Irregulars

“The Carnivore Circus isn’t involved,” the lanky man suddenly said. “We’re just a band, that’s all.”
Keith’s attention snapped immediately to the lanky man. “I take it that you’re in this band?”
“Yeah, I play bass.”
“And your name is?” Gunther flipped out his notebook.
“Lancelot Paddington, but my band name is The Lancer.”
Agnes laid a hand on his arm. “You shouldn’t talk to them without a lawyer.”
Lancelot shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“So tell us about your band,” Gunther said.
“We’re a three-piece metal band. All goblin. Our influences include The Stooges and Three Inches of Blood. We’ve got an EP out right now. Last week we made a date to talk with a local label—”
Keith cut him off, “Tell us about why someone would think your band has to do with these murders.”
“This flyer,” Lancelot pointed at the grimy paper, “it’s for two different acts. The first one was Theater of Blood. They sucked.”
“Sucked blood?” Gunther prompted.
“No,” Lancelot said. “They drank it out of these cheap plastic goblets that looked like they came from the dollar store. They had no style, couldn’t wear makeup, and didn’t know how to play.”
“Do you know what kind of blood it was?” Gunther glanced up from his notes.
“They said it was human.”
“Why didn’t you report this to our agency?” Keith asked.
“They were humans. All of them,” Lancelot said. “And they were such poseurs I figured that they had to be lying about the blood. I thought they were trying to impress us because we eat raw meat in our act. A lot of guys get intimidated by that. They think they have to be more macho than us.”
Gunther’s eyebrows shot up. “You eat live meat on stage?”
“No, nothing like that.” Lancelot backpedaled. “We just get really hungry when we’re shredding and sometimes snack.”
“So you eat raw but not live meat?” Keith clarified.
“Right. Beef mostly. Sometimes, if it’s a really big venue, we eat goat because the bones look more, like, human.”
“Don’t tell them that,” Agnes said.
“No, it’s okay, Aggie. The first time we did it—ate raw meat, I mean—it was just what we brought for lunch. We were in the green room at a club snacking on frozen hamburger patties and chewing butts between sets and the bartender came back and caught us. We claimed to be from Ethiopia.”
Keith wondered how that had gone over. Lancelot was white as vanilla ice milk.
“Ethiopia…Nice one,” Gunther murmured, a hint of a smile curving his lips.
“Yeah, the bartender—his name is Jordan—Jordan said that he liked our sound but our stage show was boring. It was his idea to incorporate eating raw meat into the act because it would seem hardcore. He came up with the new name too. He’s a good guy. He works at Lulu’s Flapjack Shack. See Spartacus over there? The guy with the cider? Jordan is his first cousin.”
“Yes, we’ve met Mr. Greenbacks,” Keith said sourly. “So he came up with your new name?”
“Carnivore Circus. Before that we were called Grand Coulee Mayhem Tennis Project,” Lancelot said sheepishly. “I guess I was drunk when I came up with that.”
“So did Jordan set up the gig with Theater of Blood?” Keith asked.
“No, that was our manager, Milton. I can give you his phone number only…” Lancelot shot a sideways glance at Agnes. She was on the phone with someone. Perhaps Jordan, but most likely a lawyer.
“Only…” Gunther prompted.
“Milton doesn’t know we’re trans-goblins and I’m worried that if he found out your guys would put some forgetting mojo on him and then he’d forget he’s supposed to be getting us a record deal.”
“We will make every effort to conceal both your and our identities,” Gunther said.
“Thanks, man.” Lancelot nodded absently, his attention distracted by a pair of yuppies perusing his recycled knitwear with some interest. “Would you mind if I get back to my stall now?”
After they released Lancelot, Keith was ready to go, but Gunther insisted on seeing the rest of the market. He bought a dozen light bulbs from one table and three bottles of hot sauce from another. A few vendors gave them nervous smiles as they passed by but most stared stonily or looked away. Before leaving, Gunther stopped by and bought a Carnivore Circus CD from Lancelot, which seemed to smooth things over somewhat. Lancelot shortchanged Gunther three bucks. Keith wondered if that was malice, nervousness, or bad math. There was no real way to tell.
Their last pass was through a row of food vendors. Keith was hungry but at the same time deeply distrustful of food—any food—prepared by goblins. Fortunately, there was Spartacus and his cider. He bought one and found a place at one of the picnic tables.
“It seems like it’s getting to be lunchtime,” Gunther remarked.
“I’d have thought you already filled up on cherries.”
“Merely an appetizer,” Gunther said. “Can I buy you lunch?”
“Nothing here looks that great to me,” Keith said.
A smile twitched at the corner of Gunther’s lips. “Let me take you to lunch in my neighborhood.”
“You mean to San Francisco?”
“Home of some very famous vegetarian restaurants including one little five-star hole in the wall called Verdant. We could be there in half an hour.”
“It takes that long to get through the portal?”
“No, but traffic between Fisherman’s Wharf and Fort Mason isn’t that great at this time of year. What do you say?”
“Portaling to San Francisco for five-star lunch sounds less like a business arrangement and more like a date.”
“So what if it is?”
“Now who’s not keeping it professional?”
Gunther stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Neither of us seem to want to, so why should I adhere to some pretense?”
Keith shook his head. “We’ve already done this, Gunther. It didn’t work the first time and it won’t work now.”
“We never had a proper date before, just a series of booty calls,” Gunther said. “So let me make it up to you the old-fashioned way.”
Keith had to admit the temptation. And not just the temptation of going on a date with Gunther. Verdant was legendary. While he’d worked as a chef, he’d never given much credit to the vegetarians in his field, nor had he been any great star. The chef at Verdant was both. And he did want Gunther to make it up to him. Hell, he might even be able to figure out what Gunther found so inadequate about that series of disconnected sexual events that he’d wanted to call them off.
“Wouldn’t we need reservations?”
“The chef owes me.” Gunther leaned forward and whispered, “Pixie trouble. You know how capricious they can be. One little misunderstanding and they’re curdling your cream and luring you off Lands End in the dark. But it’s all sorted out now. So how about it? We can be down there, done, and back again before this place closes.”
Keith was about to refuse. Then the alcohol kicked in, relaxing him enough to say yes.
***
Verdant was located in an airy space alongside the marina in Fort Mason. From its wide windows, Keith could survey both the marina and the Golden Gate Bridge beyond.
The chef, a friendly faced brunette with close-cropped hair, greeted Gunther as a VIP and seated him immediately.
The menu was elegant, filled with heirloom vegetables, local wine, and cheese.
The price tag was breathtaking. Keith, in fact, had to take a deep breath as he automatically calculated price-point to food cost.
It actually wasn’t that bad, for the location and for what they were getting.
And besides, he wasn’t paying.
Like every fine dining establishment that Keith had ever been to, the tables were small and relatively close together. But no one was seated alongside them, so once the appetizer had been delivered, their conversation could continue unimpeded by the presence of civilians.
“So, who do you like for the murders?”