Look Alive Twenty-Five (Stephanie Plum #25)(19)

“Yes,” Raymond said. “I was a frying maniac.”

Dalia rolled her eyes and continued with her floor mopping.

“How bad is your finger?” I asked Stretch.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I just chopped the tip off. They were able to stitch it back on. I’ve done worse.”

“Once he dropped the cleaver on his toe,” Raymond said. “That was a bad time.”

“Are you able to work?” I asked him.

“Cutie pie, if I had a dollar for every time I sliced off part of a finger I’d be a rich man.”

“Okay then,” I said. “I’m going to leave for a while. I’ll be back to help with the dinner trade.”

“I’ll go with you,” Lula said.

“Me too,” Hal said.

I didn’t mind this arrangement because if I got lucky and ran across Victor Waggle, Hal would be useful. He had blond hair styled in a buzz cut, a peaches-and-cream complexion, and enough muscle to stop a freight train. Plus, he could be the wheel man, and I would get to ride in a nice clean Rangeman SUV that gobbled up gas bought by Rangeman.

“Where are we going?” Hal asked.

“The fourth block of Stark Street,” I said. “I want to talk to Martin Kammel.”

“Hey, I know that dude,” Hal said. “He’s lead guitar with Rockin’ Armpits.”

I had a moment of blank brain. Hal knew Rockin’ Armpits.

“I have one of their CDs. I got it signed,” Hal said.

“One of the Armpits, Victor Waggle, is FTA,” I said. “The only address he gave is a brick building that’s full of bullet holes and gang graffiti. It’s at the end of Stark.”

“That sounds like the Snake Pit,” Hal said. “I don’t think anyone lives there. It’s gutted inside. Only thing in it is a stage. I don’t think there’s even any plumbing.”

“Is it safe to go there?”

“I wouldn’t go there unless the band was performing. They bring in lighting, and if you pay to park no one will steal your car. That’s how they make their money . . . on the parking. And there’s a big drug market. Once in a while someone gets shot, but aside from that it’s pretty safe.”

“And you go to this?”

“I used to date a girl who was all into Rockin’ Armpits. We went to a couple Thursdays at the Pit. I haven’t been there lately.”

It never occurred to me that Hal might have a life beyond Rangeman. He was a nice guy, but he looked like he ate kale and raw meat, and his sole recreation was skinny-dipping in the ocean in January.

Hal cut across the center of the city, turned onto Stark Street, and parked on the fourth block. Kammel’s building was a narrow four-floor walkup. The stairwell was dark and smelled like urine and burrito. There were two units on the third floor. I rang the bell for 3B.

“I don’t hear no bell ringing,” Lula said. “I think his bell is broken.”

I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again. Nothing.

“Maybe you didn’t knock loud enough,” Lula said. “He could be hard of hearing being that he plays in a band. He might not be wearing his hearing aid.”

“Let me try,” Hal said.

Hal pounded on the door, and the door splintered around the lock and popped open.

“Oops,” Hal said. “My bad.”

A tall, skinny guy with a lot of curly black hair and a spider tattooed on his forehead looked out at us.

“Hey,” he said, “you broke my door.”

“Sorry,” Hal said. “It was an accident.”

“No big deal,” Spider Head said. “I’m just crashing here. It isn’t really my door.”

“Martin Kammel?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

I gave him my card. “I’m looking for Victor Waggle. He missed his court date and he needs to reschedule.”

“This is about pissing on the dog, right? We all told him he shouldn’t have done that.”

“He also stabbed two people,” I said.

“That was an accident. He was on a bad trip and got confused,” Kammel said. “Like, that could happen to anybody, right?”

“It wouldn’t happen to me,” Lula said. “Where can we find Waggle?”

“No one knows where to find him,” Kammel said. “He’s GhostMan. He’s in the wind.”

“Let’s break it down,” I said. “Where does GhostMan sleep?”

“I don’t know,” Kammel said. “He travels light and he moves around.”

“He’s homeless,” I said.

“Home is a state of mind,” Kammel said. “Some people carry their home with them.” He thumped his chest. “In their heart.”

“Is that where your home is?” Lula asked him.

“Naw,” he said. “I’m shacked up here with a crazy bitch.”

We left Kammel and went back to the Rangeman SUV.

“That was an unsatisfying experience,” Lula said. “We didn’t find out anything, and he didn’t even look like a rock star.”

I checked my notes. “We have one last band member. Russel Frick. He’s a lot older than the rest of the band. Works as a bagger at Food Stuff.”