The murmur of low conversation mixed with the “CHINK” of ice cubes used as a garnish in some nouveau cocktail he hadn't heard of and would probably hate anyway was punctuated with the occasional peal of fake laughter that some people mistake for conversation. That whole scene at the gallery made Bootsy cringe, and he gravitated toward the shadows like one of the Goth. He found its silence and loneliness more inviting than a roomful of poseurs.

The “Theater” was actually an old warehouse which once belonged to a now-defunct fishing business, replete with a rusty corrugated aluminum exterior. A great deal of money had been put into the cleanup and restoration of the structure, including brand-new front doors and, presumably, a lobby. After testing the doors, Bootsy decided the locks had also been updated and he moved on. There was a side entrance, but that door was a heavy metal door with a deadbolt, so Bootsy moved on. At the rear of the building there used to be a loading dock of sorts. The owners of the theater had done little to secure this area, and Bootsy easily crept past some rotting pallets and found a padlocked back door. The lock was fairly heavy duty, but the door was just as rotted as the pallets, and the door handle broke when he put his shoulder to it.

Inside, the halls were nearly unnavigable in the dark. He stumbled around until his eyes adjusted, then made his way toward the offices upstairs. At the first computer he encountered he wiggled the mouse to wake it, but was dismayed to find it password protected. He grinned and typed in PRETENTIOUS, but remained locked out. Never mind, he was shit with computers anyway. He went through the drawers fruitlessly until he came upon one that was locked. Interesting, he thought, then retrieved a letter opener. This he wedged between the desk and the drawer and popped it open with ease. Pulling open the drawer revealed very little, but he was able to locate a small leather-bound ledger book buried beneath a pile of papers. A little black book. Hmmm...

Bootsy was pretty sure a legitimate accounts receivable program existed on the computer; this little black book probably showed how much someone was skimming off the theater's proceeds. He took it, not because he gave a damn about fiscal malfeasance within the hallowed walls of the McCrimman Memorial Theatre, but because it might be fun to blackmail someone later on.

Also in the drawer was a small, black digital Rolodex, which he opened and scanned through. There were three Katherines, but no Dunn. Bootsy tapped the Rolodex thoughtfully against his chin and pondered. Either she was not on file or she had changed her name, maybe gotten married. He'd have to dial them all.

The first Katherine, last name Mays, answered on the second ring. Unfortunately Bootsy crossed her off the list instantly because her voice sounded as if she was a fifty-year smoker. She was most definitely not a singer.

The End

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