The Kill Riff Read Online Free PDF Page A

it's page one, lots of embarrassing tape on Hollywood Weekend Wrapup . Thirteen kids dead at that concert, and they treat it like a plane crash. One mention, and onward to the happy news." He bolted a vast gulp of beer, to clear his pipes. "Ridiculous. No investigation. No nothing."
        "I heard the band broke up," Lucas said. His voice was very quiet, without irony.
        "Hm. And I repeat-if it'd been me at that courthouse, I'd have blown the fucker away. I don't think I could've controlled myself the way you did."
        A ghost of a smile made a brief visitation on Lucas's face. He sawed into one side of a deep-fried chimichanga, and steam perked out. "What would that have accomplished? It would have made me the heavy. Big bad distraught daddy blows away rock star in fit of passion. Very sordid, Burt. Unclean. I had the effect I wanted, I think."
        He chewed food as his mind chewed memory, and he saw it all happen again: Gabriel Stannard, Whip Hand's top gun, was striding down the steps of the Beverly Hills Courthouse, flanked by his attorneys, gofers, munchkins, and teeny-boppers. He was wearing a severely cut European suit with a plain shirt and tie, all business. But his vest was a metallic LSD paisley, and on his feet were bright red cowboy boots with wiggly gray snakes stitched across the tops. The snakes had emerald eyes.
        The tragedy at the concert of April 18 had translated into a staggering amount of baksheesh to be paid out to local law enforcement. The concert should have been Whip Hand's last, but there was no way the flacks working for the band were going to ignore the drawing power of death. After a respectful hiatus, Whip Hand continued with its American tour. Every show was packed. No festival seating, as there had been at the disastrous L.A. show. No further L.A. dates. The deaths brought out the news media, yes, but their function became that of unwitting publicity. The first concert of the renewed tour recouped most of the cost of getting out of L.A. alive, and the band completed their crosscountry schedule as very rich men. A few token appearances in court amounted to minutiae, a quick and noiseless sweeping up. End of narrative.
        Except for Lucas. Representatives from band management had expressed weighty and meaningless condolences. He remembered the schmuck attorney. Woodberry. Or Washburn. The guy's name was a blur, like his face. Only his bit part mattered. Lucas's inspiration had come at the moment he'd chased Woodburn-or-Washberry out of his office at Kroeger.
        There were fewer cameras in attendance at Beverly Hills than Lucas had expected. More groupies than reporters. It didn't matter. What mattered was the expression on Gabriel Stannard's face when he glanced up and saw Lucas waiting for him on the courthouse steps. There was a hint of familiarity behind the mirrored sunglasses-the heartbeat of time that precedes actual recognition. It was enough.
        Lucas had spoken the band leader's name clearly enough to shut everyone else up for a second. Time took a snapshot. Lucas drew the gun, pointed it at Stannard's face, and said, "Bang. You're dead."
        But no one had heard him. They were too busy falling all over each other, scrambling to evade the line of fire. Lucas recalled an enormous bald black man, Stannard's watchdog, jumping to shield, with killer's eyes. A girl with purple hair and spangles shrieked and went rolling down the stairs. She was wearing a cartridge belt. It clinked on the concrete.
        Lucas dropped his gun before Stannard's bodyguard could do real damage. It hit the steps and broke. It was plastic, a toy.
        Stannard had hit the deck with too much panic and broken his mirrored shades. A silver sliver protruded from a gash on his forehead, and blood was coursing from burst scalp veins. It was messy but superficial. It accomplished what Lucas had desired.
        Stannard's PR elves and attorneys knew the positive