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

He looked like a dark prophet, a shattered giant of a man nearly a head taller than Axton’s six two. He was wearing a frayed workshirt, faded bib overalls, and a rumpled felt fedora on his nearly hairless skull. Below the hat’s warped brim the left side of the old man’s face had sagged like melted wax, reducing his eye to a slit, pulling his mouth into a permanent scowl. “Uncle Maurice,” LeVoy said quietly, “I’d like you to meet some folks.” He introduced Ax and Gary quickly, uneasily.

“Y’all got anything for me?” the old man rumbled, his voice rusty from disuse.

“Yes, sir,” Gary said, “I thought we could have a taste—” Mojo took the bottle from him, twisted the cap off with his teeth and drained it “—together,” Gary finished lamely.

“Got any more?” Mojo asked, tossing the empty bottle toward the bedroom door.

“No, sir,” Gary said, “I’m afraid not.”

“Next time bring one for yourself, boy. Don’t like drinkin’ alone. Got any weed?”

“Ah, no, sir,” LeVoy said hastily, “they don’t smoke. Big fans of yours, though. Came to hear you play.”

“I use to do a lotta weed back when I was playin’,” the old man said, cocking his head to examine Turco and Ax with his good eye. “Good stuff. Black Sheba, Lebanese, fine as country wine. Sure y’ ain’t got any?”

“No, but I brought my guitar,” Gary said. “LeVoy tells me you still play.”

“Play? Boy, I’m Mojo Tyrone. Devil hisself taught me to whup the blues ’fore you was born. B. B. King used to carry my bags, Albert Collins hoed my patch. Pop your case, white boy, let’s see what you got.”

Gary shed his leather trench-coat, knelt and took his guitar out of the case, a gleaming red Fender Stratocaster, its custom finish glowing like a bed of coals. He checked its tune, then plugged into Mojo’s amp and ripped off a few flashy licks.

“That’s a lotta notes, boy,” Mojo growled. “What’s the matter? You cain’t find the right one?” He picked up his own guitar, eased down in a chair facing Gary. He carefully fitted a bottleneck over the ring finger of his crippled left hand, slid it up the strings. For a moment Ax thought the old man was moaning low in his throat, then he realized it was the guitar, murmuring softly, breathing between phrases like a vocalist. Singing. There was no other word for it.

Gary was staring, transfixed. “Well, boy,” Mojo said, “you come to play, or jes’ look?” Shaking his head ruefully, Gary flipped his pickup switch to bass and began punching out a rhythmic shuffle, a walking Delta blues. The old man nodded along for a moment, then joined in, his guitar whining above Gary’s rhythm like a hawk circling its prey. The music was uneven for a few moments, two street fighters sparring, testing each other, and then they found a groove, rock solid, and began to jam in earnest, their guitars meshing like gears in a rhythm machine. The music was crude, powerful stuff, sharp as home-brew whisky, and both men drank it deep, letting it take them over. LeVoy was lost in it, too, nodding to the beat, smiling as Turco and the old man worked through a medley of blues, changing tunes with only a look or a nod.

Casually Ax wandered over to the bedroom doorway, glanced inside. A rumpled cot against one wall, empty bottles scattered around. A candle was burning on a beside table, a black candle, lighting a framed picture of St. Michael and a neatly arranged pile of bones. He turned away, and met Mojo Tyrone’s good eye, glaring at him fiercely from across the room. The old man stopped playing.

“What you lookin’ for, cracker? You lookin’ to steal from me? You’d best get some insurance on yourself.”

“No, sir, nothing like that. I was just—”

“Playin’s over anyway,” Mojo said, putting his guitar aside. “Y’all got a bottle’s worth. I want you gone.”

“Show’s over, folks,” LeVoy said briskly, unplugging Gary’s guitar, handing him his coat.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Gary protested, “we were just getting warmed up.”

“You remember the deal,” LeVoy said firmly, glancing a warning at Ax, “it’s time to go.”

“You can come back sometime,” Mojo said to Gary, “you don’t play too bad for a white kid. Too many notes is all. Bring me another taste, maybe some reefer next time. But don’t bring that cracker boy. I don’t wanna see his ugly face again.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Tyrone,” Gary said, glaring at Ax, “you won’t.”

“Thanks, Axton,” Gary snapped, as he threaded the van down the back country road away from Tyrone’s shack, “you’re supposed to protect my life, not screw it up.”

“I was doing my job,” Ax said. “There was a gunbelt hanging behind the front door, no gun in it. I thought maybe he left it in the bedroom.”

“So the old guy lives alone, he keeps a gun around. So what?”

“That’s just it, it wasn’t around. I think he was packing it, and when a guy who’s two bricks shy of a load is carryin’ a piece, I get nervous.”

“Next time take a Valium.”