Mortal Causes

Rebus wasn't hard to pick out in a crowd. Although there were people there his own age, they were all wearing western dress to some degree, and they were nearly all dancing. There was a stage which was spotlit and full of instruments but empty of bodies. Instead the music came through the PA. A DJ in an enclosed box next to the stage babbled between songs; you could have heard him halfway to Texas.

`Can I help you?’

Not hard to pick out in the crowd, and of course the bouncers had sent-word to the floor manager. He was in his late twenties with slick black hair and a rhinestone waistcoat. The accent was strictly Lothian.

'Is Frankie in tonight?’

If Bothwell were in the dancehall, he'd have spotted him. Bothwell's clothes would have drowned out the PA.

'I'm in charge.’

The smile told Rebus he was as welcome as haemorrhoids at a rodeo.

'Well, there's no trouble, son, so I can put your mind at rest straight off. I'm just looking for a friend, only I didn't fancy paying the admission.’

The manager looked relieved. You could see he hadn't been in the job long. He'd probably been promoted from behind the bar. 'My name's Lorne Strang,' he said.

'And mine's Lorne Sausage.’

Strang smiled. 'My real name's Kevin.’

'Don't apologise.’

'Drink on the house?’

`I'd rather drink on a bar-stool, if that's all right with you.’

Rebus had given the dance floor a good look, and Mairie wasn't there, which meant she was either trapped in the Honchettes' or was somewhere behind the scenes. He wondered what she could be doing behind the scenes at Frankie Bothwell's club.

`So,' said Kevin Strang, 'who are you looking for?’

`Like I say, a friend. She said she'd be here. Maybe I'm a bit late.’

'The place is only just picking up now. We're open another two hours. What'll you have?’

They were at the bar. The bar staff wore white aprons covering chest and legs and gold-coloured bands around their sleeves to keep their cuffs out of the way.

`Is that so they can't palm any notes?’ asked Rebus.

`Nobody cheats the bar here.’

One of the staff broke off serving someone to attend to Kevin Strang.

'Just a beer, please.’ Rebus said.

`Draught? We only serve half pints.’

'Why's that?’

'There's more profit in it.’

`An honest answer. I'll have a bottle of Beck's.’

He looked back to the dance floor. `The last time I saw this many cowboys was at a builders' convention.’

The record was fading out. Strang patted Rebus's back. 'That's my cue,' he said. 'Enjoy yourself' Rebus watched him move through the dancers. He climbed onto the stage and tapped the microphone, sending a whump through the on-stage PA. Rebus didn't know what he was expecting. Maybe Strang would call out the steps of the next barn dance. But instead all he did was speak in a quiet voice, so people had to be quiet to hear him. Rebus didn't think Kevin Strang had much future as floor manager at the Crazy Hose.

`Dudes and womenfolk, it's a pleasure to see you all here at the Crazy Hose Saloon. And now, please welcome onto the Deadwood Stage our band for this evening's hoedown… Chaparral!' There was generous applause as the band emerged through a door at the back of the stage. A few of the arcade junkies had come in from the foyer. The band was a sixpiece, barely squeezing onto the stage. Guitar/vocals, bass, drums, another guitar and two backing singers. They started into their first number a little shakily, but had warmed up by the end, by which time Rebus was finishing his drink and thinking about heading back to the car.

Then he saw Mairie.

No wonder she'd had a raincoat around her. Underneath she must have been wearing a tasselled black skirt, brown leather waistcoat, white blouse cut just above the chest and up around the shoulders, leaving a lot of bare flesh. She wasn't wearing a stetson, but there was a red kerchief around her throat and she was singing her heart out.

She was one of the backing singers.

Rebus ordered another drink and gawped at the stage. After a few songs, he could differentiate between Mairie's voice and that of the other backing singer. He noticed that most of the men were watching this singer. She was much taller than Mairie and had long straight black hair, plus she was wearing a much shorter skirt. But Mairie was the better singer. She sang with her eyes closed, swaying from the hips, knees slightly bent. Her partner used her hands a lot, but didn't gain much from it.

At the end of their fourth song, the male singer/guitarist gave a short spiel while the others in the band caught their breath, retuned, swigged drinks or wiped their faces. Rebus didn't know about C amp;W, but Chaparral seemed pretty good. They didn't just play mush about pet dogs, dying spouses or standing by your lover. Their songs had a harder, much urban feel, with lyrics to match.

'And if you don't know Hal Ketchum,' the singer was saying, 'you better get to know him. This is one of his, it's called Small Town Saturday Night.’

Mairie took lead vocal, her partner patting a tambourine and looking on. At the end of the song, the cheers were loud. The singer came back to his mike and raised his arm towards Mairie.

'Katy Hendricks, ladies and gentlemen.’

The cheers resumed while Mairie took her bow.

After this they started into their own material, two songs whose intention was always ahead of ability. The singer mentioned that both were available on the band's first cassette, available to buy in the foyer.

'We're going to take a break now. So you can all go away for the next fifteen minutes, but be sure to come back.’

Rebus went into the foyer and dug six pounds out of his pocket. When he came back in, the band were at one of the bars, hoping to be bought drinks if half-time refreshments weren't on the house. Rebus shook the cassette in Mairie's ear.

'Miss Hendricks, would you autograph this, please?’

The band looked at him and so did Mairie. She took him by the lapels and propelled him away from the bar.

'What are you doing here?’

'Didn't you know? I'm a big country and western fan.’

'You don't like anything but sixties rock, you told me so yourself. Are you following me?’

'You sang pretty well.’

'Pretty well? I was great.’

'That's my Mairie, never one to hide her light under a tumbleweed. Why the false name?’

'You think I wanted those arseholes at the paper to find out?’

Rebus tried to imagine the Hose full of drunken journos cheering their singer-scribe.

'No, I don't suppose so.’

'Anyway, everyone in the band uses an alias, it makes it harder for the DSS to find out they've been working.’

She pointed at the tape. 'You bought that?’

'Well, they didn't hand it over as material evidence.’

She gri

'I really did. I know I shouldn't be, but I'm amazed.’

She was almost persuaded onto this tack, but not quite. 'You still haven't said why you're following me.’

He put the tape in his pocket. 'Millie Docherty.’

'What about her?’

'I think you know where she is.’

'What?’

'She's scared, she needs help. She might just run to the reporter who's being wanting to see her. Reporters have been known to hide their sources away, protect them.’

'You think I'm hiding her?’

He paused. 'Has she told you about the pe

'What pe

'The one on Billy Cu

'What?’

Rebus shook his head. 'I'll make a deal,' he said. 'We'll talk to her together, that way 'neither of us is hiding anything. What do you say?’

The bassist handed Maine an orange juice.

'Thanks, Duane.’

She gulped it down until only ice was left. 'Are you staying for the second set?’