Free The Corpse Wore Pasties by Jonny Porkpie Page A

place in which Angelina Blood would never be caught dead, let alone perform. But Krash played in a heavy metal band, which for obvious reasons took whatever gigs it could get. And in those first romantic months of a relationship—a state, based on their behavior last night, that I was guessing they were in—you support your significant other in any way you can. Which meant that when I walked down those stairs I was treated to the sight of Angelina, with her raven-black hair, nails, clothing, and eyes, delightfully situated against a red-and-white checkered vinyl tablecloth and the wood-paneled basement walls of Danny’s Deep-Fry.
    Much to my dismay—and by “dismay,” I mean “relief”—I walked into that basement just as Krash and her band were breaking down. It wasn’t an accident. I had added an hour to the start time on the flier, hoping to schedule my arrival to miss the gig but catch Angelina. My timing was perfect. She sat alone at a table, watching the band as they packed up their instruments. Those black eyes were more glazed than I had seen them previously.
    I sat down opposite her.
    “Hi,” I said.
    Angelina looked at me.
    “I’d like to talk to you. About last night.”
    She stared at me.
    “I’m talking to everybody in the show. Not just you.”
    She continued to stare at me.
    “I know it was tough, with Victoria doing your number and all. I understand that you might not want to talk about it.”
    Angelina stared.
    “But here’s the thing—it turns out that you might have been the only person other than me to have access to Victoria’s suitcase. So it’s probably in your best interest to answer a couple of questions.”
    Angelina kept right on staring. I don’t think she had blinked once since I sat down. But her eyes flicked to the left, over my shoulder. I turned my head to find Krash behind me, a bit too close for comfort, wearing a denim vest that displayed a pair of rather impressively muscular arms. The scowl on her face was accentuated by the blue mohawk.
    The other four members of her band stood with her.
    “This guy bothering you, Angel?” Krash said.
    Angelina stared at me.
    Krash interpreted that to mean yes.
    “Come on, buddy, let’s take it outside.” She grabbed my collar and lifted me to my feet.
    “I’m not—” I started.
    “You wanna walk out of here? ’Cause I can drag you.” Krash said. The four guys behind her nodded in unison.
    Angelina stared at me.
    “Look, I—” I said.
    “I said now , punk,” said Krash, and pushed me toward the stairwell. She hadn’t actually said ‘now’ (at least until now), but I didn’t correct her. Discretion is the better part of not getting your ass kicked by a heavy metal band. Plus, my arm still ached from my earlier ejection from the strip club, so I had a vested interest in making this particular exit under my own power.
    I glanced over my shoulder at Angelina as I started up the steps.
    She blinked.
    On the sidewalk in front of Danny’s Deep-Fry, I tried to reason with Krash and her band, with exactly as much success as you might expect.
    I explained that I was just asking a few questions of the people who had been there last night, nothing serious, not accusing, just asking. I offered to ask Krash a few questions, too, if she liked, to prove my sincerity.
    Krash thought about it for a moment, ran a hand through her Mohawk, and punched me in the stomach.
    Another band member—the biggest one—grabbed my collar and led me down the street, where all the stores were closed and foot traffic was nonexistent. Krash walked with us, hitting me in the arm every couple of steps, each punch slightly harder than the last. The other three members of the band tagged along behind.
    I was starting to get the feeling that this conversation was not going to go well. It was time to extract myself from the situation, in the most expedient manner possible.
    Lucky for me, I was wearing, as I often do, a shirt that fastened with snaps