“Great. What kind of a place does Millie run?”

“It’s vegan.”

Decker stifled a smile. “O’Dell, I’m a cop and a good detective, but I would have never figured you for a vegan.”

Mad Irish flashed another maniacal grin. “How d’ya think I keep my girlish figure?”

CHAPTER 15

THE STOREFRONT WAS old but spotless with Formica tubular tables and matching chairs that probably dated back to the fifties. The menu hosted a variety of entrées inspired by exotic regions of the globe, with tofu playacting in everything from shrimp cocktail to moo shoo pork. The server was a beefy fellow with a buzzed haircut, a neatly trimmed soul patch, and a diamond stud in one earlobe, a conservative boy by today’s standards. O’Dell ordered the usual. Decker decided on the Cobb salad, figuring there wasn’t much the kitchen could do to ruin raw vegetables.

O’Dell gulped tap water. He was an easy talker. “I did it for Mudd, you know.”

Mudd was Ryan “Mudderfudder” Goldberg, the lead guitarist of the group. “You sued Rudy for Mudd’s sake?”

“Right-o. Me? I’m doing fine. I get lots of me meals comped for performing acoustic versions of some of the Sluts’ big ones. I usually do Tuesday and Thursday here at Millie’s. The weekends I’m at a small place in Venice. I live right near the café two blocks from the beach. I don’t have much money, but I don’t need a lot.”

“You sound like a happy man.”

“I know luck when it bites you in the arse. And I still get the chicks. Young ones.” He sat up. “Still got the bike and the bad boy image. The simple ones really go for that.”

“So being a bad boy is an image?”

Mad Irish grinned. “Sometimes yes and sometimes no, and I’d be bloody daft to explain meself any further.” Meaning he still indulged in illegal substances. “I’m doing fine, Primo was doing fine, but it’s Rudy who’s livin’ the vida loca.” His eyes darkened. “Mudd wasn’t so lucky.”

“Why’s that?”

“Dunno. Maybe he started believing all that rot about us being with the devil. He was lead guitar: the most talented, the most sensitive, and the most gullible. I think the voices started before he joined us, but we all figured it was the drugs.”

Decker nodded.

“But it kept going…the voices. They got more evil, too, telling Mudd to do crazy things. He was always a bit crackers, but then he started cuttin’ himself—his arms, his legs, between his legs.” Mad Irish winced. “His mum had no choice but to get him committed.”

“When was he hospitalized?”