Artie and I waited and watched. About fifteen minutes later, Ryan came bursting through the door as if he’d been launched from a slingshot. He half-jogged, half-skipped back in the direction he’d come from. The way he bolted, it looked as though someone might be chasing him, but no one exploded through the door in hot pursuit.

I considered following him except I didn’t want to leave Artie unattended, and I didn’t think Ryan would lead me to Heather. I figured he came by to see if Reed knew where she might be. After all, she’d worked there in the past, and according to Nathan, Ryan met her at some kind of party associated with the club. All that happened a long time ago, so either Ryan knew something more than I did, or he was getting as desperate as me. I’d have to talk with him again to see which it was.

“We done here?” I asked Artie, prepared to enumerate the dozens of reasons why he couldn’t attack Reed.

He shrugged and turned his cup upside down, allowing a couple drops of joe to splot on the table. He swooshed them away with his napkin. “Okay. I’ve finished my coffee, and it was worth the drive. But I’ve got something I’d like you to do.” He stuffed the napkin into his cup.

“I will not kill Reed for you.”

Artie didn’t even crack a smile. “I’d like you to go catch the comedy thing at the burger thing. On the Mall.”

The Comedy Throwdown at the Burger Battle. “Come on, Artie. We already talked about that. Not a wise use of my time. Not a wise use of anybody’s time.”

He glared at me. “You never know, my friend. You never know. Reed’s probably got his scouts there. Prick.” Artie was paranoid about getting scooped by another booker or club owner who found the next comedy superstar at some out-of-the-way dive.

“Seriously?”

His glare intensified.

I sighed. “Okay. You’re the boss.” Besides, I had nothing better to do this afternoon, except catch up on my sleep and worry about Dempsey finding me and attaching electrodes to my gonads. “But I have a condition.”

Artie’s right eyebrow rose.

“You need to go directly back to the club and stay out of trouble.”

Artie’s eyes narrowed. “Where else would I go, anyway?” He rose slowly and pitched his cup into a nearby trashcan, not saying another word. As had become my custom, I walked him to his car and watched him take off.

I hadn’t planned to attend this year’s Burger Battle, not with everything going on in my life. But after coming into the city to defuse Stalker Artie, I figured I might as well follow orders and check things out. He’d been in this business for a long time, so maybe he knew something I didn’t.

Or maybe he wanted me out of his hair for a while.

I called Skip and told him to be on the lookout for Artie’s return.

_____

When I got to the car, I phoned Ty to see if he wanted to meet me at the burger shindig. He agreed almost before I’d finished my sentence, saying he’d been looking for an excuse to ditch studying, and although I wasn’t l’excuse parfaite, I’d do in a pinch.

I cruised the side streets near the Museum of Natural History and lucked into a parking space half-hidden between two SUVs. Was this another sign things were turning around for me? One could hope. I locked Rex up, crossed Constitution Avenue, and fell in with a gaggle of tourists until I reached the Mall. Then I turned west, away from the Capitol, and headed toward the Washington Monument.

There were few better places to be in early spring than our nation’s capital. Nearby, along the Tidal Basin, the cherry blossoms had peaked a couple weeks ago, their pink buds a harbinger of nature’s annual rebirth. And of the crowded tourist season.

Today’s warm weather brought scores of picnickers, Frisbee-players, and joggers out on the National Mall to enjoy the fresh air. And in just about any direction you looked, you could spot some monument or statue or historic building, basking in the bright sun. Spring always brought optimism on its scented breeze, and I took a deep breath, inhaling all the optimism my lungs could hold.

As I ascended the long incline to the Washington Monument, the wind whipped the fifty flags surrounding it, and the hardware clanging against the flagpoles reminded me of the time I visited the U.N. Building. I was about seven and my mother wanted to show me where—in her words—peace got made. Although we didn’t actually go into the building, just being on the plaza watching the array of international flags had inspired me. Back then, I thought making peace had to be a cinch, especially if all it took was a bunch of diplomats discussing things in a fancy air-conditioned building.

A line of people circled the monument beneath the flags; the kids wore baseball caps and the adults held brochures and cameras and fiddled with backpacks slung across their shoulders. On the other side of the monument, I took a moment to absorb the scene. The World War II Memorial, the Reflecting Pool, and good ol’ Abe stretched out before me, as people flew multi-colored kites in the foreground. To my left, tucked away in a small grassy area by a traffic circle, was the tent city marking the Burger Battle.

The annual event, sponsored by a local radio station, was an excuse to eat huge quantities of ground beef and surreptitiously quaff even larger quantities of adult beverages. About thirty of the area’s restaurants set up booths, and throngs of people carrying strips of red paper tickets wandered around, trying to decide whose burgers they’d gorge themselves on next. Ostensibly, there was some kind of prize for the burger voted best, but the real prize for the restaurateurs was the increased visibility. I always wondered what kind of in the organizers had to be able to get a permit to host such an example of crass commercialism a mere two hundred yards from the Washington Monument.

Of course, where there was food, there was entertainment. In addition to a slate of musical acts, the Burger Battle sponsored a comedy showcase. The Comedy Throwdown was like a giant-scale open mic night, with a twist. Here, two comics “dueled” on stage, at different mics. One would do his set, followed by the other, leaving the audience to choose a winner. The Throwdown field narrowed—winners facing off against other winners—until all the pretenders were eliminated and a champion crowned. Of course, the biggest difference between a “normal” open mic and the Throwdown were the several hundred people passing judgment on your performance. More than enough to put a hitch in your giddy-up if you froze or got tongue-tied.

I made my way down the hill, watching the plumes of smoke from the grills dance in the breeze. Seeing the smoke made me flash back to the night Artie’s condo was torched. I banished the image from my mind, instead concentrating on the mass of humanity enjoying the sunny day.

When I got closer, the smell of charred meat started my stomach growling. Must be chow time. Before I could locate the nearest ticket booth, Ty appeared at my side. I slapped him on his shoulder and it felt like I was hitting a concrete pillar. “Hey. Thanks for meeting me.”

“No sweat. Thanks for calling. I was starting to go bonkers. Can too much studying be bad for you?”

“Sure. All work and no play makes Ty a dull boy.” I nodded at the row of booths. “Hungry?”

“I’m a vegetarian.” No expression on his face.

I couldn’t tell if he was kidding, but thinking back, I couldn’t recall a time I’d seen him eating meat. I stared at him for a couple seconds and he didn’t crack. “Whatever. I’m not. And besides, I don’t think I can watch the Throwdown on an empty stomach.”

I bought a handful of food tickets and we strolled around, checking out the offerings. Purveyors ranged from the low-joint-on-the-totem-pole Hungry Hectors Burger Emporium to the upper crust steak houses, like Morton’s, that served twenty-dollar burgers to the expense-account crowd. Somehow, at the Burger Battle, eating from paper plates with plastic forks had a way of equaling things out.

As we scoped out the main food aisle, many of the people waddling by hardly glanced up from their grease-stained paper plates heaped with burgers and fries. It was a disheartening—and somewhat disgusting—picture of gluttony. Only in America.

I got my burger from the stand with the shortest line, not caring if the masses knew something about the food’s quality I didn’t. Ty settled for a Sprite and a side of fries. Sufficiently armed, we headed to the end of the “battlegrounds” where the stage had been erected.

A white guy in a dashiki—sporting a wild ’fro—was just beginning his set. “How you all doing, D.C.?” he yelled into the mic, working the stand back and forth, rolling it along small arcs on its circular base. “Doin’ all right?” Across the stage, his competitor had his arms folded across his chest, looking down at his shoes. I didn’t recognize either of the comics.

The crowd—those who were paying attention—yelled back. I took a bite of my burger, unleashing a stream of warm grease down my chin. I wiped it away with an onion skin-thin napkin.

The comic rolled the mic stand faster. “Great, great. I love this town. And I love this country. Where else can a guy with no discernible skills get to live in the big white house over yonder? In my neighborhood, a guy like that wouldn’t even get hired by the local drug dealers, ya know? Not qualified. But here, he gets to be President! No wonder all those illegals want to come here. No skills? That’s okay, you get the top job! El Presidente!”

A heckler shouted out something I couldn’t make out.

The comic set the mic stand down and turned in the heckler’s direction. He raised both hands and pointed at the group gathered right in front of the stage. “Hey. I don’t come down to your business and tell you how to flip burgers, do I?”

The crowd groaned. Rule number one of comedy: know your audience. And this audience had quite a few guys and girls in aprons taking a break from their grills. Insulting burger flippers at the Burger Battle might not be the best idea, especially when your advancement to the next round is in their hands. I took another bite of my hamburger.

“What’s with you? Don’t you know funny? Shut up and let me finish,” the comic said, pleading in his voice.

More shouts from the crowd.

Mr. Dashiki sputtered.

The crowd, smelling fresh meat, shouted louder.

The comic emitted what sounded like a growl, then he let fly with the big guns. “Hey, fuck y’all, you douchebags. I don’t need this sh—” His mic died, and two burly guys wearing orange Burger Battle T-shirts hopped onto the stage and escorted the man out, one on each side. With families—and children—in the crowd, the organizers had to be vigilant.

The remaining comic bowed once to the crowd, then clasped his hands above his head like a prizefighter. After another bow, he strode off the stage. Winner by default.

About five years ago, I’d entertained the notion of performing here. Luckily, the feeling had passed quickly. Since then, I’d made it to a few Throwdowns as a spectator, and it seemed something like this happened every year. The comic was an idiot. But some small part of me felt sympathy for the guy. First of all, it was tough to do a PG set, and second, once a group of hecklers got started, it was difficult to regain order. Usually the best thing to do was to ignore the barbs. But every comic I knew learned that lesson the hard way. I remembered some of my earliest gigs. Afraid to show weakness, I didn’t back down from hecklers, and there were a few times when they got much bigger laughs than I did. That was embarrassing. I stuffed the last bite of hamburger into my mouth and folded the paper plate into thirds.

Ty elbowed me. “Artie wanted you to see this? He think you were going to find someone good here?”

I swallowed before speaking. “You know Artie.” Even though the talent was substandard, this venue was better than some bowling alley-cum-Chinese restaurant in Outer Hicksburg where he could have sent me trolling for the Next Big Thing.

A guy in white tails—the emcee—came out and told everyone to hang in there for a few minutes while they rounded up the comics for the second round.

I turned to Ty. “How’s life treating you? I mean your ‘real’ life, you know, away from the comedy club.”

“Great. Fantastic. As usual.” Ty always saw the glass three-quarters full. Nothing halfway about him. “Why?”

I shrugged. “Things have been tough for me. Artie. Just wanted to make sure our craziness hasn’t affected you too much.” I took a big breath. “And…”

“What?”

“I hate to ask more from you, but I need a favor.”

“Just name it.” Ty’s face opened up.

“I’ve asked Skip to keep an eye on Artie. Make sure the old guy doesn’t get his nose into something he can’t get out of,” I said, examining Ty to see if he already knew what I was talking about. Hard to read. “He’s royally pissed at Reed and I’m afraid he’ll let his temper lead him down the wrong path.”

“I didn’t realize Artie had a temper,” he said.

Maybe Ty had a career in stand-up after all. “Yeah, well, Skip can’t watch him all the time, so I was wondering…”

Ty pursed his lips, nodding. “Say no more. I’ll get with Skip and we’ll set up a babysitting schedule. Got to work around my classes, though.”

“And, uh, I can’t pay you.”

“Seeing the appreciation on your face and hearing the gratitude in your voice is thanks enough,” Ty said. “Plus, I’ll get to find out what Artie really does all day long. Probably sits on his ass reading Mad magazine or something.”

“Thanks, man. I owe you.” I opened my mouth, then closed it.

“What?” Ty asked. “Got something else for me?” Add perceptive to Ty’s long list of positive attributes.

“There’s this guy. Lauren and Heather’s father, actually. William Dempsey. He’s going through some stuff and he’s mad at me. Might want to come down to the club to express his anger, if you know what I mean.” I described him for Ty, making sure to emphasize the pipe wrench and the handgun. “If you could keep an eye out, you’d be doing a big favor for me. And for my internist.”

“Pipe wrench, huh? Don’t worry, no angry white guys will get by me. If somebody bad comes sniffing around the club, I’ll handle it. That’s what I get paid for, right?” He pounded his grapefruit-sized fist into his hand, twice, for effect. Then he flashed me a menacing smile.

“Yeah. Just giving you a heads-up.” I smiled back, but I knew the truth behind the tough-guy facade. Unlike many bouncers who went looking for a fight at every opportunity—no matter how trivial—Ty was a pacifist, relying on his appearance as a deterrent. Worked in the Cold War, worked for Ty. Since I’d bought into the club, I’d only seen him get into it once, after some drunk slapped a woman and drew blood. Ty had been so shaken with what he’d done he’d taken a couple days off to gather himself. Of course, if you asked me, the guy deserved every one of those twenty-two stitches.

Ty and I spent most of the next hour wincing as the Burger Battle crowned a Comedy Throwdown champion. With what I saw, I didn’t think Artie needed to worry about getting scooped. Not in the least.

It wasn’t until I was back in my car, driving west on Interstate 66, that I thought more about seeing Ryan at the CCC. What the hell was going on?