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m the only one taking this case seriously.”

“I assure you, I’m giving this case exactly the right amount of seriousness, considering the circumstances,” the Detective offered flatly.

“So why hasn’t this person been caught?” demanded Frankie.

The Detective’s tone got deeper and quieter suddenly.  “Now you listen here, Frankie.  No one has died, and no crime has been committed.”

“Yet!” Frankie insisted.

“But one is about to happen if you don’t watch your tongue!”  Frankie turned and looked at me, then motioned to the Detective with his eyes.  “We take threats like this like we do all our other investigations, and we try to solve the case, rather than arrest everyone who listens to your show.  Which we should probably get around to doing anyway, as they’re probably all guilty of something much worse.”

Frankie bristled, but I merely puffed away on my cigarette and enjoyed the show.

“Now, shall we talk about the number of phone calls you’ve had to the police, recently?  How often you threaten us when we don’t take immediate action?  How often you send back the beat cops and insist on an actual Detective to show up?  There are laws against abusing the public resources that we offer, and there’s plenty of room in my car if you want to go for a ride.”

Frankie flicked his ashes silently, but said nothing.

“How does You Spin Me Right Round fit into your regular show, Frankie?” I asked from the other couch.

“Who wants to know?  I mean, really, who are you?”

“Answer the question, Frankie,” the Detective prodded, and turned to give me a look.

“The station has a long-standing deal with them, to get records for air-play.”  Frankie suddenly looked worried.  “No no, not that.  Not payola, or anything!  They support us, we support them.”

Darren piped up, “If we mention them on air a certain number of times, we get new records from them in trade, that the DJs use to program their shows.  I have the Underwriting Paperwork if you’d like to see it.”

“FRED!” yelled The Detective.

Fred poked his head out of the other office.  “Yes?”

“When you’re done, team up with this kid for this Underwear Paperwork, or whatever,” The Detective said.

“Your on-air friendship with Miles & Robert seems fairly chummy for someone who is just working with their business, professionally,” I continued.

The Detective turned to me fully and asked, “Little, is it?”

“Marcus, yes,” I said.

“Cram it, Little,” he commanded, then turned back to Frankie.  “Is there a conflict of interest here?” he asked, to both Darren & Frankie.

Darren shook his head, while Frankie said, “I’ll pretend you didn’t suggest that I would stoop to something like that.  I know Miles, and Sam, too.”  Frankie looked at me suddenly, then looked away.  “Professionally.  I would never use my status here to abuse that relationship,” he said to Fish.  “That seems like something a…” and he turned back to me, “lesser person would do.”

It was clear to me that Frankie and Miles were connected, and that was enough for me to let that stew and percolate as the evening progressed.  I looked at the time, and while it was still a while before I was supposed to meet Sam, with traffic and finding a place to park the truck, I thought it would be best to avoid the continued abuse, and motor.

I stood up, but Fish turned to me, and with the smallest of gestures urged me to sit back down.  Clearly, I was next.  I drew on my cigarette and let it out with a sigh.  This is what I get for sticking my nose in.

Frankie was starting to feel as if he was no longer the center of attention, and decided to continue.  “If we are finished here, Detective, I would like to go.”  Then, directed at me and Darren, “See, I’ve been working all day, and I’d like to get home, get some food, put my feet up, and pray that these phone calls don’t keep me from falling asleep tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re all worried about your sleep, Diamond,” Fish muttered.  “You.  Little.”  And, he pointed.  “Stay on that couch, and don’t move a muscle.  FRED!?”  This time he moved his entire body out of the office where Brandon was hammering away.  “We good?”

“We will be.  Just need to get the paperwork from this guy,” and directed his thumb toward Darren.

“I’m gonna walk the legendary Frankie Diamond to his car,” continued The Detective, who then turned and led Frankie out of the station.  On his way to Darren’s office, Fred gave me a glance that conveyed everything and nothing.

I stood up, and began to wander around the station, looking at all the crap on the walls.  On small end-tables and any flat surface, unfiled albums sat around, continuing the visual motif of rock and roll that could not be containing by a mere 40,000 Watts of power.  I stubbed out my cigarette and began looking at things in that way that you do when you are killing time, and it was in this state of mind that I glanced around and noticed a photograph on a wall with another familiar face in it, a woman’s.  There was a phrase on the photo – Dig Your Grave – and it took me a moment or two to piece together what it could mean.

I wandered over to the stacks of CDs and looked for the Ds, but before I could get any further, two letters stood out, written in pen on the back of another album.  Gears began to turn, and as I thumbed through more I found a disc labeled, “Dig Your Grave – Six Feet A Sunder.”  The photo matched.  I began pacing in thought, wondering what all of this pointed to, and pulled out my phone to thumb at it for a while.

Fish returned, and shouted, “Are you done with your pity party, Brandon?”  Brandon was now wearing a bike-helmet, and poked out of the tech room he and Fred had been in.  “Excuse me?”

“OUT!” commanded Fish, and Brandon grabbed his comically waterproof bag and walked out.  “Little-man.  Quit looking at Tumblr-porn and get in here.”

I acquiesced, and before I could get comfortable he snapped on an overhead light and slammed the door shut.

“Just who the fuck do you think you are, Dexter?” he snapped.

“Whew, thank you Detective, that was going to save me a ton of explaining.”

“You think you’re funny?  It’s bad enough that vapid creepoids like Diamond are always trying to rattle my cage, but you come in here during an official inquiry, start using a fake name and step all over my Waltzing Toes?  I don’t even have to come up with an excuse to lock you up, you dipshit.”

“You wouldn’t do that.  I talk too much.  I’d keep everyone up all night with my bullshit.”

“Maybe we should find out?”

“Maybe I should help you.”

Fish laughed.  “Right.  Like I need you to find a crank caller.  For all I know it’s my 13 year old, bored out of his head because I took away his Atari or whatever.”

“Well then, case clased.  Wanna get a drink?”

“Cut the crap, Roland.  I know who you are, and I know your reputation.  You think Fred is the only person who used to work with you?  Cops talk, you know.”

“Right.  You stitch-n-bitch is well attended.”

Fish slapped me.  I absolutely deserved it, but I decided to feign that it actually hurt.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m on a job.”

“For who?”

“Now, you know I can’t tell you that?  My client -”

“Your client.  Shit.  Really, Dexter?”

“- wants me to look into a few things, all above board.  Frankie is a person of interest.”

“Fuck Frankie, he doesn’t know shit.”

“Perhaps.  He’s already said plenty.”

“Then you know who’s been calling him?”

“I’m afraid that I don’t know.”

Fish chewed his lip.  “Maybe we should go downtown.  Tampering with a police investigation is more than enough at this point.”

With one hand I began swishing back and forth, creating a metronome effect, and started to draw off of the massive collection of albums in the station.  A small burst of energy formed in my fingers, and I conjured a quick spell.

I pulled out my Green Lantern Fan Club card from my wallet with my energiezed fingers, and handed it to Fish.  “Look, I have a current Private Investigator’s licensce.”  I pulled out an ATM reciept.  “And here’s a reciept, showing I was paid in full by my client, who prefers to remain anonymous at this time.”  I let that sink in for a beat.  “I don’t carry a gun or any weapons, I have current ID for the truck I’m driving.”

“It’s a truck, now?”

“Long story.  The point is, I’m just doing my job.  In about an hour, I will clock off, and you won’t see me again until I pick up again in the morning.  I have a lawyer, who’s quite familiar with getting me out of Jail, too, so if you’d like to waste the entire evening with this Waltz, as you call it, be my guest.  Let’s do it.”

Fish handed back to bullshit I’d foisted on him, and looked at me again.  “You’re a suspect at this point, Dexter.”

“That’s fine.  I don’t like you much, either.  But you know I can’t withhold relevant information about the case from you without making myself an accessory to the crime, and and believe me, if I knew anything about your 13 year old kid making prank calls, I would have mentioned it ages ago.”

Fish glared at me.  “What’s your point?’

“I’m investigating a case involving the record store, and Frankie has enough connections to that store to make him a person of interest.  But, to my knowledge, he’s done nothing wrong, and might not even be involved in the case.  I was dropping by to see if those connections led anywhere.”

Fish mulled this over.  “This is the first I’m hearing about a record store, but you’re right.  It probably has nothing to do with the crank calls.”  Fish chewed his lip, then put his hand on the door to open it.  “If I can’t get in touch with you when I need to, so help me, there will be an APB for your ass issued quicker than you can say ‘radio.’  Capiche?”

“My ass, Detective?  Why not the whole body?”

Fish threw open the door and yelled, “FRED!  Let’s get out of here.”  Fred, armed with some documents and a CDR, nodded at me, then followed Fish out of the station.  Behind him, Fish yelled, “Later, ‘Little.’ “