Reason To Kill. Andy Weinberger
are a lot to schlep around,” I say. “In my experience, bands have their rehearsal at the drummer’s house, just to avoid that kind of thing.”
He shakes his head like I don’t get it. “They’d rehearse at my house. I have a whole set. They have a big separate room downstairs. Used to be a den.”
“Okay, so Markowitz is a no-show.”
He gives me a look like I don’t understand how serious this is. “Maybe he’s missing, maybe not. Markowitz doesn’t matter. We could always find another drummer,” he says. “But then the next week Art Kaplan isn’t there. He’s the lead violin.”
“You gotta have a violin,” I say.
“We have one left,” he says, “but Jim, he isn’t—” He pauses, and I can kind of see his brain spinning around in his head, weighing one word against another, trying to be fair—“Jim doesn’t quite get what it’s all about.” He pauses again, takes a tentative sip of his coffee. “He can read the charts, he can do the fills okay, sometimes he even does a lead or two, but he doesn’t feel it in his bones. He can’t seem to let go. Not like the rest of them.”
“Are you trying to say he’s not Jewish?”
“I didn’t say that. But he’s not. There aren’t many Jews named Callahan. In any case, he’s only ever gonna be second fiddle in that band, no matter what.”
“Who’s the third one to go missing?”
“Risa Barsky. I could maybe get along without the other two. At least I could pull in another decent violinist. And drummers, well, you know. But Risa was the heart of the band.”
He looks at me. There are actual tears welling up in his eyes. “People came from all over the San Fernando Valley to see her. What am I going to do?”
I scratch my head. “Gee, I dunno. To be honest, this really doesn’t sound like my cup of tea. You want me to find them? Maybe they haven’t gone anywhere. Have you tried picking up the phone and calling them?”
“Believe me, I’ve called.”
“And you get no answer?”
He shakes his head.
“So why don’t you just call the cops?”
At that moment our waiter appears. He’s a bald, burly guy in his mid-thirties with shifty brown eyes and tattoos on both of his bare arms. There’s a dragon on one and a lizard on the other. Something about him makes me nervous. I can’t tell whether he’s growing a beard or he just forgot to shave for three days. Also, I don’t recognize him, and I eat here often enough, I figure I know all the waiters. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he says, “so what will it be?”
Pinky seems distraught. He hasn’t even looked at the menu. After listening to him, I’m not sure he feels like eating much of anything, but we’re here, aren’t we? And that’s what people do at Canter’s, hungry or not.
“Maybe the matzo ball soup,” Pinky says.
“Don’t eat the soup,” I say.
“No?”
“No, that’s what killed the rabbi. He was in that booth over there. Ate the soup. Big mistake, know what I mean?”
“So what, then?”
“He’ll have a hot pastrami and coleslaw,” I say. Pinky doesn’t bat an eye at this. “Me, I want a tuna melt on rye. And some ice water, okay? Ice water for both of us. You forgot that. When did you start working here? First thing you do, you always serve ice water.”
“Right,” says the waiter, rolling his eyes as he disappears.
I turn to Pinky. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no, it was fine. I was actually going to order that anyway. You read my mind, Parisman.”
The food arrives. We eat, or rather, I eat. With Pinky, it’s more like a high school dissection. He peels off the sliced rye and leaves it untouched to the side, then he takes his fork and pushes the hot pastrami and coleslaw around on his plate. Mostly he tells me about Risa Barsky. How beautiful she looks in a black silk dress. How when she belts out a ballad in Yiddish, her brown eyes glisten, and the audience is silent, transfixed. Old people especially.
I take a big bite of my tuna melt and brush a few errant crumbs away from my chin. “You sound like you’re in love with her,” I say.
“Do I?” he says. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
“Naw, just the tone of your voice is all. I could be wrong. Sounds like love, though.”
“I love music,” he says resolutely. “I love success. And I learned a long time ago how to put the two together. He lowers his fork and grins broadly. He’s got a small fortune of gold fillings in his mouth. “Marlborough was right about you,” he says. “You’re a good detective.”
“Good listener, maybe.”
“So maybe you’ll listen to me now when I ask you to find Risa and bring her back. It’s more important than love, Parisman. Believe me, I need her if this band is going to go anywhere.”
“How do you know she didn’t disappear on purpose? Have you been to her house?”
“I called her a dozen times since Saturday. Just a machine. I emailed her. Nothing. And yes, I finally went over to her place in person yesterday.”
“Where’s she live?”
“Van Nuys. Just off Sherman Way. She has an apartment.” He scribbles the address down on his napkin, passes it over to me.
“And?”
“I rang the bell. No answer. I even talked to the lady next door. She said she hadn’t seen her in days.”
“But still you didn’t bother to call the police? About any of these people?” My head wags dismissively. “I have to tell you, Pinky, the old detective in me is beginning to wonder.”
He holds up his hands. “All right,” he says. “All right, here’s what I’ll do. You look for them. Give it a few days. And if they don’t show up for rehearsal next week, I promise I’ll call the cops. Is that a deal?”
“You don’t think any crime has been committed, then. Is that what I’m hearing?”
“I don’t know what to think,” he says. “It could be something bad has happened, sure. Someone could have kidnapped them or killed them all. But I doubt it.”
“Do you now? And why’s that?”
He shrugs. I know I’m supposed to understand what people mean when they shrug, but I don’t. A yawn I get. A shrug could be anything. “Musicians,” he says, “aren’t like the rest of us, are they?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “You tell me.”
“I’m telling you they’re not. I’ve been around this kind of thing for years. They come and they go. Some are wonderful, talented kids, don’t get me wrong. You watch what they do with a sax or a guitar, and I swear to God they’ll make you weep. But they don’t know the practical side of anything. Their heads are stuck in the clouds. Luftmenschen, most of them. I’ve always had trouble figuring them out.”
“Maybe you’re in the wrong business, Pinky.”
“Maybe you’re right. But I still have to get to the bottom of this.”
“Tell the truth, Pinky. The drummer and the fiddle player are replaceable. That’s what it seems like you’re saying.”
“I’m not so worried about them, no. And they’re old enough to take care of themselves. I just wish