Free The Talk Show Murders by Al Roker Page B

dull layer of skin and emerging as something new and colorful.
    I waited to take the next car up.
    It’s never a good idea to get in Dutch with your producers, but I didn’t think Trina could fire me. Even if she did, self-preservation would trump employment.
    Or so I told myself. The fact of the matter was, if Gio Polvere, or whoever, had sent the men in the SUV to remove me from planet Earth, I might as well have gone along with Trina’s plan. But I preferred to take the optimistic approach. The SUV’s inhabitants gave up rather easily. They hadn’t been waiting outside the hotel when I hailed a cab to go to Everest. They hadn’t been behind us on the drive back to the hotel.
    Heading up to my suite, I decided that I’d have to rein in my imagination. As FDR once put it so succinctly, we’ve nothing to fear.…
    The red button on the phone in my suite was blinking.
    I watched the blinks for what seemed like a full minute, then lifted the receiver.
    I was informed: “The following message was left for you at seven-thirteen p.m.”
    “Chef Blessing, we met a few days ago.” The recorded voice was male, nasal, and vaguely familiar. “I’m Larry Kelsto. The comic. I know you’re a busy guy, but I’d really appreciate your catching my set tonight at the Komedy Krush on North Wells Street. I’ll be on around ten-thirty. I’ll leave a pass at the door, and we can have a drink after. I think you’ll be interested in hearing my pitch, Chef Blanch … ah, sorry, Chef Blessing.”
    Kelsto’s subtlety was something of a surprise. Anyone else hearing the voice mail would write the “Blanch …” off as a slip of the tongue. He’d assume Kelsto was selling his comedy talent, not issuing a blackmail threat.
    My watch told me I had a little less than an hour to wonder how the little weasel had discovered my real name and, presumably, my checkered past. It had to have come from Patton. Was there a connection? As I recalled, Kelsto had disliked the ex-cop. What was it he’d said? Something about Patton treating his employees badly. But he hadn’t worked for Patton himself.
    Well, I’d find out more at the Komedy Krush.
    Or not.
    The club was located in Chicago’s Old Town just a few blocks south, in location if not in class, of the legendary home of comedy, The Second City. Its bright orange façade, black awning, and black frame windows presented a year-round Halloween effect that didn’t strike me as being particularly humor-appropriate.
    “You sure?” the cabbie asked when we pulled up. “If you’re looking for laughs, it’s too late for Second City, but you got Zanies down the way. Or The Spot—”
    “What’s wrong with this place? I see people going in.”
    “Basically, it’s the manager, Herman ‘the German’ Schwartz. He’s a …” He used a hyphenated word that suggested Herman might have been a bit too fond of his mother.
    Hard to tell that from just the look of the man as he stood at the door to his establishment, welcoming customers. He was porcine, in his fifties, wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and baggy denim pants. White hair coated his cranium, cheeks, and chin, and an emerald-green earring winked merrily from his left lobe. His right arm was decorated with a tattoo of Lenny Bruce caressing a snake.
    He seemed pleased to see me. Shook my hand heartily and led me through the crowd to an area near the bar where the night’s comics waited to go onstage. I didn’t see Larry Kelsto.
    Herman introduced me to the mainly young hopefuls, which included a pretty woman dressed like a cowgirl and a guy with his face painted like a rabid football fan, then finally got around to asking, “Here to sample the best of the hottest new mirth-makers, Billy?”
    “Larry Kelsto said he’d be going on at ten-thirty,” I said. “It’s a little past that.”
    Herman the German looked pained. “He an old friend of yours, Billy?”
    “Not exactly. I just met him a couple of days ago.”
    “Ah. Okay.