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

Benjie was giggling hysterically, laughing so hard he could barely keep the van on the road. Turco was shaking his head slowly, grinning.

“The chainbelt’s just for looks,” Turco said, “it’s not real, it’s only plastic. I was bluffing, figured Axton could handle things if it didn’t work.”

“Plastic,” Linnea echoed, “plastic? My God, what if they hadn’t run?”

“If we were lucky, adjoining hospital rooms,” Ax said. “Oh, and by the way, welcome to Motown, folks.”

Benjie dropped Linnea at the parking ramp near the studio. Axton walked her to her car, trying to come up with something witty to say, but the night wind harried them along, whipping his thoughts away. She slid angrily behind the wheel of her BMW without a backward glance. Left him Standing in the deserted parking ramp, chilled by more than the wind. Tough lady, he thought, all business. Still, there’d been that moment in the club when their eyes met. Maybe. Hell. He jogged back to the van.

“Sit back here,” Turco said, “I want to talk to you.”

“What about?” Ax asked, sliding into the plush, throne-backed seat opposite Turco.

“About you. For openers, where’re you from originally? Alabama?”

“Missouri. Little town called Winona.”

“How’d you end up here?”

“I was a bass player in a road band, we got booked up here. We were doin’ okay until I skidded my ’cycle into a tree. Got my face banged up, my right hand too. I couldn’t play for awhile so the band split for the coast. I stayed on, worked as a troubleshooter for a couple of booking agents, turned out to be pretty good at it. So I opened my own office, got a P.I. license so I could carry—”

“A P.I. license? You’re a detective?”

“That’s what my license says. Mostly I just — fix things for people in the business, mediate contract hassles, collect percentages, book, bodyguard, whatever.”

“And the Tyrone kid? How do you know him?”

“I know most of the players in Motown, one way or another. LeVoy’s righteous, from what I hear. No drugs, no hassles. Head’s screwed on straight.”

“He struck me that way, too. What about his uncle?”

“Mojo Tyrone? I had one of his albums back home but never made the connection with LeVoy. I thought the ol’ guy was dead.”

“Me too. I guess we were supposed to. Thing is, I saw him play once,” Turco said, as much to himself as to Ax, “at a festival when I was a kid. He was hammered, stoned to the bone, but he still did a helluva show. Something about him... You know what I’m sayin’?”

“Magic time,” Ax nodded. “I’ve seen LeVoy hit that groove a few times.”

“Have you ever seen my group play?” Turco asked, a bit too casually.

“A few years ago, in Atlanta, when you opened for Kiss.”

“And we were wearing dresses and makeup, and we definitely weren’t magic, right?”

“You had a solid commercial sound,” Ax said carefully, “you worked the crowd well. It must’ve been tough, opening for Kiss.”

“Nothing about this business is easy,” Turco said quietly, “nothing. You bust your butt, play a million one nighters in hick towns... and still never make it.”

“Well, you’re making it now,” Ax said.

Gary glanced at him sharply, reading him for an implied slight, then took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m makin’ it now. But...”

“But what?”

“Never mind. What about LeVo’s father? You know him?”

“Willis Tyrone,” Ax nodded, “I’ve met him. He’s big, surly, runs a pawnshop on the wrong side of Montcalm. Deals guns and numbers. From what I hear, he’s nobody to cross.”

“A guns and numbers king,” Turco sighed, “terrific. I think I need a drink. Hey, Benjie, how far is it to my new apartment?”

“We’re here,” Benjie said, swinging the van into a parking garage.

“You’re gonna love this place, Gary,” Benjie said eagerly, as they rode the elevator up, “it’s got a view of the river, kingsize waterbed, big screen TV—” The elevator door shushed open but Ax grabbed Benjie before he could step out. “What—”

“Is that the place?” Ax said, “the one with the door open?”

“We’d better get out of here,” Turco said, fading back to the rear of the elevator.

“Cool it a second,” Ax said, “I don’t hear anything. Let me take a quick look.” He edged warily along the wall to the doorway, risked a glance inside.

Chaos.

The apartment door had been jimmied and the place was a shambles, TV kicked in, furniture slashed and gutted. A DayGlo orange sentence was spraypainted on one wall: DO THE RIGHT THING. Ax did the right thing. He grabbed a broken table leg and did a wary recon of the apartment. The other rooms were empty and just as trashed. He tossed the table leg into the living room debris and brushed the painted message with his fingertips. Dry.

“Interesting,” Ax said. “A film fan with taste.”

“What?” Turco echoed numbly, staring at the wreckage from the doorway.

“Do the Right Thing, the Spike Lee flick? Good movie.”

“You think this is some kind of a joke, Axton?” Turco snapped.

“Maybe not a joke exactly, but there’s definitely something funny about it.”

“Meaning what?”