Chapter Thirteen
The man reached the table and smiled. He was over six feet with a full head of dark wavy hair and a Zapata mustache, quite handsome with excellent cheekbones and big brown eyes. He wore a leather bomber jacket with a lamb’s wool collar and khakis. He looked like Captain Jack from the Scorchy Smith strip. He exuded the faint scent of some delicious alpine aroma.
“Gentlemen,” he said in a deep voice. “Federico Guttierez at your service, special envoy to Mr. Burke Melchior.”
St. James moved his chair over and indicated for the newcomer to bring a chair. “Sit down and join the party. What’re you drinking?”
“Bar is closed,” Udo said.
“Give the man a drink for Christ’s bleedin’ sake,” St. James said.
Guttierez snagged a chair and pulled it up. He looked at Kaspar. “Are you the manager?”
Kaspar stood and stuck out his hand. “Kaspar Sinaiko.”
They gripped, tight and white. Kaspar’s hand went limp and Guttierez released it.
“What’ll you have?” Kaspar said smiling and breathing hard.
“Choo got any Tecate or Dos Equis?” Guttierez said in an exaggerated Mexican accent.
“We have Tecate,” Brigid piped up helpfully.
Kaspar squeezed Brigid’s knee. “Do you mind, love?”
Brigid rose. “Of course not.”
As all eyes followed Brigid’s progress, Kaspar said, “Man comes to Berlin and orders a Mexican beer.”
“That is right, my friend,” Guttierez said with gusto. “And do you know why? Because we invented beer. No, no, I know what you’re going to say. That the Saxons and the Romans invented beer, but there is positive proof that the Maya were making beer as early as 600 B.C.”
St. James, who fancied himself an expert on hops, was mystified.
Kaspar gave Guttierez a hard prison look. “You are telling me that the Mexicans invented beer?”
“Not only that, my friend, we invented the modern calendar and the raised stone road eons before the Romans. You should look it up. As for the Russians, what have they invented but vodka and mass starvation?”
Kaspar responded to the insult by showing his teeth like a dog offering a warning snarl.
Brigid returned with a round tray holding an ice-cold Tecate and a glass. As she set them before Guttierez, he lightly grasped her wrist, looking into her face.
“You are very beautiful, chiquita. Are you a model?”
Brigid blushed charmingly. “No. Just a bartender.”
“With your face and the way you move you could be a top model or a movie actress. Do you know who Burke Melchior is?”
“Not really.”
“He’s a movie producer in Hollywood. He also happens to be my boss. We are looking for a new face to cast in an exciting new picture.”
Brigid was in no hurry to withdraw her arm from Guttierez’ grasp.
“Brigid!” Kaspar snarled. “He’s full of shit!”
Guttierez’ eyes flattened into a horizontal gun slit leveled at Kaspar. “I am Mr. Melchior’s employee. He sent me here to speak to you.” Guttierez’ hand dipped into his unzipped jacket and withdrew an ecru card which he slid contemptuously across the table. “Here is his card. Feel free to contact him.”
He turned his attention back to Brigid who stood mesmerized, still as a statue. “Have you seen Sniffers starring Tom Hanks? Weasels Ripped My Flesh?”
Brigid nodded enthusiastically, smiling. “Yes! I’ve seen them both.”
“Burke produced them. We’re working on a thriller, and there’s a part in it for a girl just like you. She’s a bartender at a rural bar in the American south. Your English is very good. I suppose we could get around the accent by changing her backstory. No reason she didn’t come over here to study, dropped out of school, fell in with a bad crowd …”
Kaspar couldn’t hide his disgust. St. James watched rapt. Guttierez wielded words the way a Ginsu master used his knives. Connie had a barely concealed smirk on her face, and Udo remained as still and withdrawn as a mausoleum carving.
On stage, the longhair emitted a series of ringing peals on the guitar which led to a round of feedback that buzzed around the room like a flying chainsaw before the sound man moved the dial to a more comfortable position.
Guttierez turned to Brigid. “I’m very serious, my dear. Burke trusts me on these things, particularly as I also will be in the movie. I could perhaps do a little interview right on my Blackberry and send it to him. What time do you go to work?”
Brigid hesitated, her lovely mouth half open. She looked like she was fifteen. She glanced at Udo.
Udo made a flicking motion with his hand. “Go. Be back at nine.”
Kaspar sat back, arms crossed, quietly seething. St. James felt the malice on his skin like a cosmic ray.
“So,” Guttierez said, standing. “Come to a coffee shop with me. Let me ask you a few questions. Can you do that?”
Brigid nodded enthusiastically, not looking at Kaspar.
Guttierez swung his chair back with an annoying screech. “Kaspar. I’m only going to say this once. Mr. Melchior owns the copyright and trademark to the Banshees. You can either change their name right now, or they don’t go on. If they do go on, there will be serious consequences, do you follow?”
Kaspar didn’t move. He remained hunched back in his chair with his arms crossed. A wry smile crept across his lips. “I get it.”
“Good! And if you choose the former option, may I suggest a new name for the band? It’s too bad the Genuine Fakes are taken. Why don’t you call them the Sad Ass Motherfuckers?”
With a triumphant smile, Guttierez tapped St. James on the shoulder. “Thanks for the beer, Holmes.”
He put a hand to the small of Brigid’s back, and they walked out of the bar without a backward glance.