I had a thought. I turned and went back to the booth.
"Excuse me, don't mean to intrude," I said to the Visigoth. "Is that a recent picture of Condolezza Schwartz in concert?"
"Oh, " he said in the voice of a lovestruck swain, "Yes, it is a kind of talisman of mine. I take pictures of her at all her concerts. I am tracing the subtle evolution of her music and her earthly form together. I think the one can enrich the other, don't you agree?"
"I have always been more of a Cartesian, I must admit, but I can certainly see how the possibility of physical change could influence the mind, for instance the fact that women who get breast enlargements seems to make them even stupider, if such is possible. But the body-mind problem aside, you wouldn't happen to have a picture of Condolezza Playing on the night of the recent attack, would you?"
"Wasn't that atrocious? What kind of a monster would do such a thing? If I found him, I would give him a stern talking to. Some people!" And he shook his Visigothic head in despair at our times. "But yes, of course, I do have such a picture. Here --"
He reached down into his cycle bag, riffed aside assorted stashes and what looked like release papers from prisons across North America, and pulled out a pink embossed photo album that had "Condolezza: Her Pictures" swathed across the cover in what could only be needlepoint. He flipped through it, and then held it up.
"There. That was about 30 seconds before the horrible moment. After that I was too distraught to take any pictures. Goodness what an evening."
I took a look at it. It said nothing to me.
"Friend," I said, sitting down.
"Malcolm," he said gruffly. "Malcolm Dupont III."
"Blake Madison. Pleased to make your acquaintance. The fact is that I have been hired as Ms. Schwartz' bodyguard for her concert tomorrow night --" I showed him my detective licence -- "to prevent a replay or, dare I say it, worse" (Malcolm shuddered and put his greasy head in his big hands, studded with carbuncle rings, and skull tattoos on every knuckle). There has already been one murder in this case, and I am trying to avoid another."
Malcolm looked up at me, with sad pleading in his eyes. "What can anyone do, it is such a terrible time. No one seems to care any more, we lack what Robert Bellah calls the habits of the heart, the civic fibre that enabled our forebears to stand at Lexington and Concord as one. Have you been out on the roads recently? No manners at all. Common courtesy, even among sojourners travelling together across this great land seems to have fled."
"I couldn't agree more, Malcolm, but there is one thing you could do, if you would?"
He was very eager.
"All I need to do is borrow that photograph for about an hour. I promise to bring it back to you unscathed."
He hesitated for a moment, it was obviously a prize; but then he looked at me very seriously and handed it over. He said: "I have only just met you, yet I believe that you are trustworthy."
I thanked him, told him I was, told him would be back within the hour, went over to the stack of newspapers to check on whether the Cubbies had won the World Series yet, and finding that it still was not so, went over to Lucky.
"Lucky, this is a folk music festival. You must have a bunch of folk music experts or a music store in town where I could go to tap into some basic information, yes?"
She looked at me, the junior detective look coming into her eyes: "Damn, Blake, what's up, I have to work, damn it, but you better tell me what's up."
"I'll keep you fully informed, Nancy, but I haven't got anything, I am just snooping, getting some background."
"O.K. Well there are two stores: Ralph's Music Store, which is a ripoff joint, the man never saw a retail price he didn't like; and there is "Fretloose" which is the real thing. Down three blocks, turn right, beat up store."
"Thanks, Lucky, be back soon. Oh, and you see that Neanderthal thug in Booth 4? Send him a beer on me."
She looked at me quizzically, and shrugged. I went out.