Chapter Twelve
The K-99 Club at Griefswalder Strasse 226 was a cavernous room with a hardwood floor and several steps down to the stage so that clubbers at the tables in back looked down at the band. The door was open when Connie and St. James arrived. A white Schumann’s delivery van was parked in front, and a man in gray coveralls was loading crates of liquor onto a hand truck.
It was four-fifteen. Connie and St. James walked in through the propped-open glass door. The empty club stretched before them, the chairs upside down on the tables, a lingering aroma of beer, schnapps, sawdust, and sweat. A couple of men sat in shadow at the bar, talking softly with the redheaded female bartender. Tiny red lights gleamed from the Marshalls on the stage. A longhaired tech tuned the guitar guided by a sound man in a little booth at the center of the room, where the floor descended.
Connie walked up to the sound booth. St. James followed. Sensing her presence, the sound man turned. He was a prematurely balding and rotund man with a pale baby face and a bad comb-over. “Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” he said.
“Do you speak English?” Connie said.
The sound man stared at her and licked his lips. “Yes. How can I help you? We’re not really open.”
Flashing a dazzling smile, Connie held out her embossed and laminated In Crowd Reporter card, a purely ceremonial offering that nevertheless had a profound effect on people. “I’m Connie Cosgrove of In Crowd magazine, and this is my associate Ian St. James. Ian’s father is Oaian St. James. We’d like to see him.”
The man smiled nervously and sweated. “I have nothing to do with that. I’m just the sound man.”
“Aren’t they coming down to tune their own instruments?”
“We have someone to do that for them. That’s what they wanted.”
“Bollocks,” St. James said. “They always tuned their own instruments. Now I don’t think that bloke’s me old man. How could he be?”
“You’re welcome to purchase tickets and see the band. They start at eleven.”
One of the men drinking on the other side of the room looked their way, got up, and came toward them with an easy-rolling prison stroll. St. James had his floppy hat on and was looking down at the set list taped to the sound man’s board so was not aware of the man’s approach until he was there.
“Excuse me,” the man said in Russian accented English. “Is there a problem?”
St. James looked up. Kaspar Sinaiko’s face went white and he took a step back.
“Well, hello, Kaspar. Surprised to see me?”
Kaspar slapped on a shit-eating grin. “My friend, it’s you! I was so worried when you bolted from my car the other night before I was able to drop you off. I am so relieved you are all right! I was afraid you would be hit by a car. And who is this charming creature?”
Connie held out her hand. “Connie Cosgrove, In Crowd magazine.”
Kaspar slobbered over her hand. “So you are here to see the band?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, come, come my friends! Let me buy you a drink.” Kaspar turned back toward the bar. Connie and St. James followed.
“Are you the band’s manager?” Connie said.
“Yes, yes, I’m the manager.”
They sat at the bar. Kaspar introduced them to Udo, the club’s owner, an aging hipster in a Perry Como sweater and Sinatra snap-brim fedora, and he introduced them to Brigid, the bartender, a pretty Nordic beauty with whom Kaspar obviously had a relationship.
Kaspar herded them to a table. “Come, come. Sit, sit, let us face each other like normal people. Tell Brigid what you want.”
St. James looked longingly at the ranks of liquor behind the bar. “I’ll have a Coke,” he said lugubriously. Connie ordered a coffee. Udo and Kaspar sipped schnapps.
“We’d like to interview the band,” Connie said.
Kaspar nodded. “We’ll see. The plan is to tour and build a following. The boys really aren’t into the cult of personality.”
St. James barked. “Who’s this wanker posing as me old man?”
Brigid brought the drinks. She pulled a chair over from another table and sat next to Kaspar massaging his neck. “His real name? I don’t know.”
“So you admit they’re fakes,” Connie said.
Kaspar shrugged. “I’m just the manager. I set up the gigs and make sure things go smoothly.”
“Aren’t you aware that you’re breaking copyright and trademark laws?”
“Oh, I believe there’s a statute of limitations on that.”
“Well, no,” Connie said. “Melchior has kept the copyright and trademark current. Aren’t you afraid of legal repercussions?”
Kaspar shrugged. “That is for the lawyer to decide.”
“What lawyer?” Connie said.
“Nadio Ninguna. He set up the deal.”
“Well, where is he?”
Kaspar shrugged again. He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out his thick wallet which he went through until he found what he was looking for. He handed Connie a dog-eared business card belonging to Nadio Ninguna, Intellectual and Property Rights, Barcelona and La Coruna.
“May I have this?”
“Of course.”
“May we meet the band?”
“You can see the band tonight at eleven like everybody else.”
“Boyo.” St. James gave him a bit of the old back alley. “We represent In Crowd magazine. Without In Crowd, you’re just a backwater tribute act searching for a lawsuit. Besides,” St. James smiled to let Kaspar know he was in on the joke, “that’s me father we’re talkin’ about.”
“Now, how can he possibly be your father when you are obviously older than he?” Kaspar asked sincerely.
“Well, if he’s not me father, I’d like to ask ’im where he gets off using the name.”
“You’ll have to take that up with Señor Ninguna.”
A force moved through the room, a sine wave of disturbance. St. James looked toward the door. Man. Big man striding straight at their table.