“Bert’s? You ever eaten there, mate?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“The grease is so thick it drips off the ceiling.”

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll stay clear of Bert’s. Do you have a suggestion?”

“How about Millie’s?”

“Sure,” Decker said. “Where is it?”

“Three blocks away. We can walk it.”

“Great. What kind of a place does Millie run?”

“It’s vegan.”

Decker stifled a smile. “O’Dell, I’m a cop and a good detective, but I would have never figured you for a vegan.”

Mad Irish flashed another maniacal grin. “How d’ya think I keep my girlish figure?”

CHAPTER 15

THE STOREFRONT WAS old but spotless with Formica tubular tables and matching chairs that probably dated back to the fifties. The menu hosted a variety of entrées inspired by exotic regions of the globe, with tofu playacting in everything from shrimp cocktail to moo shoo pork. The server was a beefy fellow with a buzzed haircut, a neatly trimmed soul patch, and a diamond stud in one earlobe, a conservative boy by today’s standards. O’Dell ordered the usual. Decker decided on the Cobb salad, figuring there wasn’t much the kitchen could do to ruin raw vegetables.

O’Dell gulped tap water. He was an easy talker. “I did it for Mudd, you know.”

Mudd was Ryan “Mudderfudder” Goldberg, the lead guitarist of the group. “You sued Rudy for Mudd’s sake?”

“Right-o. Me? I’m doing fine. I get lots of me meals comped for performing acoustic versions of some of the Sluts’ big ones. I usually do Tuesday and Thursday here at Millie’s. The weekends I’m at a small place in Venice. I live right near the café two blocks from the beach. I don’t have much money, but I don’t need a lot.”

“You sound like a happy man.”

“I know luck when it bites you in the arse. And I still get the chicks. Young ones.” He sat up. “Still got the bike and the bad boy image. The simple ones really go for that.”

“So being a bad boy is an image?”

Mad Irish grinned. “Sometimes yes and sometimes no, and I’d be bloody daft to explain meself any further.” Meaning he still indulged in illegal substances. “I’m doing fine, Primo was doing fine, but it’s Rudy who’s livin’ the vida loca.” His eyes darkened. “Mudd wasn’t so lucky.”

“Why’s that?”

“Dunno. Maybe he started believing all that rot about us being with the devil. He was lead guitar: the most talented, the most sensitive, and the most gullible. I think the voices started before he joined us, but we all figured it was the drugs.”

Decker nodded.

“But it kept going…the voices. They got more evil, too, telling Mudd to do crazy things. He was always a bit crackers, but then he started cuttin’ himself-his arms, his legs, between his legs.” Mad Irish winced. “His mum had no choice but to get him committed.”

“When was he hospitalized?”

“Ten years ago. In the beginning, I visited. He was doped up with Thorazine twenty-four/seven. He couldn’t even talk, much less carry on a conversation. Then he began to get these weirdo tics and started drooling.” O’Dell shuddered. “I stopped going. It wasn’t very big of me, but he sure as bloody hell wasn’t the Mudd that I remembered. That Mudd was disappearing-bit by bit by bit by bit.”

“It’s hard to watch someone you care about deteriorate.”

“Bloody painful. I’d visit and then I’d be depressed for days. Me girl said to give it a rest and once I did, I never went back.”

“Like you said, he probably wouldn’t have known the difference, anyway.”

O’Dell seemed grateful for the reprieve. The food came, and Decker watched him chow down in silence. Halfway through his veggie curry, he said, “About a year, year and a half ago, his mum called me out of nowhere. Mudd was out of the hospital, living in a halfway house on disability. She told me where. She didn’t say go visit him, but that’s what she wanted. So…I went to see him.”

“How was it?”

“Not nearly as bad as I expected. Mudd was always a big guy, but he had gained about two hundred pounds. His brain wasn’t totally scrambled. He recognized me instantly…hugged me.” O’Dell’s eyes watered. “He was so bloody happy that I came by to say hi.”

“You did a good thing.”

“I did what was right. Which brings us back to Banks. About six months before my visit, Rudy started peddling his Best of the Doodoo Sluts over these sleazy cable stations. When Primo first mentioned that we should sue, I thought what the fuck do I need it for? But then, after I saw Mudd, I said to meself: I don’t need it, but balls if I would let Rudy steal Mudd’s money. So I called up Primo and that’s how it all came about.”

His jaw tightened. “If Banks would have given us something, if he would have given Mudd something, all this lawyer nonsense could have been avoided. But Rudy is Rudy and a skunk can’t change his stink. If I could kill that bastard and get away with it, I would.”

“Let’s hope for your sake, he doesn’t show up dead.”

O’Dell rolled his eyes. “How’s your food?”

“Very good actually,” Decker said. “Where’s Mudd living now?”

“Still at the halfway house.” O’Dell gave him the address. “If you go by, tell him Mad Irish says hello.”

“I’ll do that.” Decker placed the slip of paper in his wallet. “How’d you wind up hooking up with Banks, Liam?”

“Banks and Primo had been doing this punk thing for a while. They brought me in because they needed a drummer, even though my first love is guitar. That’s how it works. You play whatever the band needs, and they needed a drummer.”

“When did you hook up with the band?”

“Late eighties. I was twenty-three. Primo and Mudd were a bit older, but Rudy was younger than I was. Made it hard for us to get booze in the places we played. Most of the time, we’d nick it. The bartender looked the other way.”

“How did Mudd come into the band?”

“That was Banks, too. He’s a bastard, but he had a good ear. Mudd was with another group, his talent wasted. With Mudd on guitar and Primo on bass, Banks started playing keyboard and the band just clicked. Banks, being a master of self-promotion, got us a record deal almost immediately. We put out an album. It made the charts. We made money. We partied. We had pussy coming out of our ears. We were perpetually wasted. We never thought it would end, but it did. Primo and Banks became producers. I managed to find some paying gig. I knew the big time was over. I keep it all in perspective, but Mudd couldn’t handle it-the crash. In the recording business, there’s always a ‘next big thing’ breathing down the neck.”

“Did you write your own songs?”

O’Dell laughed. “You think a cut like ‘Bang Me’ came from Harold Arlen?”

Decker smiled. “You know your music, Mad Irish.”

“I like Harold Arlen. I wish I woulda written ‘Over the Rainbow.’ I’d be set up for life.”

“Who wrote the band’s songs?”

“Mostly Banks and Primo.”

“So they got most of the royalties if someone did a remake of the band’s numbers?”

“A-right about that. And over the years a lot of artists have covered our songs. I’m not claiming a piece of that. That battle’s between Banks and Primo. What burns my arse is Banks remastering and selling a Best of the Doodoo Sluts CD without giving us a bloody red cent in royalties. It’s my vocals on those songs. It’s Mudd’s vocals. What gives that arse-hole the bloody right to take silver from our pockets?”

“So let me ask you this, O’Dell. What were you going to say to Banks if you would have found him this morning?”

Mad Irish hesitated. “I’d worked meself up real good when you saw me. I suppose it was a good thing he wasn’t there.”

“You should stay away from him, Liam. Let your lawyer do the talking.”

“That’s what I was doing. I really was. I said to meself that it isn’t worth getting meself in a mess over. But now with Primo gone, who’s gonna fight for Mudd? I don’t have the kinda money to support a lawyer. And Mudd needs money.”