Death by Stand-Up - Part II

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Closing Act

Crowd couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and only a few friends of a local comic were there for the show. The rest stumbled in by chance. A regular at the bar grunted in dislike, but I ignored him. Didn’t matter to me what he thought. 

With the show minutes from starting, I took a shot of Cazadores Reposado. Despicable behavior. My nerves won the battle, and I was in the bullet. Going up first.  

Alice stepped up to the bar to order a drink, but I cut her off. “Shot of tequila?” 

She sized up my empty shot glass and nodded in affirmation. Disgrace. I couldn’t resist. The bartender slid the salted glasses in front of us with a pair of limes on a napkin. 

“Ever do a stuntman?” She asked. My face froze and gave away my naivety. “You snort the salt. Squeeze the lime in your eye. Then take the shot.”  

Before I could answer, Alice dumped a line of salt on the bar from a shaker. 

“Sounds painful.” 

“Only while you’re searching blindly for your shot glass.” 

This type of frat behavior was insane. So open. Maybe the killer was a she, after all. 

“I’ll stick with the regular shot. Thank you. Ready for the show?” 

Alice snorted the salt through a rolled-up five-dollar bill. There was still some left, so she switched nostrils and hit the other side.  

Christ. 

She grabbed both limes and tilted her head back while simultaneously squeezing the juice into her eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was lime or tears streaming down the sides of her face.  

My eyes welled up watching the spectacle. It pained me to see her search for the glass, so I handed it to her. “Here you go, psycho.” 

Alice threw back the tequila and wiped the side of her mouth with the crook of her elbow. She let out a loud yelp. “That’s how you live. Wow.” 

“I think I’m living just fine. You ready for the show now?” 

She had a few bar napkins plastered to her face to sop up the lime and tears. “I’m emceeing. Easy gig. Warm up the crowd. Test new material. Just keep the show moving between acts.” 

“You do much crowd work?” 

Alice waved at the bartender to order a gin and soda. “Not my thing. You?” 

“That part of my act came to an end long ago. Did a set at a biker bar I didn’t know was a biker bar. A couple Hell’s Angels were in the back and thought I was making fun of them. Getting roughed up in a parking lot after doing a free show changed me.” 

“How so? Aren’t you a comic, free to say what you want, free from threat?” 

“Wake up in the hospital with a TBI and then tell me that.” 

She ignored the comment. Maybe it was too sour a topic before attempting to make people laugh. I understood. 

That ninety minutes went by in a flash. My five-minute set was a stammering blur. The rust won. Good thing I wasn’t here for the comedy. I had to catch a killer. If he or she is taking out competition, there’s no way they were any good at making people laugh. I had my list after watching all fifteen performers. A group within a group. 

We marched down Bourbon Street toward the Old Absinthe House at Rue Bourbon. The last place I wanted to be, but I had both feet into the bacchanal. No turning back. My white shirt was still clean. A dwindling crew of comedians rehashing the show. Sets that bombed. Jokes that worked. Who did the best? Who needs to give up comedy? I made the last group.  

By the time we walked into the Rue Bourbon and absinthe was flowing in all directions, we were down to Alice and Mr. Ripped Jeans. Bitches Brew by Miles Davis played over the hum of the bar patrons. If I wasn’t careful, we’d end up spending the rest of our night here and being escorted out by purple and green goblins that weren’t real. If it were one of them, I’d know soon. Maybe it was both. Worked in tandem, and I was their next mark. Better to keep them close until I was safe in my room back at the Bourbon Orleans Hotel.  

Alice wavered after the second absinthe, and I thought she was a goner. If I didn’t keep an eye on her, she’d pull an Irish goodbye, and I’d miss my chance. Hendrix wasn’t going anywhere. When you’re trying to be as cool as him, you need to stay out until the lights come on. His frequent bathroom trips told me he was deep into the devil’s dandruff. His frenetic energy and lip biting sealed his fate. He was not the killer.  

That left Alice. Always back to Alice. She hosted the mic in New Orleans. She couldn’t be involved in the LA killings. It didn’t matter. I had to get them both back to my hotel to find out. See what they know. Where had they been? Could be a two-person job. No wonder I couldn’t track them. 

A hundred-dollar bill settled our tab, and I lured them back to my hotel with more comedy talk.  

“How’d you get started?” I asked. 

“Where’s your favorite place to do a set?” Another question. 

“Who are your influences?” Horns and keys of Bitches Brew drowned out any semblance of conversation. Setting the hook was successful. I needed answers. 

Stepping out onto Bourbon Street in these conditions is treacherous. Fuzzy-looking bodies of zombies and tourists. Street performers covered in silver spray paint from head to toe. Musicians with open trumpet cases covered in wadded-up bills, loose change, and strip club flyers. High times for the depraved. We were amongst them. Not where I wanted to be. 

One too many slowdowns almost killed the mood. A window show here. A drunken stumble there. Mardi Gras was six months away, but beads still soared from balconies down onto the unwashed masses, willing to show some skin. 

“How much farther?” Alice asked.  

Hendrix held on to a street sign. His legs looked like straws trying to hold up a pier. “Seriously, Dan?” 

He got my name wrong, but was upright. I didn’t care enough to correct him. Was probably better that way. 

“Another block over,” I said. “If you two would stop stopping every twenty-seven feet, we’d be there.” 

Alice laughed, and drool came out of the side of her mouth. “You said stop stopping.” More laughter. More drool. She was a mess. 

Hendrix started in on the laughter. 

My patience was running out. “Enough with you two. Come on.” I took the risk of walking on without them and hoped they’d catch up. I stopped at two guys in chairs pretending to play invisible instruments. There was a very visible speaker under the guy, moving his hand back and forth like he was blowing into a trombone. Their tips were just as invisible. Terrible production.  

Alice and Hendrix caught up, and we were in my hotel room before I finished my rant about how ridiculous the invisible jazz duo was.  

A hint of tobacco hung in the air of my room. Why did I need the entire pack on the drive? Nerves were the actual answer. The only answer. I cracked open Abita Amber Lager for my guests and let them settle in. 

Alice looked confused. “What’s this?” 

I handed her the cold bottle. “Something lighter than we’ve been drinking all night.” 

Hendrix plodded through the room like he was looking for a spot to hide. “You got anything stronger?” He accepted the beer and kept his eyes on mine, awaiting a response. Was I picking up what he was laying down? I was. 

“If I’ve been paying attention tonight, like I do. Then yes. I have what you need.” 

Alice perked up and placed her beer on the desk. “Do tell.”  

Hendrix slid next to Alice on the bed. They would have made a cute couple. 

My finger flipped the switch off in the small hallway, and I clicked the light off next to the bed. “Hold please.” I slipped away into the bathroom. To my supplies. Time for gluttons to be relieved of their excess. 

Hendrix almost came out of his clothes when I returned with a mirrored tray full of madness. His last dip must have run out over an hour ago. Easy pickings.  

“By all means.” I presented him with the poisoned pixie dust and handed him the straw. “Have the honors. Or should the lady go first?” 

Alice waved him off. 

Hendrix ripped one for each nostril and lay back on the bed. He looked peaceful. 

I turned to Alice. “This is no stuntman. You understand?” 

She placed the beer bottle between her crossed legs. “Ain’t my first rodeo, Haas.”  

Her attempt at cowboy humor made me hesitate to give it to her. “Time to saddle up and ride, then.” 

By the time Alice lay back next to Hendrix, he was already dead. Gray foam had formed around his lips. Alice looked over at him and embraced the ride. 

Her body didn’t convulse or shiver. She took a last gasp and fell flat. 

The bathroom light pushed the darkness to the center of the room. I didn’t want to be in the dark any longer. I moved to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. The man who looked back was the man I had been chasing. The man responsible for all the comic deaths. He was me. 

THE END