“Artie wouldn’t tell me what happened at the meeting today, but it didn’t sound good. He just kept swearing under his breath and waving his cigar around. Something about a prick bastard. Or bastard prick. Hard to tell exactly what he was saying,” Skip said. “Sounded sorta like Homeless Harry used to sound after a cold winter night.”

Skip and I were in the storage room where I was helping him unpack the latest delivery of supplies. With only one good hand, though, I was doing more watching than helping.

“To say it went badly would be an understatement. Things started on the tense side and deteriorated quickly.” I shook my head. “Artie’s a piece of work, all right. But he doesn’t back down. Not from anyone.”

With a hook-bladed knife, Skip slit the shrink-wrap on a mini-pallet of beverages and peeled back the plastic. He began stacking the smaller packs on shelves sorted by type, imported beer on one side, domestic on the other. “Yeah. That’s what makes him so fun. Speaking of fun, a detective came by this morning. Wanted all our fingerprints so they can sort out who’s been to the comedy condo. Trying to figure out what—or who—killed J.J., I guess.”

Artie and I had been fingerprinted already. “Just an accident. I mean, who’d want to kill him?” Even though Artie had Reed number one on his suspect list, I didn’t buy it. Why kill the golden goose, even if you had to share it?

Skip set a six-pack of Samuel Adams on the shelf next to a few others. “Probably a couple dozen jealous boyfriends, husbands, and lovers who wouldn’t mind seeing J.J. dead. I understand he was quite the swinging dick.” A wistful look came over him.

“Jealous?”

“Nah.” He paused, seemed to reconsider, then shook his head. “Nah. But someone else might have been.”

“Maybe. But giving someone poisoned coke seems risky. Why not shoot him? Or stab him? Seems like that would be more fitting for someone who was really angry. Messing with the drugs seems cold. Cowardly.”

Skip shrugged. “Dead is dead, right?” He finished stowing the beverages and moved on to a huge box of paper goods. Napkins, paper towels, toilet paper. It never ceased to amaze me how much disposable crap we went through in a week. Finding space for it all in our cramped storeroom was a perpetual challenge. “Give me a hand, will you?”

I clapped softly.

“Et tu, Channing?”

“Sorry.”

He climbed on a stepstool and I handed packages up to him so he could cram them on the top shelf, snug against the ceiling. “What’s the deal with Heather? She ever coming back?”

“Wish I knew. She’s around. Someplace. I just haven’t talked to her. I think she feels bad she ditched and doesn’t want to face up to me.” In my mind, I’d been vacillating between two extreme explanations for her disappearance: merely a bad case of stage fright and murder. In my sanest moments, I truly believed her disappearance had nothing to do with J.J.’s death, although it sure would be nice to hear it directly from her mouth.

“Makes sense,” he said, as he used his fist to pummel a multi-pack of paper towels between two other packages. We’d need a crowbar to get them down again.

“You haven’t spoken to her, have you?”

Skip hesitated. “No, I haven’t. I’d tell you if I did. But I haven’t.” I handed up another package, napkins this time, and he squeezed the air from the package before cramming them into an opening I couldn’t even see.

“You sure?” I asked. Skip was always a little twitchy, so it was hard to tell when he was shooting straight or just being Skip.

“Yeah, of course. Haven’t talked to her.”

“Okay then. Next topic. I’ve got some free time coming up. You want some help with your material?”

Skip took a break from his cramming and jamming, punching and squeezing. “You serious?”

I nodded, keeping my smile at bay. “Yeah.”

He beamed. “Sure. I’d love some help.” The smile faded. “But only if you want to. I mean, I know you’re busy and all, with—”

“I do. Why don’t you get some stuff together? Make some notes and we’ll find some time this weekend, okay?”

“Sure, boss. Sure,” he said. “And thanks.”

_____

For this week’s Six-Pack Wednesday, all six comics showed up. The first two were good, the second two were excellent, and the final two were outstanding. Artie booked the last two for a couple of weeks out on a Thursday night, and we stayed after the show for an hour or so, entertaining all six of them at the bar. Just the club owners and the talent, talking shop, swapping stories about comedy in the trenches. We wanted to make sure they knew how we felt about their performances so they’d tell all their comic friends about how great it was to play The Last Laff. Drumming up a good reputation was key in this business, and we had some work ahead of us to counterbalance the hit we took by having a headliner overdose in our comedy condo.

With a final salute my way, Artie walked out alongside the comics, leaving me to lock up. Skip, Donna, and the others had cleared out a long time ago, and anything else that needed cleaning could wait until the crew got there tomorrow.

I stood alone in the club, hearing the echoes of laughter in my head, from tonight, from past nights. I inhaled deeply, trying to catch a whiff of the French fries or the burgers or the spilt beer on the floor. The electricity from the audience had faded along with the houselights, but the memories lingered and always would. Late night was the comics’ time, the time we rode the buzz, basking in our success.

The relationship with the audience was symbiotic. We made them laugh, and they displayed their gratitude with applause and cheers and hearty belly laughs. But I often thought we needed them more—they made us whole, gave us a reason for being. Without an audience, we were simply aimless guys performing in front of the bathroom mirror.

The empty stage beckoned. A blank canvas exhorting me to walk on it, to talk on it, to perform upon it. The idea of getting back on stage didn’t fill me with dread anymore, at least not to the same degree it had in those first couple months after the accident. The fingers were gone forever and the scar on my face remained, but the fears about returning were waning. At least I hoped they were, that this feeling wasn’t temporary, induced by the evening’s success, vicarious though it had been. I needed the fear to ebb because I wanted to be whole again, and starting by getting my career back on track was the easy part. I knew I couldn’t get on with the rest of my life just yet. I missed Lauren too much for that. People kept telling me time heals all wounds, but I didn’t believe them. My wounds were too deep.

I checked the creaky back door into the alley, making sure it was locked, double-checking the cheap deadbolt Artie had installed himself. Then I pulled the office door closed and turned out the lights behind the bar. Left the club and crossed the deserted parking lot toward Rex. As I reached for the door handle, I heard my name. I spun around as a figure stepped forward from the murky shadows. Mired in my melancholy mood, I hadn’t heard him approach.

“Channing,” he said again, in a deep resonant voice. In William Dempsey’s voice.

“What are you doing here? Is Heather okay?” My heart had taken off like a racehorse’s.

“That’s exactly what I want to know. Is Heather okay?” His hands were jammed into the pockets of an old trench coat, even though the temperature must still have been in the seventies. It sounded like he’d been drinking.

I glanced around but didn’t spot his black Mercedes. Which was good—he wasn’t in any condition to drive. “Mr. Dempsey. Maybe we could talk about this later. In the morning would be better. Can I call you a cab?”

“Don’t need a cab.” He stepped closer. The streetlamp above cast spooky shadows on his face, grotesque and elongated. “You hiding something?”

“No, sir. I haven’t seen or spoken to Heather in a week. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but…” I held my palms up.

“The other day, at the house…” He paused.

“No need to apologize. I understand how you felt.”

Dempsey issued a harsh laugh and edged closer. “Apologize? No, I didn’t come to apologize. You truly are a comedian. No, no apology.” He coughed once, twice. Cleared his throat. “Kathleen and I spoke. She seems to think this behavior is unlike Heather. She says Heather’s been better lately, more responsible, and I…well, let’s just say I’ve come to see her point. I guess you could say I’ve changed my thinking here.”

Hundred-proof exhalations hit me. “Why don’t we continue this discussion in the morning? I think we’ll both be able to concentrate then.” I wondered if you could fit a pipe wrench in a trenchcoat pocket.

“No. I think we’ll continue our discussion right here. Right now. That okay with you, Channing?” He spit out my name like a rancid piece of meat.

I nodded.

“So, Kathleen and I think that maybe Heather didn’t run off on her own, by her own choice. We think maybe someone coerced her, or influenced her, or tempted her to go with them. Not a cult, but maybe a boy, or a boy’s promise of something exquisite. Heather liked to grab at shiny things.” Dempsey sounded like my college roommate sounded after a few too many. With him, I’d just nod and agree with everything, knowing it would all be forgotten in the morning.

“Okay. Mr. Dempsey. Say you’re right. Say Heather was lured away by some bad element. Why don’t you go to the police?”

“Hah. The police. I told you they’re worthless.” He cocked his head. “No. I’m coming to you.” He pulled one hand from his pocket and jabbed me in the chest with it. “Kathleen and I are coming to you. We figure you’re responsible for her disappearance. After all, you turned your back and she was gone. She trusted you to help her and you fucked up. Lost her. You’re lucky we don’t call the police on you.” Another jab in the chest. My back pressed against the side of my car. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

“I’ve been looking for Heather. So far, I haven’t had—”

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up.” Dempsey grabbed my shirt collar and twisted the fabric until it pressed against my Adam’s apple. Brought his face so close to mine I could almost feel his beard stubble scratch my cheeks and taste the booze on his lips. “Listen to me, Channing. You killed one daughter of mine. You better not let anything happen to the other one. You better find her, Channing, and she better be okay, or I’m coming after you, Channing Hayes. And you’ll wish you’d never met Lauren or Heather or even been born, if that happens.” He twisted my shirt another time for good measure, then let go. “You understand me? You better find Heather and find her fast.”

I nodded, not wanting to speak, sure my voice would crack.

“And don’t think I’m going to forget this in the morning. Channing.”

With my good hand, I smoothed out my shirt collar as William Dempsey receded into the shadows.