The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

  “I don’t care. Give him whatever he wants, no charge. And say yessir, nossir. He likes that.”

  “Fine by me, long as he knows I’m not on the menu. Who is he, anyway?”

  “He’s the local jukebox king,” Brownie said.

  “King? You mean he’s some kind of singer?”

  “No.” Brownie smiled. A good smile. “Moishe’s people own the jukeboxes. All of ‘em. In every joint in Detroit. And the cigarette machines and the candy machines and even the damn slot machines in the blind pigs. They also own pieces of half the bars in Motown, including mine. You get my drift?”

  “He’s mobbed up? That old dude?”

  “Moishe damn near is the Mob. Used to be muscle for the Purple Gang during Prohibition. Ran whisky in from Canada, drove trucks right across the ice on the Detroit River in wintertime.”

  “Must’ve been crazy,” Carolina said, glancing sidelong at Moishe. Curious now.

  “Oh, he’s still crazy. Only nowadays he collects vending machine money and the vig for loan sharks. When Moishe comes round, you’d best have his bread ready. Slow-pays get stomped. Or just disappear. So, you make nice with Moishe, sugar. While I figure a way to get his honky ass out of here.”

  “Got it covered,” Carolina nodded, sauntering down to sweeten Moishe’s drink with her wide smile. Leaving Brownie to worry. And wrestle with his conscience. Because he hadn’t told Carolina everything.

  Sometimes Moishe Abrams killed people. Just for the hell of it.

  Brownie saw Moishe cut a guy in a blind pig once, five, six years before. Bled the poor bastard out on a barroom floor over some stupid argument. Over nothing, really. On a hot summer night. A lot like this one.

  Brownie was only a bartender then. Hired help.

  He mopped up the blood, then helped the owner load the stiff into the trunk of the dead man’s ‘54 Lincoln. They left the car in an alley off Twelfth. Keys in the ignition.

  End of story. A black man knifed to death on the Corridor? Do tell.

  But that was then. Brownie wasn’t a bartender anymore. The Lounge was his place, and these were his customers, his people.

  Which made Moishe his problem. The trouble was, he still remembered the look on the old man’s face, sitting at the bar calmly ordering another drink with a dead guy on the floor a few feet away.

  He looked . . . No, that was the thing. Moishe didn’t have a look. Empty eyes. Nobody home. He’d killed that dude like it was nothing. Maybe because he was black. Or maybe just because.

  Leo Brown — Brownie to his friends and everybody else — was no coward. Running a blues joint on Detroit’s Cass Corridor, trouble just naturally came with the territory. Drunks, brawlers. He’d even faced down a stickup man once.

  But Moishe? Down deep, where it mattered, Brownie was afraid of Moishe Abrams. Scared spitless.

  He didn’t like the feeling. Didn’t like feeling small. Especially since he had an easy answer. The gun in his office. A Colt Commander, .45 auto. Nickel-plated. Loaded.

  He thought about getting it, jacking in a round, walking up to Moishe, blowing his freakin’ brains all over the wall without saying a damn word to him. Solve the problem that way.

  Permanent.

  He liked the idea, the simplicity of it. The courage it would take. But he knew it wouldn’t end anything. It would only bring on more trouble. Which made it a dumb move. And despite his easy drawl and laid-back style, Brownie was no fool. In some ways, he was an educated man. He owned books and read them. Didn’t have much formal schooling but he listened to people. All kinds of people. And he remembered what they said. And learned from it.

  But he’d never heard an easy way to manage Moishe Abrams. The old mobster was about as predictable as a weasel on amphetamines.

  So Brownie took a deep breath and forced down his fear. Slipping off his tailored jacket, he hung it on the hook beside his office door. Wondering if he’d ever put it on again. Then he strolled casually over to Moishe.

  And smiled.

  “Mr. Abrams, how you doin’ tonight?”

  Moishe didn’t look up. “Get lost, blood.”

  “You remember me, Mr. Abrams. Brownie? This is my place. Can I buy you one for the road? We’re gettin’ ready to close.”

  “It’s early.”

  “Nossir, it’s almost two. Word is, beat cops are checkin’ up and down the Corridor. Writin’ tickets for after-hours.”

  “No beat cops are gonna roust me.”

  “Hell, I’m not worried about you, Mr. Abrams. More worried about them. You bust ‘em up in my place, it’s bad for business. Mine and yours.”

  Moishe glanced up at Brownie, looking him over for the first time. Tall, dark, and slender. Even features, liquid brown eyes, wide shoulders. Well dressed. Soft-spoken. “You tryin’ to give me the bum’s rush, Brownie?”

  “Nossir, no way. Couldn’t if I wanted to, and we both know that. Now, how about that drink?”

  “I’ll take the drink, but I ain’t leavin’. I’m stuck. My damn Caddy overheated, and I’ll never get a cab this part of town, this time of night. “

  “No problem,” Brownie said. “I’ll drive you home.” And instantly regretted it. “My car’s outside, it’d be my pleasure.”

  Moishe considered the offer. “What kind of a car?”

  “‘Sixty Studebaker Hawk. Emerald green. Brand spankin’ new.”

  “Hawks are pimp cars,” Moishe grunted, knocking back the last of his bourbon in a gulp. “Beats walkin’, though. Let’s go.”

  Grabbing his jacket from his office, Brownie thought again about the gun in his desk. Decided against it.

  If Moishe spotted the piece, Brownie’d have to use it or lose it. Mix it up with a pro like Moishe? Might as well jump in the ring with Joe Louis, try to land a lucky punch.

  Brownie’s Stude hummed to life, rumbling like a caged cat. After a few blocks, the radio warmed up, WCHB, Inkster. Long Lean Larry Dean murmuring between soul tunes in his silky baritone.

  Moishe switched it off. Glancing over his shoulder, he checked the road behind him, his eyes flicking back and forth like bugs in a bonfire. Paranoid. The price of being a prick.

  Neither man spoke, Moishe stewing in his sour, boozy silence, Brownie not about to make conversation. Be like gabbing with a gut-shot bear.

  “Stop,” Moishe said suddenly. “Pull over here.”

  Surprised, Brownie eased the Studebaker to the curb. Moishe lived out in Grosse Pointe, a good five miles farther on. Here they were only a few blocks from downtown in the dead of night. Empty streets, eyeless windows.

  Moishe climbed out. “Take off,” he said, slamming the door.

  “You’re very welcome, Massa Abrams,” Brownie said. But very quietly. To himself.

  As he circled the block to head back to the lounge, a car suddenly gunned out of an alley, pulling up right on his tail, staying just a few feet behind his rear bumper.

  Prowl car. City cops. But they didn’t turn on their gumball flasher. Hit him with the spotlight instead, checking out his car.

  Half blinded by the blaze, Brownie braced himself for the roust, wondering if they wanted grease money or just to bust his balls. Black man, new car. Must be up to no good, right?

  Or maybe not. For whatever reason, they didn’t pull him over. Just tailed him for half a mile with their spotlight glaring through the Stude’s rear window, reminding Brownie he was the wrong color, wrong part of Detroit, wrong time of night.

  Like he needed reminding.

  ~ * ~

  The sweet scent of coffee woke him. The rich aroma dragging him back from the land of dreams. Brownie opened his eyes. Blinked. Breathed deep.

  Black coffee. Fresh. His bedroom door opened a crack, and Carolina stuck her head in.

  “Brownie? You awake?”

  “I am now. What time is it? And how’d you get in here?”

  “It’s a little after noon. I showed up for work, Eddie gave me a key, said to get my young butt over here, get
you up. Couldn’t call you. Didn’t want to talk over the phone.”

  “Why not?” Brownie asked, snapping fully awake. “What’s wrong?”

  “That old guy you left with last night? He’s dead, Brownie.”

  “What do you mean dead? Dead how?”

  “How you think? Somebody did him in.”

  Brownie shook his head, trying to clear it. Felt like a fighter who’d walked into a sucker punch. He remembered wanting to pop Moishe bad, even thinking about the gun in his office.

  For a split second he wondered — no. He’d dropped Moishe off downtown. Alive and well. Maybe a little drunk. Or a lot drunk. With Moishe it was hard to tell.

  “What the hell happened to him? Exactly.”

  “Hey, don’t bark at me. I don’t know anything about all this. I just tend bar, okay?”

  There was something in her tone. He glanced at her sharply. “Whoa up. You don’t think I iced the old dude, do you?”

  Her hesitation said more than the shake of her head.

  “No, of course I don’t think that. I got coffee on. You want some?”

  “Yeah. There’s Canadian bacon in the icebox. Better fry us up some eggs, too. It’s liable to be a long day.”

  He showered quickly, chose a dark blue Sunday-go-to-meetin’ suit from his closet. The jacket fit a little loose in the shoulders. Room enough for a .45 auto in a shoulder holster. Too bad the gun was still in his desk back at the Lounge.

  But it was all for the best.

  ~ * ~

  When Brownie stepped into the lounge, two men immediately rose from their barstools. Both of ‘em wearing off-the-rack suits from Sears, Roebuck. One white guy, one black. Cops.

  “Leo Brown?” the white cop asked. The black cop didn’t ask Brownie anything, just pointed at the wall.

  Brownie raised his hands as the black cop patted him down for weapons, found nothing, then spun him around. He was a big fella, half a head taller than Brownie, probably outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Sad, deeply lined face. Like a blue-tick hound.

  The white cop was smaller, freckled, maybe forty. Whitey showed Brownie an ID. Gerald Doyle. Lieutenant. Doyle did the talking.

  “Tell us about last night, Leo. What happened between you and Moishe Abrams? Did he start trouble in here?”

  “There was no trouble,” Brownie said, straightening his lapels. “Moishe came in about one, had a few, hung around till closing. Wouldn’t get a cab, so I gave him a lift uptown.”

  “To what address?”

  “No address. He got off at a corner, Clairmont and Twelfth.”

  “Twelfth Street? That time of night?” the black cop said skeptically.

  “You guys know who Moishe was, right?”

  “We know,” Doyle nodded. “So?”

  “So you know he could get off any damn place he wanted in this town, any time at all.”

  “Maybe,” Doyle conceded. “I hear he had a piece of this joint. That so?”

  “Moishe was the jukebox king. Worked for the people who own the jukes and cigarette machines.”

  “We know who he worked for,” Doyle said mildly. “But that isn’t what I asked you, Mr. Brown. Did Moishe own a piece of this place?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “What bank do you use, lieutenant?” Brownie asked.

  “Me? Detroit National. Why?”

  “Five years ago I was a bartender. Had about ten grand saved, needed a loan to buy this place, fix it up. Where do you figure I got the money? Detroit National?”

  “I guess not,” Doyle said, smiling in spite of himself. “So what went wrong last night, Brownie? You a little late payin’ Moishe the vigorish?”

  “I told you what happened. Nothing. I mean, look at me,” Brownie said, turning right and left, showing both profiles. “Do I look like I been alley dancin’ with Moishe Abrams?”

  The two cops exchanged a look; then the white cop shrugged. “Maybe not, Leo, but you left here with him. Which makes you the last one to see him alive.”

  “No way. It was around two when I dropped him off. A prowl car pulled out of an alley on Clairmont, tailed me a dozen blocks or so to make sure I got out of the neighborhood. Check with them.”

  “We will. But even if that holds up it won’t get you off the hook, Brownie. If you know anything —”

  “All I know is, Moishe was half in the bag, and he was a mean drunk. Mean sober, for that matter. And it was a hot night. I’m not surprised somebody got killed, I’m just surprised it was Moishe. What happened to him anyway?”

  “Cut,” the black cop said, bass voice like coal rumbling down a chute. “Somebody opened him up. Sending a message, most likely.”

  “What message?”

  “Move over,” Doyle said. “Moishe was mobbed up with the Motown Syndicate, the old Purple Gang. I hear there’s a new bunch crowding them. Sicilians from Chicago. Which means you’re in a world of trouble, Brownie. “

  “Why me? I don’t know a damn thing about this.”

  “You’re still in the middle, like it or not. And if the Sicilians whacked Moishe to send a message, who do you think the Motown mob is gonna use to send one back?”

  “Have them Italians been around to see you?” the black cop asked.

  “I’ve heard they leaned on some people in the neighborhood,” Brownie admitted. “Haven’t gotten around to me.”

  “They will. When they do, you better call us, hear? Maybe we can help you out.”

  “Talk to y’all about mob business?” Brownie smiled. “Yeah, right. Why don’t you just shoot me in the head right now?”

  “Maybe we should.” The black cop smiled, a wolf’s grin that never reached his eyes. “Might be doin’ you a kindness.”

  “We’ve wasted enough time on this moke,” Doyle shrugged. “We got two more homicides to check out before lunch. One of ‘em might interest you, Brownie. A guy got himself beaten to death a few blocks down on Dequinder last night. Makes you wonder who was mad at him, doesn’t it?”

  “Nobody had to be mad at nobody, lieutenant. It was a hot night. People get edgy.”

  “Want to take a ride with us, take a look at your future?”

  “No, thanks,” Brownie said, shaking his head. “I’m doin’ fine right here.”

  “So far, you mean,” the black cop snorted. “You ever hire blues singers?”

  “Blues is what I do. Uptown places get the names, Jackie Wilson, Sam Cooke. The blues suits this neighborhood a little better. Local folks like it.”

  “Ever book Jimmy Reed?”

  “Can’t afford him. He’s The Big Boss Man.”

  “Too bad. Ol’ Jimmy does a tune that oughtta be your theme song. ‘Better Take Out Some Insurance.’ In your situation you’re gonna need it. Big time. I’ll see you around, Brownie. Hope you’re still breathin’ when I do.”

  ~ * ~

  After the law left, Brownie stepped into his office and closed the door. Didn’t turn on the light. Stood there in the darkness trying to make sense of what the two cops had said.

  Some dude stomped to death on the Corridor? No news. Happened about three times a week.

  Moishe murdered a few blocks from where Brownie dropped him off? Damned hard to believe. Partly because the old man seemed invincible. Partly because it was too good to be true.

  The white cop had one thing right, though. With trouble brewing between the mobs, the middle was a bad place to be. Might as well sack out on the Woodward centerline at rush hour.

  Switching on the lights, he opened his top desk drawer. Eyed the nickel-plated .45 Colt Commander a moment, then closed the drawer again, leaving the gun where it was.

  Truth was, he didn’t like guns much. Kept the .45 strictly for show. But one crummy pistol wouldn’t impress the Syndicate or the Sicilians either. They had plenty of guns of their own.

  ~ * ~

  Three Motown Syndicate hoods showed up an hour later, shouldering into the club?
??s dimness out of the afternoon heat.

  He knew who they were, sort of. Tony Zeman, Jr., was royalty. Son of Big Tony Zee. Tony Senior was a Motown mob boss when Capone was still a bouncer. He was in a wheelchair now, people said. Lost a leg. Diabetes. Life whittling him away. Maybe as a payback for the way his goons carved up other people.

  Tony Junior looked more like a preppie than a hood. Short, sandy hair, pasty face. Suit from Hughes and Hatcher. Wingtips. Buffed nails. Brownie had heard Junior was in law school. Which would make him more dangerous than his daddy ever was.