Reason To Kill. Andy Weinberger

She has hopes and dreams that don’t include working in clubs like Jingles the rest of her life. You can also tell by her demeanor—the way she closes her eyes and drifts like a passing breeze into each number. By how she wraps her fingers lovingly around the mic while the boys unpack the tune, how she waits patiently for the last note of the lead guitar to fade before she ever opens her mouth. You believe in her, I guess. That’s what it’s all about.

      Another older couple shows up and grabs a spot closer to the stage. Then a group of five women take a table in the corner. They’re all in their forties or fifties. Married probably or on their way to being divorced. All wearing tight jeans and T-shirts and running shoes, ladies’ drinks jiggling in their hands. Laughing nervously, talking past each other. The table is too small for everyone. They cram in anyway, which makes them uncomfortable, which in turn makes them raise their voices. A pair of them look around to see if anyone else has noticed. I tip my Dodger cap.

      Onstage, the lead guitar leans back and turns down the volume on his amp. Their first set is coming to a close. The spotlight dims. I give Omar a twenty-dollar bill, tell him to stick it in the tip jar and see if he can persuade the bass player to come talk with us for a minute. He returns with Ray Ballo, who offers his sweaty hand. He takes the empty chair opposite me.

      “You’re pretty good with that thing, Ray,” I tell him. “Buy you a beer?”

      “Oh gee, thanks,” he says. “I don’t usually ever drink, at least not until we’re done for the night. But ask me again in two hours.”

      He’s a tall lanky kid in his late twenties, long dark hair that he keeps tucking restlessly behind his ears. There’s an earnestness in his brown eyes, coupled with a sweet, genuine smile. He talks slowly and deliberately, almost like he’s a farm boy and new to city ways. I can see why Risa might find him attractive.

      I hand him my business card. “Actually,” I say, “I have to confess I didn’t come clear out to Tarzana to hear you play. Though, like I say, you’ve got a nice sound. I was in a couple bands once upon a time—before you were born—so I know what I’m talking about.”

      He looks at my card. His smile fades. “Okay,” he says. “So what are you talking about, Mr. Parisman?”

      “Risa Barsky.”

      “Oh, yeah? And what about her?”

      “I’ve been hired to track her down. She’s disappeared, did you know that?”

      Now he’s taken aback. He pushes a few errant hairs from his forehead. “No, I—I haven’t seen Risa in—God, it’s been nearly a month. We broke up. I mean, she broke up with me. I was still in love—”

      I nod. “I get that, Ray. But you haven’t had any contact with her in a month?”

      “I called her a few times. I tried. We talked some on the phone. I thought she would come around and we could start over. She did this once before and that’s what happened.”

      “But not this time, huh?”

      “No.”

      “What’d she say?”

      “This time? This time she said she’d given it some thought. Weighed it out. According to her, we just weren’t right for each other.”

      “How come?” Omar asks. I glance over at him. I didn’t think he was going to say anything at all tonight, but every so often he surprises me. Maybe he quit the academy too soon. Or maybe there’s a tiny space in his heart where he still wants to be a cop.

      “She’s going to be thirty-five in another month,” Ray Ballo says, “and I’m twenty-seven. We’re just too far apart. We think about different things. We have different priorities. She even had a special word for it. A Yiddish word. Said it was beshert. You know what that means?”

      “It’s fated,” I say, “meant to be. Or in your case, not to be. Nothing you can do about it.”

      “That’s right,” he goes. “She didn’t say anything specific. Maybe she didn’t want to hurt my feelings, but I’ve thought about it a lot and now I’m pretty sure all along she was desperate to have a child. Not so strange, really, when you put it like that.”

      “And you’re not ready for that yet, are you, Ray?”

      He lifts his hands. “At some point, sure, I guess, why not. I like kids. Kids are great. I’d like to get married, have a family. But someday, not now. You know how it is, the life of a musician.”

      “Wasn’t Risa a musician, too? Isn’t that how she paid the rent?”

      “She sang in this klezmer group in Hollywood, and they got some pricey gigs now and then. Nothing very steady, though. Mostly she worked as a temp at this agency in Reseda.”

      “You remember the name?”

      “I do. But before I tell you, who’s paying you to find her? What’s this whole thing all about?”

      “I told you. She’s missing. There are people out there who care about her.”

      “I care about her.”

      “You didn’t pay me to find her, did you.”

      He frowns but keeps his silence “You’re going to have to trust me on that stuff, Ray. My client wants to be anonymous.”

      “Yeah, well, how do I know you are what your card says you are?”

      I give him a long stern fatherly look, the same kind of look my dear old dad gave me years ago when I told him I wanted to drop out of high school and go live in the woods like Henry David Thoreau. “Listen, Ray. Risa’s neighbor gave us your name. She said you were the last boyfriend she truly cared about, that you were a real gentleman, and that if Risa were ever in trouble, she might turn to you. That’s what the neighbor said.”

      “Terrific,” he says. “Only she didn’t, did she? If she’s not in her apartment in Van Nuys, I don’t know where she is, man. I’m sorry.”

      “What about her parents?” Omar asks. “Are they around?”

      “I dunno. She wasn’t tight with her folks. I know that much.”

      “You’re sure about that.”

      “No, I just sorta figured it out. She barely mentioned them.”

      “So you don’t know their names? Where we might find them?”

      “No, man, nothing.” He shakes his head and lowers his voice to what passes for a whisper. “They were like—they were difficult people—communists, intellectuals. I think they lived on the Upper West Side in New York. That was years ago. She told me once they made a shitload of money in the market and then felt bad about it. I couldn’t understand that. What kind of communist plays the stock market, I wanna know? Anyway, by the time Risa came along they were back to being straight arrows. Except for her name.”

      “Huh?”

      They named her Emma. For Emma Goldman. That’s still on her birth certificate, she said. Pretty awful, if you ask me. She dropped that, naturally, the minute she landed in LA.”

      “I used to date Emma Goldman,” I say.

      “You did? Really?”

      “No. Not really.”

      Ray Ballo studies my face, shakes his head. “How old are you, Mr. Parisman?”

      “Never mind,” I say. “Just give me the name of the temp agency in Reseda, will you? That may get us somewhere.”

      “Fishman Referrals,” he says, rising out of his chair. “I hope you find her. If you do, tell her I’d like to see her again, will you? Would you do me that favor? Tell her it’s not too late. I gotta—I gotta get back onstage for the next set.”

       Chapter 6