Chapter Fifteen
After Klapp left, St. James reached over and helped himself to the professor’s beer. Connie put the bill on her In Crowd card and led the way out front where she hailed a taxi. She noted that St. James was a little glassy-eyed. They got in the taxi. Connie told the driver to take them to the Park Inn.
They climbed out beneath the portico, and Connie paid the driver. “Do you want to meet me at the club at eleven?”
St. James smacked himself in the forehead. “We forgot to ask for press comps!”
“Don’t worry. In Crowd will pay. I’m going to take a nap. See you at eleven.”
Halfway across the lobby, she looked back. St. James stood in a forlorn posture like a dog waiting for its master. Well, that was too bad. She wasn’t his minder. St. James was personable enough. Even droll. But he was a drunk. Connie knew the signs. Her father had been a drunk, the main reason Connie never imbibed. At least not alcohol.
She took the elevator to the sixth floor. Her room had been serviced, the bed neatly made, two foil-wrapped chocolates on the pillow. Connie wasn’t tired. She went to the desk, pulled out her laptop, and logged on. She googled Kaspar Sinaiko. Nothing. She googled Federico Guttierez. He had his own web page with the following description:
Federico “Freddie” Guttierez was the fifth of six children born to Manual and Linda Guttierez in the Boyle Heights district of East L.A. Manual was a bus driver. Federico joined the Krazy Ass Mexicans at age fifteen, killed a rival gang member at seventeen, and served eight years in the penitentiary. Federico found Christ in prison and vowed to turn his life around. Upon his release, he went to an audition for a movie about gangs and landed a small part in Barrio. Since then Federico has had speaking roles in four films including The Massacre, One for My Baby, Machete, and To the Limit. He has also appeared on Sons of Anarchy.
Federico has since started the Barrio Project dedicated to saving kids from the gang life. Federico is active in community affairs and can be found on weekends coaching boys basketball at the Barrio Center.
There were numerous pictures: Freddie coaching the kids, Freddie as a movie star, stills from his films. It was dynamite stuff, Burke Melchior sending a real-life thug to straighten people out. Like everyone else at the table, she had been shocked at the ease with which Guttierez had pried Brigid away from Kaspar. There was something about the Russian manager that reminded her of Gollum from Lord of the Rings. If Gollum had muscles.
She bookmarked the page and googled Professor Lothar Klapp. There was a brief entry in university correspondence announcing Klapp’s retirement at age sixty-five. There was also a teacher evaluation page on which Klapp was mentioned numerous times, but Connie could not read German. She recognized the words “Druid” and the German for disciplinary hearing. Herr Klapp had not been completely forthcoming. She copied several of the longer entries and sent them to her friend Gert, a reporter for Der Stern, with a request for translation.
She worried about St. James. As a girl she’d adored his first record, the sensitive songwriter shtick, even had a picture of him on her wall. The St. James she’d met that afternoon looked to be one drink away from the gutter. The way he’d eyed the liquor, like a starving dog through a restaurant window. His hands shook until he got a drink in him.
It was up to her to keep St. James sober enough to be useful. Connie knew well the effect she had on men. They looked and wanted to touch her. She’d used her looks since high school, manipulating teachers, boyfriends, employers. Connie was not a mean woman, but she was ambitious. She had to use the talents with which she was born, including her sharp intelligence, solid instincts, and, yes, her good looks.
All St. James needed was the slightest push to fall head over heels in love with her. She would use that to keep him in line. Connie had been married for six months to a good-looking drunk before she wised up, walked out, and took him to the cleaners.
She’d majored in journalism at UC Irvine, applied for an internship at In Crowd as a junior. She’d been with them ever since. She’d had to deal with horny editors and publishers—she’d even threatened to tell Serafin’s wife if he didn’t back off. She’d dealt with rock stars. She had even slept with a few and rumors got around, but Connie was not one of those girls who bloomed in the limelight. She did not allow herself to be photographed at industry functions, clubs, or parties, and avoided all personal publicity.
Keeping the Cosgrove brand viable.
Her stories were dynamic. She’d won a Lester Bangs for her coverage of Runcible Spoon. Her coverage of Charon would hit next week. It might be up sooner on the web if Richard chose.
As for the Banshees she already knew what she was going to say.
The world breathed a sigh of relief on August 13, 1975, upon learning of the death in a plane crash of every member of the Banshees. People never spoke of it, but the Banshees took their Satanism a little too literally for some, often cutting themselves onstage and bleeding onto their instruments. Their one and only album, Beat the Manshees, is the only record ever singled out for a Papal denunciation.
So when a band calling themselves the Banshees surfaced in Prague last week, In Crowd was naturally interested.
The rest would have to wait until later.