Petra stepped in farther and looked around some more and smiled at the bouncer.
“Yeah?” He folded thigh-sized forearms over his sumo belly. His skin was the pink-gray of raw pork sausage. A brocade of tattoos turned the arms into kimono sleeves. Prison art and finer work. A swastika graced the back of his neck.
He hadn’t been one of the interviewees on Baby Boy’s murder. She showed him the badge and asked him about that.
“I was off that night.”
She’d requested a full staff list from the management. So much for that. She showed him Shull’s photo.
“Yeah, he comes here.” Pork Sausage downed his drink, waddled behind the bar, and fixed himself another. He took a long time cutting a lime, squeezed it into the glass, then tossed the slice into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, rind and all.
“How often does he come here?” said Petra.
“Sometimes.”
“What’s your name?”
He didn’t like the question, but he wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “Ralf Kvellesenn.”
She had him spell it for her, write it down. Ralf with an “F.” Some Viking ancestor was rolling over in his grave. “Be more specific than ‘sometimes,’ Ralf.”
Kvellesenn frowned, and his greasy forehead furrowed. “Dude comes in once in a while. He ain’t a regular, I only know him because he comes on real friendly.”
“With you?”
“With the acts. Dude’s into talking to them. Between sets. He digs going backstage.”
“Is he allowed to do that?”
Kvellesenn winked. “It ain’t the Hollywood Bowl.”
Meaning a few bucks opened doors.
Petra said, “So he’s kind of like a groupie.”
Kvellesenn emitted a wet laugh. “I never seen him giving head.”
“I didn’t mean literally, Ralf.”
“Whatever.”
“You don’t seem curious about why I’m asking you about him.”
“I ain’t a curious person,” said Kvellesenn. “Curious gets you fucked up.”
She recorded Kvellesenn’s address and phone number, sat down at a bare table as he stared, took her time rereading her notes and found the name of the bouncer who’d been on the night of Baby Boy’s murder.
Val Bove.
She left the club, phoned Bove’s home number, woke him up, described Shull.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Yeah, what?”
“I know the dude you mean, but I don’ remember if he was there when Baby got offed.”
“Why not?”
“House was packed.”
“But you definitely know who I’m talking about.”
“Yeah, the professor dude.”
“How do you know he’s a professor?”
“He calls himself that,” said Bove. “He told me he was a professor. Like trying to impress me. Like I give a shit.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“Basically, he’s like ‘I’m cool.’ ‘I write books,’ ‘I play guitar, too.’ Like I give a fuck.”
“An artistic type,” said Petra.
“Whatever.” A loud yawn came over the phone, and Petra could swear she smelled the guy’s rotten breath.
“What else can you tell me about the professor dude?”
“That’s it, babe. Next time don’ call so early.”
She made careful, copious notes, was about to phone Milo, call it a day well spent, but drove to Dove House, instead. The assistant director, Diane Petrello, was at the downstairs desk. Petra had brought her a few people.
Diane smiled. Her eyes were pink-rimmed and raw. Her expression said, What now?
“Rough day?” said Petra.
“Terrible day. Two of our girls OD’d last night.”
“Sorry to hear that, Diane. They were doping together?”
“Separate incidents, Detective. Which somehow makes it worse. One was right around the corner, she’d just left for a walk, promised to come back for evening prayers. The other was in that big parking lot behind the new Kodak Center. All those tourists . . . the only reason we found out so quickly is both girls had our card in their purses, and your officers were kind enough to let us know.”
Petra showed her Shull’s photo. Diane shook her head.
“Is he involved with Erna?”
“Don’t know yet, Diane. Could I please show this to your current residents?”
“Of course.”
They trudged upstairs together and Petra began with the males—six profoundly inebriated men, none of whom recognized Shull. On the women’s floor, she found only three residents in one room, including Lynnette, the gaunt, black-haired junkie Milo had spoken to about Erna.