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

“C’mon, Turco, I’m a little slow, but I can read the handwriting on the wall. Do the right thing. Your bodyguard gets stomped in Toronto. We get hassled in the Porkpie parking lot by white gangbusters who were as out of place there as nuns at a beer bust. That area’s Black Pharaoh turf, and those punks could’ve been blown away just for walkin’ past it, which means they weren’t workin’ the lot, they were waiting for us. And now your new apartment gets trashed. Not ripped off, trashed. Nobody’s luck is that bad. So what’s going on? What’s this ‘right thing’ you’re supposed to do?”

Turco met his eyes straight on a moment, then shrugged. “Nothing’s going on. People in show biz attract crazies. Ask John Lennon.”

“I’m asking you, Gary. Look, I’m on your side. You want protection, I’ll do my best—”

“Your best hasn’t been too impressive so far. Look, I hired you as a bodyguard. You want to play detective, do it on your own time, okay? What do we do now?”

“I guess we call the cops,” Ax said, groping through the debris, rescuing a cordless phone, “if you don’t mind them poking around.”

“Call ’em. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Right,” Ax said, “whatever you say.”

It turned out to be a very long night. Turco booked a room at the downtown Holiday Inn, leaving Ax at the trashed apartment to wait for the police. It was after two A.M. before a pair of bored patrolmen showed, took Ax’s statement, and made a cursory search. Ax didn’t make it back to his own place until four.

Promptly at nine the custom van pulled up in front of his apartment and beeped twice. Cursing, Ax pulled on a wool turtleneck, slipped into his shoulder holster, grabbed his scuffed leather jacket, and took the stairs two at a time down to the street. His hair was still damp from the shower, and the hawk wind nipped at it, instant icecap. Gary Turco was behind the wheel wearing a conservative suit and tie, his shaggy albino mane tied back in a prim ponytail. “Did you call the papers?” Turco asked as Ax climbed into the passenger seat.

“About what?”

“The burglary. We could have gotten some media coverage on it. Rock star ripped off his first day in Motown, something like that. You know the business, you should have thought of it.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Ax said, “and the apartment wasn’t ripped off, just messed up.”

“Who cares, as long as they spell my name right?” Gary grunted. “How do I get to LeVoy’s father’s shop?”

“Left at the next light. It’s down a mile or so. Where’s Benjie?”

“At the studio, getting things shipshape. And speaking of shipshape, from now on dress appropriately, okay? Jacket and tie.”

“You wanna dress to impress Willis Tyrone, you’ll have to do better than a jacket and tie.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“A full suit of armor. Or maybe a bulletproof vest.”

The Revelation Pawnshop stretched half a city block on Montcalm, a brown brick building, its steel-grilled windows filled with radios, guitars, power tools. LeVoy Tyrone, looking studious in a maize and blue U of M sweater, met them at the door and escorted them back to his father’s office, a large raised platform in the center of the rear wall ringed by a fortress of filing cabinets. Willis Tyrone observed their approach from his desk on the dais like a dark Buddha, a huge man, custom tailored lavender silk shirt stretched taut by his barrel chest, rep tie at half mast, a shaved head the size of a lineman’s helmet, cool pawnbroker’s eyes.

He rose as they mounted the platform, offered them seats and coffee. Gary gave him a copy of a recording contract. Willis scanned it cursorily, tossed it aside. “Seems straight enough,” he grunted, his voice a deep bass rumble, “but I’ve seen it before. Uncle Maurice signed papers to make records for some white dudes, gonna get rich, take care of the family. He cut the records, worked himself damn near to death, and now I gotta take care of him. Whitey used him up, threw him away like trash.”

“Mr. Tyrone,” Gary said earnestly, “I can assure you—”

“Don’t assure me nothin’,” Willis interrupted, cutting Gary off with a wave of his massive paw. “I meet jive artists every day can talk the birds outa the trees, so don’t make me no promises, Turco. Let me make you one. My boy’s got his heart set on takin’ a shot at music. I won’t say no to him, but I ain’t forgot what happened to my uncle, either. And I assure you, mister, that if LeVoy comes out on the short of this, I’m gonna hold you responsible. Ever heard an old blues song called ‘Payin’ the Cost to Be the Boss?”

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“Good. Just remember anything goes wrong, you’re gonna pay, and I’ve got dudes workin’ for me who’re real good at collectin’. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

“Fair enough,” Gary nodded, “what about your uncle?”

“Maurice? What about him?”

“LeVoy told me he can still play a little. I’ve got this idea, of maybe taping him, using it to intro the first cut of LeVoy’s record. Might make a good promotional gimmick. Any objection?”