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

“Everybody knows Ax,” LeVoy smiled, “he’s — notorious, you know? Not the same as bein’ famous, but close. He workin’ for you?”

“At the moment,” Turco nodded grudgingly. “I, ah, liked what I heard of your set. I also liked the demo tape Benjie sent me, especially one cut, ‘Hard Luck Man,’ the old Mojo Tyrone jam.”

“Just keepin’ it in the family. My uncle wrote it.”

“Mojo Tyrone was your uncle?”

“Well, actually he’s my dad’s uncle, but we all call him Uncle Mo’. Why?”

“Dammit, I knew it,” Turco grinned, “I knew there was something familiar about your style. Not to mention your name. You sound a little bit like him.”

“Maybe so,” LeVoy said neutrally, “we still jam together some.”

“Jam together?” Turco said. “I thought he died back in the sixties.”

“Almost did. He had a bad stroke, was in a rest home for a long time. My dad put it out that he died so people would leave him be.”

“But he’s better now? He can still play?”

“Some,” LeVoy said cautiously, “he’s nothin’ like he was. The stroke pretty much paralyzed his left side. Why so interested in my uncle?”

“No big thing,” Gary shrugged, “it’s just that I really dug his music when I was growing up. Considering how many guitar heroes’ve cashed in their chips, it’s good to hear one of ’em’s still around. Could you arrange for me to meet him sometime?”

“That’s probably not a good idea,” LeVoy said. “He, ah, ain’t in the best shape mentally, you know? He’s an old man, lives alone.”

“I understand,” Turco nodded, “but think about it, okay? It’d mean a lot to me. Tell you what, I think you’ve got real potential both as a singer and a player. If you’re interested in a record deal, why don’t we do breakfast after your gig, work out the details?”

“You mean tonight?” LeVoy sounded surprised.

“Time is money, Mr. Tyrone,” Turco said, smiling faintly. “I never waste either one.”

“I guess you don’t. Thing is, my father’s the businessman in the family. How about we meet at, say, ten tomorrow morning at my dad’s pawnshop, over on Livernois. Ax knows where it is.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Turco sighed. “Ten’ll be fine.”

“Good, meantime I got two more sets to do. Nice meetin’ you all.”

Turco stared after him. “Mojo Tyrone’s nephew,” he said softly. “I’ll be damned.”

“I don’t get it,” Benjie said, “who in hell was Mojo Tyrone?”

“Who was he?” Gary said, surprised. “He was a great blues player, like Muddy Waters, or Howlin’ Wolf.”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” Turco sighed. “Sometimes I think havin’ your head screwed on straight in this business is like being the smartest kid in the third grade. Let’s blow this joint, I’ve had a long day.”

The night was brisk, a few snowflakes dancing in the parking lot lights as they hurried toward the van. Just ahead of them, four men moved out of the shadows, blocking their path. Street punks, hard-eyed whiteboys, matching blue running suits, hightop white sneakers, blue bandannas over their faces like highwaymen.

“Cool out, folks,” the tallest of them said, stepping forward, “just fork over and nobody gets hurt. Money on the ground, then jus’ boogie on back inside.” He flicked his wrist, flashing an eight inch butterfly knife open, blade agleam in the faint light. “Shuck your coat, too,” he said to Turco, “looks like my size. Take it off.”

“You gotta be kiddin’,” Turco said, sidling to his left, “you think you just wave a blade and people fold up? You never heard of guns?” Ax was already moving to his right; Benjie stayed with Linnea, herding her back.

“Look, sucker—”

“Nah, you look,” Turco said, snaking his belt out from under his coat, a motorcycle chain belt, chrome steel links glittering as he hummed it overhead like a bullwhip and slapped it on the pavement with a gunshot crack! “My bodyguard’s got a piece,” Turco said grimly, nodding at Ax, “and I got five pounds of iron here, and what you got, sucker, is about three seconds to beat feet, or buy a ride in an ambulance, sirens and all. What’s it gonna be?”

Turco was swinging the chainbelt back and forth like a pendulum. The thug in front seemed hypnotized by it, but one of his buddies glanced at Ax, who was still circling them, his hand inside his coat.

Without a word the guy broke and ran. The others exchanged glances, then followed him. “I’ll be back!” the tall one shouted, stabbing a finger at Turco. “You ain’t seen the lasta me!”

“Bring yo mama next time!” Turco yelled after him, cracking the belt overhead. Benjie sprinted to the van, yanked open the sliding door, and climbed behind the wheel as the others scrambled inside.

“Come on, Benjie,” Turco panted, “fire it up before they come back and Axton has to shoot somebody.”

“That’d be a pretty good trick,” Ax said, “considering I’m not carrying.”

“What?” Turco said, stunned. “You’re unarmed? What the hell kind of a bodyguard are you?”

“The kind that doesn’t carry guns into airports,” Ax said evenly. “I got a call to meet a plane, remember?”

“Fortunately, you weren’t needed,” Linnea snapped, “since Gary— What? What’s so funny?”