The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

  His bodyguard was a pushy little fireplug of an Irishman everybody called Red. Fire-haired, freckled, bad-tempered. Risky business to be around.

  Brownie didn’t know the third guy at all, Spanish-looking dude in a gray suit. Pocked face.

  “Mr. Zeman,” Brownie nodded, not bothering to offer his hand. “How you doin’? You want to talk in my office?”

  “Forget it. We’ll sit here,” Red said sharply, marching to the end of the bar where he could watch the door. Moishe’s favorite spot. Even took the same damn stool.

  Brownie told Carolina to take off, took her place behind the bar, shedding his jacket so Red could see he wasn’t armed.

  “Would you gentlemen care for a taste?”

  “We’re not here to drink, Mr. Brown,” Junior said. “You’ve got exactly five seconds to tell me what happened to my uncle.”

  “Didn’t know Moishe was your uncle,” Brownie said. “Sorry for your loss. But that’s really all I know. He came in ‘round one, had a few drinks. I offered him a ride home, dropped him off downtown. At Twelfth and Clairmont.”

  “You dumped him there?” Red butted in. “By himself?”

  “Moishe told me to get lost, so I got,” Brownie shrugged. “A prowl car tailed me out of the neighborhood, but I expect y’all know that already, since you’ve got more lines into Detroit P.D. than Michigan Bell.”

  “Did you see anybody hanging around when you dropped him off?’”Junior asked.

  “Nope. Not that time of night. And nobody followed us.”

  “How do you know that?” Red asked.

  “I don’t, but Moishe did. He checked. About a dozen times.”

  “Like he was nervous?” Red pressed. “Expecting trouble?”

  “More like he was bein’ Moishe. He was a careful man.”

  “Not careful enough,” Tony Junior said, looking Leo over. Reading him. “Have any strangers been around to talk to you, Leo? Maybe about changing jukebox companies?”

  “No. Maybe they’re saving me for last.”

  “So you know who they are?”

  “I’ve heard they’re Italians from Chicago. Serious people. But it doesn’t matter. Y’all fronted me the money when I needed it, Mr. Zeman. I’m not forgetting that.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Junior said, leaning in. “Just so you know — I may be taking over the jukebox business. My uncle was ... a good businessman. But he was old-fashioned. I’ve got new ideas. For instance, you should make some changes, Brownie. Get with the times.”

  “What kind of changes?”

  “For openers, lose the blues on your jukebox. Put on new music. Run some beer specials, hire some rock bands from the college, get a younger crowd in here. Put in some girls upstairs. You’re sitting on a gold mine here, Leo. Together we could turn it into a real moneymaker.”

  “I like it the way it is,” Leo said evenly. “I don’t get rich, but I make my payments on time. And that’s all you’ve got to worry about, mister. This is a neighborhood joint. Local people come in to hear some blues, forget about life awhile. White kids and hookers would bring trouble, and I don’t like trouble. The big bucks won’t mean much if I have to blow it all on bail.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear what the man said.” Red said, doing a movie version of a badass stare. “You hard of hearing, blood?”

  “I hear just fine,” Leo said, ignoring Red. “The thing is, my uncle’s alive and well and livin’ in Alabama. Yours is downtown coolin’ on a slab, Mr. Zeman.”

  “Are you trying to threaten me, Brownie?”

  “No, sir. I’m just sayin’ maybe you don’t understand how things work down here. If I was you, I’d be a lot more worried about who waxed Moishe than tunes on a jukebox. It’s the kind of thing you have to be sure about. Especially since a whole lot of people could get killed for nothing if you’re wrong.”

  “We know who killed Moishe,” Red said. “Them Italians.”

  “No,” Leo said, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “If the Italians took him out, they’d put it all over town so everybody’d know how bad they are. But I haven’t heard anything about it one way or the other. How about you? You hear any noise about Moishe gettin’ waxed? Like who did it? Or why?”

  “No,” Tony Junior admitted. “We’ve talked to a few people. Leaned on a few more. Nobody knows anything. Including you.”

  “I don’t know who killed Moishe, but I might have better luck finding out than you will.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “This is my part of town, Mr. Zeman. I know who to ask, how to ask. People will talk to me who won’t talk to you, you know?”

  “Why be helpful?” Red sneered. “What’s in it for you?”

  “Stayin’ alive, for one thing. If you start up with those Italians, I’m liable to get caught in the crossfire. On the other hand, if I can turn up the guy who did Moishe, it oughtta be worth something, right?”

  “It might be,” Tony Junior nodded warily. “Like how much?”

  “We just call it even. My loan’s paid off. Sound fair?”

  “Not quite,” Junior said. “My dad taught me any deal should cut both ways. Something to win. And something to lose. So you’ve got twenty-four hours, Brownie. After that we start taking people out. With you at the top of the list.”

  “Me? Wait a minute, I didn’t —”

  “Save it, Brownie. You’re right, I don’t know how things are down here. And I don’t care. Maybe you people think I’m too young to take over from my uncle. Too green. Maybe you even think you can con me. Is that how it is?”

  “No, I —”

  “Shut up! And listen up! You’ve got one day to give me the guy who did Moishe. Or you’re the guy. You got that? Or should I have Red take you out in the alley and explain it some more?”

  “No need,” Brownie said, swallowing. “I got it.”

  ~ * ~

  Brownie didn’t waste any time. Five minutes after Tony Junior and his goons left, he was in his emerald Studebaker retracing the route he’d taken with Moishe the night before. From the club to the corner of Clairmont and Twelfth.

  Easing the Stude to the curb, he scanned the area, remembering. Moishe hadn’t asked to be brought here. He’d spoken suddenly when he ordered Brownie to pull over.

  As though he’d forgotten something. Or remembered it. Okay. What could Moishe remember about this corner?

  A newsstand in the next block carried the morning papers, the Detroit Free Press, the News, a few magazines. But it hadn’t been open yet. Hell, it was after two a.m. Every damn thing was closed...

  No. Not everything. Brownie parked the Hawk at the curb and climbed out. The steamy afternoon hit him like a blast from a furnace door. Instant sweat.

  Dropping a dime in the meter for an hour, he strolled down the narrow service alley that led to the loading docks in the middle of the block behind the shops.

  There. A wooden staircase led to a second-story warehouse above a print shop. No lights showing. Naturally. The windows were painted flat black. Trotting up the steps, Brownie rapped twice on the gray metal freight door, then twice again. And waited.

  The tiny peephole winked as somebody inside checked him out. Then the door opened. Just a crack.

  “We’re closed.”

  “I know. I’m Brownie, I own the Lounge up on Dequinder. Tell Fatback I need to see him. It’s important.”

  The door closed a moment, then opened to admit him. Bass, Fatback’s bouncer/bodyguard, patted Brownie down for weapons, then waved him through.

  Inside, the blind pig was empty, chairs stacked on tables while an ancient janitor mopped the hardwood floor. Skeletal microphone stands stood on a small stage in the corner. The only difference between this joint and Brownie’s was a liquor license and the gaming tables. Roulette, craps, blackjack. All illegal.

  So were his operating hours. Fatback’s place opened around midnight, stayed open till five or six.
Or around the clock if a serious game got going.

  Fatback was at the end of the bar, sipping a Vernors, thumbing through his cash register receipts. His nickname suited him. Five-foot-five, 360 pounds, with a full beard, Fatback looked like a black Santa Claus in a China blue sharkskin suit. Custom tailored, it fit without a wrinkle. Brownie pulled up a stool next to him. Fat kept counting.

  “We’ve got trouble,” Brownie said quietly.

  “What trouble? I’m just tryin’ to run a business.”

  “I dropped Moishe Abrams in front of this place last night,” Brownie said, shading the truth. “I know he came in here, Fat. What the hell happened?”

  Fat glanced up at him, then shook his head. “What always happens with the jukebox king?” he sighed, jotting down the tape tally in a tiny notebook. “Trouble happened. And thanks a bunch for dropping him off. Why didn’t you fire a couple of rounds through my front door while you were at it? Gimme a friendly warning.”

  “I figured you’d notice Moishe soon enough. Did he get in somebody’s face?”

  “Mine, for openers. I didn’t want to serve him, he was already loaded. Told me if I didn’t he’d toss my damn jukebox out the window and me with it.”

  “Sounds like Moishe. So?”

  “So I gave him a bottle. What else could I do? Didn’t figure he’d cause much trouble. I was dead wrong about that.”

  “Why? What went down?”

  “Nothin’ at first. Place was pretty quiet. Couple of card games, some craps goin’ on. The kid they call Little Diddley was playin’ guitar, but nobody was payin’ him no mind. Too damn hot to dance. Moishe yelled at Diddley to quit singin’ them blues. Little D don’t know who Moishe is, tells him to screw hisself. I told the kid to pack it in for the night just to save his damn life.” Fatback shook his head, remembering.

  “Then Moishe decides he wants to play some cards. Butts into Charlie Cee’s game. Them studs been at it all night, serious money changin’ hands. Seven, eight hundred bucks every pot. Moishe antes up a grand, plays awhile. Loses his ass, naturally. He’s too drunk to pitch pennies, to say nothin’ of playin’ cutthroat poker. Then Moishe claims Charlie Cee’s cheatin’.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Brownie whistled. ‘“What happened?”

  “All hell broke loose. Charlie came out of his chair with a piece. Me and Bass jumped in, cooled Charlie down, and hustled Moishe’s ass out of the place. Might cost me my jukebox, but it’s better’n havin’ Moishe kill somebody in here or get killed his own self.”

  Brownie was staring at him.

  “What?” Fatback asked, annoyed.

  “You haven’t heard, have you?”

  “Ain’t heard nothin’ about nothin,’ Brownie. I just rolled in here ten minutes ago. Why? What’s up?”

  “Moishe bought the farm last night. Somebody cut him up. His body turned up on the street a couple of blocks from here. His people are lookin’ to bleed somebody for it.”

  “Aw, man, you got to be kiddin’,” Fatback moaned. “Who his people lookin’ for?”

  “You. Or maybe me. They don’t much care. They just wanna burn somebody quick. Any chance Moishe waited outside for Charlie Cee, maybe mixed it up with him?”

  “Nah. I bounced Moishe around three-thirty. Cee’s game didn’t break up until seven or so. I closed up, and me and Cee went over to my woman’s in Greektown for breakfast.”

  “Cee was with you the whole time?” Brownie pressed.

  “Yeah, damn it. The whole time, just me and . . .” Fatback broke off, frowning.

  “What is it?” Brownie asked.

  “Just thinking. Half a dozen people saw Charlie Cee and Moishe get into it. But I’m the only one can cover for Cee after.”

  “Sell Charlie out? That’s pretty cold, Fatback.”

  “Hey, me and Cee ain’t family, you know? If somebody’s gotta get whacked over this, better him than us. Got any better ideas?”

  “Not yet,” Brownie said, rising. “Hang loose, I’ll get back to you. Gonna be here?”

  “Got nowhere else to be,” Fat sighed. “Might want to knock extra hard if you come back, though. I’m gonna lock this place down and turn my jukebox up extra loud. Any way you figure it, I probably won’t have it for long.”

  ~ * ~

  Outside, Brownie stood at the top of the stairway looking around. According to Fatback, Moishe got tossed at three-thirty. What would he do next? Where would he go?

  Nowhere. The answer came to him as surely as the turnaround in an old blues tune. Moishe would never accept getting bounced by a black man. He’d look to get even. And right away. So he wouldn’t go anywhere. He’d wait for Fatback or Charlie Cee.

  Where?

  Only one place. Against the warehouse wall in the shadows of the loading dock. Concealed there, you could watch the door and the stairway and make your move when somebody showed.

  Trotting down the stairs, Brownie quickly scanned the area. Spotted the signs almost immediately. Polka dots. Dark droplets, more brownish than red now, spattered across the cardboard boxes that littered the alley floor.

  Dried blood. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking.

  Damn.

  Brownie nudged the loose boxes around with the toe of his shoe, half expecting to find a body beneath them. He didn’t. Instead he found a battered chipboard guitar case. The name Little Diddley was crudely lettered on the side in white paint. Spattered with polka dots.

  ~ * ~

  “The kid’s real name is Jonas Arquette,” Fatback said. “Calls his-self Little Diddley ‘cause he tries to sing like Bo.” They were in Brownie’s Studebaker headed down Eighth as the steamy dusk settled over Detroit, darkening the streets without cooling them a single degree.

  “Diddley worked for you long?”

  “Few weeks. Came up from New Orleans a month or so back, scufflin’ for gigs. Boy sings pretty good, plays a mean guitar.”

  “And works cheap,” Brownie added dryly.

  “That, too,” Fatback grinned. “But it’s not like I’m rippin’ him off. I gave him a gig playin’ after hours, got him a room over at the Delmore Arms where most of the players stay. Figured the kid could make some connections, maybe get hooked up with somethin’ steady, you know? And this is how he pays me back. Gets into a jam with the damn jukebox king. Might as well head for the morgue and pick out a slab for hisself.”

  “Maybe he’s already there,” Brownie said, wheeling the Stude into the Delmore Arms parking lot. “Cops said they found a stiff in an alley on the Corridor last night, beaten to death.”

  “You think it was Diddley?”

  “They didn’t mention a name. Let’s find out.”

  Fatback slipped the Delmore desk clerk a five for a key to the kid’s room. He and Brownie rode four floors up, the rickety elevator rattling like a cattle car on the Rock Island Line.

  Didn’t bother to knock. Fat silently unlocked the door, and the two men warily edged into the dark room. Brownie switched on the light.

  “Aw, man,” Fat breathed. A body was on the bed, a tangled mess wrapped in bloodstained sheets. Fatback held a pudgy finger to the kid’s throat, shaking his head. “He’s alive. But not by much.”

  “And not for long, no matter how you figure it,” Brownie said, gingerly picking up Moishe’s bloody razor from the nightstand.

  Fat glanced at the razor, his mouth narrowing. Then he slapped the kid. Hard. “Wake up, Jonas! Come on.”

  Diddley’s eyes snapped open, flicked from Fat to Brownie and hack again, dazed, terrified. Tried to sit up, then fell back, groaning.

  “What happened last night?” Fat asked. “What’d you do?”

  “Nothin’, I swear,” the kid rasped. “It was crazy. I was headin’ out like you told me; old dude jumped me. Never said nothin’ to me, just come out of the dark with a razor. Moved like lightning. Must’ve cut me five times before I knew what the hell was happenin’.”

  “Then why aren’t you dead?” Brownie asked reasonably. “Moi
she is.”

  “The old dude’s dead?”

  “You know damn well he is,” Fat growled. “You did him.”

  “No,” the kid said, wincing, remembering. “I was holdin’ my guitar in front of me, just tryin’ to stay alive. His razor stuck in the case. I grabbed it, swung at him a couple of times, just lookin’ to back him off me, you know? He took off runnin’ one way, I went the other. Came back here. Snuck in. Guess I passed out. Damn, I gotta go back. I lost my guitar.”