Yeah, Jay, why not? Sometimes I’m pretty stupid. “Because this could be dangerous,” I said, feeling again like I was in a “B” movie. At least I was telling her the truth, though.
She sobered. “Really?”
“Really. I need to speak with the club’s manager, and the last time I was here, also to speak with him, I had the feeling that I was being followed.”
“That stuff really happens?”
“Not usually, no. But this has become a pretty weird case.”
“All right,” she said, with a small nod. “I’ll stop making jokes.”
I shook my head. “No, don’t do that. I want you to have fun. I want to have fun, too. But understand that I’ll be working.” I slipped my hand into hers. “And also know that I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Wow, Fearsson,” she said, grinning. “That was damn near heroic.” She pointed to her arm. “Check it out: I have goosebumps.”
She did.
Billie started to say something else, but then stopped herself, and whispered, “Oh, crap,” instead.
I frowned, but before I could ask her what was wrong, I saw that Professor Stud from the other day was walking down the street, straight toward us.
“Hey,” I said. “Isn’t that-?”
“Joel. Yes. Don’t say anything. Maybe he won’t recognize me.”
“Billie?”
“I don’t think your disguise is very good,” I whispered.
Billie giggled. “Hi, Joel,” she said, schooling her features.
Good-looking-professor-boy stopped in front of us, glanced at me, but then turned his full attention on Billie. “I didn’t know you liked. . this kind of music.”
“Yes, very much.”
Joel opened his mouth to say more, but I stuck out my hand, and said, “Hi. Justis Fearsson. How are you?”
He shook it with some reluctance. “Fine, thank you. Joel Benfield.”
“Nice to meet you, Joel.”
“Are you with the university, Mister Fearsson?”
“No, I’m a private detective.” I used my Dick Tracy voice again. I figured I’d let him know what he was up against. Compared to private eye, professor of American history didn’t sound all that glamorous.
“Did you say your name was Justis?”
“Yeah. Kind of weird, huh? You can just call me Fearsson, though. Everyone else does.”
Billie burst out laughing.
Joel didn’t seem to know what to make of us. “Well,” he said with false brightness. “I should be going. Billie, nice to see you again.” He shot me one last less-than-friendly glance. “Nice to meet you, Mister. . uh. . Justis.”
“You, too, Joel. Take care.”
“You’re awful!” Billie said, after Benfield had walked away. But she was still laughing.
The line started to move, and a cheer went up from the college kids.
“All I did was introduce myself. You were the one who couldn’t stop giggling.”
She gave my hand a hard squeeze.
The cover charge was twenty dollars per person, which seemed a bit steep for a college band. But I didn’t let Billie pay her own way. When she objected, I shook my head. “I told you: this is business.”
Inside, Robo’s was a lot like every other college-town bar in the world. It wasn’t a big place, and I had the feeling that an accurate head count of the crowd would already put them over whatever limits Phoenix’s fire marshal had placed on occupancy. There was a bank of different-colored spotlights mounted on a scaffold above the band, a small, parquet dance floor in front of the stage, and a bunch of round, wooden tables scattered around the rest of the place, one of which was supposed to have my name on it. It was hot and loud, and it smelled of stale beer and sweat. But I could feel the excitement as soon as we stepped inside.
Electric Daiquiri started their set with a couple of up-tempo instrumentals, including the piece that I’d heard them play a few days before. They sounded great. True to her word, Billie wasted no time dragging me out on to the dance floor. Oh, well. Hadn’t I told myself that I’d be willing to take her dancing if that’s what it took to win her over? Truth is, it was kind of fun, in large part because I got to watch her. She might not have been Ginger Rogers, but she did dance very well.
“I thought you couldn’t dance,” she shouted to me at one point, her voice barely carrying over the music.
“I can’t,” I shouted back.
“Clown!” She smiled.
The first set went by quickly. Randy did most of the talking for the band, though Tilo, as the lead singer and guitarist, was the focal point of much of the music. It made sense: Tilo was a quiet kid, and Randy did a good job as front man. At one point he spotted me in the crowd and he sent a smile and nod my way. Other than that, though, both he and Tilo ignored me.
Late in the set they played a ballad that their keyboardist had written, and before I knew it, Billie was in my arms and we were dancing close.
“So why don’t you like to dance?” she asked, her breath stirring my hair and warming my neck.
“Because I look stupid doing it.”
She pulled back so that she could see my face. “Who told you that?”
“No one had to tell me. I just know it.”
She shook her head and nestled against my chest again. “You’re wrong.”
The set ended with a funky, upbeat instrumental that really got the place jumping. When they finished, the band vanished off the back of the stage, and some prerecorded music was piped through the sound system.
“That was fun,” Billie said, flushed and smiling, a fine sheen of sweat on her face. “You want a beer?”
“Sounds great. But I have to go work now.”
“Right.”
“Will you be okay?”
“Yes, Mister Fearsson,” she said, her voice like that of a dutiful schoolgirl.
I smirked.
“I’ll be fine. Go do your thing.” She smiled. “Then we can dance some more.”
“All right.”
I could see the manager’s office from the club floor. It was an elevated room with glass walls; a narrow stairway led to the door. I fought my way through the crowd toward the stairs and soon found myself face to face with a bouncer.
He was about six-four and he had the build of a professional wrestler. His head was shaved and he wore a black Robo’s t-shirt that must have been three sizes too small. He had on one of those small headsets that allowed him to communicate with the rest of security.
“Sorry, buddy,” he said, blocking the stairs. “No access beyond here.”
“I need to speak with Mister Moore,” I said. I pulled out my wallet and showed him my license. “I’m a PI and I’ve been asked by the Deegans to learn what I can about Claudia Deegan’s murder. I’m here as Randy’s guest tonight. He told me that Moore would see me.”
His entire bearing changed, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility that I might have a legitimate reason for going up those steps. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Jay Fearsson.”
“Fearsson,” he repeated. “Wait here.” He turned and went up to the office.
It occurred to me that Randy might have forgotten to mention my name to Moore, but after only a few seconds the bouncer opened the office door again and waved me upstairs.
Moore was at his desk and speaking on the phone when I entered the room, but he hung up a moment later and stood to greet me.
“Mister Fearsson,” he said, holding out a hand. He was about my height and weight, with brown curls and a receding hairline. His skin was rough and pockmarked; I guessed that he’d had bad acne as a kid.
I shook his hand and tipped my head toward the window, which offered a clear view of Robo’s stage. “Those guys are great.”
“Glad you’re enjoying the show,” Moore said. He pointed to a chair in front of his desk, and both of us sat. “Randy said you wanted to talk to me about Mike Gann.”
“That’s right.”
“He also said that you’re a private investigator, not a cop. I’m a little uncomfortable talking to you about a former employee. Especially since I’ve already told the police everything I know about him.”
“I understand,” I said. “I used to be on the force, and I know how they work. I expect my questions will be a bit different from the ones they asked you.”