Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 10, October 1990

“Very prudent,” Turco nodded, smiling faintly. “You know, we might just get along, Axton. You want the gig or not?”

“Absolutely. And call me Ax. Everybody calls me Ax.”

Benjie pulled up at the passenger pickup lane in a silver six-seat GM van, which surprised Axton. He’d figured Turco for the limousine type. Turco and Linnea Harris climbed into the back and immediately went into a heavy conference. Ax helped Benjie load the luggage, taking special care with Turco’s guitar, then climbed into the passenger seat up front.

“So, you want to fill me in?” Ax said. “What brings y’all to Detroit?”

“Recording studio,” Benjie said, gunning the van into the river of headlights leaving the airport. “Turco and the Turks just finished a sold-out Canadian tour and inked a new record deal with Magnus Music. Magnus gave Gary a studio of his own here in Detroit as part of the deal.”

“Where does the lady come in?”

“She’s on loan to us from Magnus headquarters in New York to help Gary get the studio up and running. She’s a vice-president for label liaison. Got a nice sound, don’t it? Label liaison.”

“I think it means company spy.”

“I think you’re right,” Benjie grinned, glancing at Ax curiously. “You know the music business?”

“I’ve been at it awhile,” Ax nodded, “how about you?”

“I’ve been with the Turks from day one. Started out as a roadie when they were playin’ bars, strip joints, anything we could get, worked my way up to road manager. Lotta long miles, short money, but Gary always said we’d make it. And this year things finally started to happen. Canadian tour sold out, then the record deal with Magnus. When we get our studio runnin’, we’ll be on top. Bigtime.”

“Bigtime,” Ax echoed, “right. Where are we headed? A hotel?”

“Nope, the Porkpie Hat. A black club downtown, just off Cass. You know it?”

“I’ve been there,” Ax said. “Who’s playing?”

“Kid named LeVoy Tyrone. Smokin’ blues guitarist, good singer. Gary figures he can be the next B. B. King if he’s handled right.”

“Somehow I never pictured a heavy metal hero like Turco as a blues fan.”

“Don’t let the eyeshadow fool ya. Gary’s a complicated guy. I imagine a lotta people take you for a dummy just because you’re big and talk like you grew up in Mayberry or someplace.”

“Considerin’ what happened to my predecessor, they might be right.”

“Your what?”

“Never mind. Take a left here, I know a shortcut to the Hat.”

The Porkpie Hat was a converted supermarket with plywood-panel windows, low ceilings, a spotlit stage at one end, a glass-brick bar at the other. Strings of flickering Christmas lights taped to the ceiling cut the gloom enough to make walking possible, barely. The club was jumping, the audience a racial bouillabaisse, college kids from nearby Wayne State, street hustlers from the Cass Corridor, a few parties of middle-agers dressed to the nines.

The manager greeted Benjie warmly and personally escorted the party to a table near the dance floor, which meant the kid had laid out some heavy bread. The band was jamming “Big Leg Woman” as Turco’s party was being seated, and they were as good as Benjie had promised, perhaps better. The rhythm section, keyboards, Fender bass and drums, was tight and taut, but the star of the show was the young lead guitarist. He looked more like a young black banker than a band guy, conservative suit, narrow tie, horn-rimmed glasses, hair cropped close and razor parted, which made his manic, brilliant playing all the more surprising. He cooked a long solo at the end of “Big Leg,” taking the tune and the audience back to the Delta origins of the blues, then snapped back to the mean Motown streets with a flare of fingertap flash at the finish.

Ax and Benjie both rose and applauded, and they weren’t alone, most of the older blacks were also standing, whooping, giving the youth his propers for a job well done and for keeping the blues alive. No reaction from Turco, though, he was chatting up Linnea Harris as though nothing had happened. He leaned over as Ax resumed his seat.

“Don’t do that again,” he said softly, with an edged, plastic smile, “we’re here on business, okay?”

“You’re the boss,” Ax shrugged, “but most artists prefer doin’ business with people who appreciate their work, you know?”

Turco ignored him, turned back to the woman. But she glanced across at Axton as though really noticing him for the first time. Their eyes met across the table for a moment, and Ax felt a soft click. Then Turco said something to her and she turned away. Still, there’d been something in that look. Maybe.

When the set was over, Benjie made his way to the stage, spoke to the guitarist, and brought him back to the table.

“Mr. Turco, this is LeVoy Tyrone. LeVoy, this is Gary Turco, Linnea Harris from Magnus Music and—”

“Hello, Ax,” LeVoy said softly, “how you been doin’?”

“Anybody I can. You sounded great, as usual.”

“Thank you,” LeVoy said, easing into a seat.

“You know Mr. Axton?” Turco said, his eyebrows arching a quarter inch.