Free The Corpse Wore Pasties by Jonny Porkpie

you think that she was going to be in the audience, and not performing?”
    “Because there’s no way in hell anyone would actually book her. At least, that’s what I thought at the time.”
    “Didn’t the suitcase tip you off?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Her bag. Her gig bag.”
    “What about it?”
    “People don’t usually bring a gig bag with them to watch a show.”
    “I don’t think she had a bag.”
    “Say that again.”
    “When she walked in the door, I’m pretty sure she didn’t have any bag with her.”
    “How sure is pretty sure?”
    Eva shrugged.
    “But you saw her walk into the dressing room with it, right?”
    Eva shrugged again, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. Right, no, of course I did.”
    “So where did she get the bag from? If she—”
    The song ended before I finished the question. Eva stood up and backed away. “Time’s up. Sorry, Porky. Any more questions, you gotta buy another dance, baby.”
    I grabbed Eva’s wrist. “Wait,” I said.
    “Porky, don’t, they’ll—”
    “Was she looking for someone as she walked in? Did anyone in the bar—?”
    “You need to—”
    Whatever she was about to say, I didn’t get to hear the rest of it. Something wrapped itself around my wrist and started squeezing. My hand was yanked off Eva’s arm and twisted behind my back. I heard Eva protesting, but before she had time to explain anything to the bouncer I felt stale air whipping across my face as it rapidly approached the sidewalk.
    I picked myself up and retrieved my porkpie from the street. The bouncer stood with his arms crossed at the door to the club. When I looked at him, he just looked back, but the message was clear. I touched the brim of my hat to let him know we were still friends, brushed myself off, and headed for the subway.
    The collision with the pavement had knocked something loose in my brain. Or maybe into place. What I’d figured out was this: If Eva was telling the truth—and it seemed like she was—I now knew, or at least was pretty sure, that Victoria’s gig bag had arrived at Topkapi before she had. And, for that matter, before I had.
    So had one of the performers.
    And, thanks to the flier that had been shoved into my hand before the Dreamland show, I knew exactly where that particular performer would be later tonight.

CHAPTER 7
    So why was I running across a bridge in the middle of the night? Well, if you’ve ever lived in Brooklyn, you’re probably expecting a crack about the dismal service on the F Train, so consider it made. The rest of you won’t have any idea what that last sentence means, but trust me; it’s hi larious. (Unless you’re reading this while waiting for a subway at the Second Avenue Station at 3:00 a.m. In that case, it’s just plain depressing.)
    The smells coming out of Danny’s Deep-Fry were either delicious or disgusting, and I wasn’t sure which yet. I suspected that, even if it were the former, prolonged exposure to the scent would quickly convert it to the latter. And since I was about to walk into the place, prolonged exposure was unavoidable. The dive bar & grill was located on one of those side streets near City Hall which—since most of Manhattan south of TriBeCa clears out after the post-work drinking hour—is not a great neighborhood for nightlife. But intrepid yet inexperienced entrepreneurs keep opening bars, trying, failing, and selling their businesses to the next group of intrepid yet inexperienced entrepreneurs. This particular destined-to-close venture appeared, at street level, to be a simple downmarket BBQ joint, the kind that (in the right part of the country) would be surprisingly good eatin’ despite the decor. In the financial district of Manhattan it was more likely to be surprisingly greasy. At best. It claimed to also be a performance space, and cited as evidence of that fact a stage in a basement that had all the grace and charm of an Elk’s Club rec room in South Jersey.
    Exactly the sort of