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

“If you want to stay healthy, there shouldn’t be a next time, Gary. Look, the old guy plays great guitar, but he’s also more’n half nuts. He’s got a voodoo altar in his bedroom, mojo bones and all. That stuff about the devil teaching him to play? I think he really believes it.”

“Maybe he’s right. Maybe he really is magic. I’m a pretty fair guitarist, and LeVoy’s even better, but that old man’s somethin’ special. Walks like a stomped cockroach, but he plays... well, you heard him. It’s like he went to hell and everything burned away but — truth. And that truth’s gonna set me free.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I’ve one big problem in getting my studio rolling. Me. I’m a hack, an over-the-hill glitter rocker. Nobody’s gonna take me seriously as a producer. I need a gimmick. How’s this? I bring Mojo Tyrone back from the dead to play on his nephew’s first record.”

“Are you serious?” Ax said. “You want to put him in a recording studio?”

“Hey, there may not be much juice left in that old man, but I’ll squeeze out what there is. Give him a couple bottles of wine, he can play for an hour or two at a time. That should be enough. Linnea can get us media coverage with the zombie-from-the-grave angle, and when people hear LeVoy and Mojo together, it’ll knock their socks off.”

“It’s an interesting angle,” Ax admitted, “but there’s still a problem. With your reputation as a — showman, you can’t just announce Mojo’s on the album. The press’ll figure it’s a hoax.”

“Okay, so we set up a few interviews—”

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Ax said. “Dammit, Gary, he was hiding in his bedroom with a gun when we came in. He belongs in a rest home, not at a press conference. What happens if he freaks, or maybe hurts somebody? Or would that just be more publicity?”

Gary didn’t answer. He was eyeing the rear view mirror. Ax glanced over his shoulder. A black limo was a quarter mile or so behind them. And gaining. Gary floored the accelerator and the van leapt forward, rocketing down the narrow country road, swaying like a boat in heavy seas.

“Something wrong?” Ax asked, shifting in his seat to watch the limo.

“I hope not,” Gary said coolly, concentrating on the wheel, “just being cautious.”

“If this is cautious, what does crazy look like?”

“About the same,” Gary grinned. He ran the stop sign at the road’s end, careened onto the fourlane on two wheels, then threaded the van through the traffic like an Indy 500 racer, and at nearly the same speed.

“You can cool it,” Ax said, “you lost them.”

“Probably nobody to lose,” Gary said, slowing the van to the speed limit.

“Sure there was,” Ax said, “and you know it. Why don’t you quit shuckin’ and tell me what’s goin’ on? We could’ve wound up dead in a ditch back there.”

“Lighten up, Axton, no harm, no foul. And there are worse things than dying in a ditch.”

“Like what?”

“Like getting old. Ending up like Mojo.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Ax said, “the way you’re goin’, Turco, you’re never gonna get old.”

“Welcome to the new home of the hits, Young Turk Studios,” Turco said, stepping out of the fourth floor elevator, “what do you think?”

“Looks... busy,” Ax said. The office was semi-organized chaos, boxes of rack-mount recording equipment stacked to the ceilings, desks and filing cabinets still in plastic wrap. Linnea Harris, looking charmingly domestic in jeans and a T-shirt, was taking inventory on a clipboard. Benjie gave them a nod, then trotted off carrying an armload of cases.

“Hi, guys,” Turco said, shedding his coat, “how’re we doing?”

“Good news, bad news,” Linnea said. “The good news is Benjie thinks we can get the studio up and running this week. The bad news is, New York headquarters nixed LeVoy Tyrone as a prospect. They say blues is passé, want you to record pop groups more like your own.”

“They can’t do that,” Gary said slowly.

“I’m afraid they can. Headquarters has final say on—”

“But dammit, I’ve got a surefire gimmick and LeVoy’s too good to pass up! Those headquarters bean counters couldn’t spot a hit group if one mooned ’em in church.”

“They signed up your group,” Linnea pointed out.

“Which proves my point,” Gary shot back. “They only signed us because they counted the crowds and the gate receipts on our Canadian tour. Numbers is all they understand. So... maybe we can show ’em some numbers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe we can make ’em buy LeVoy the same way they bought me. Suppose we put on a concert, drum up some media coverage, and do a big gate. Make it a charity bash for the homeless or something.”

“Even charity concerts cost money,” Linnea observed.

“We can pay for it with our development budget. We don’t submit our accounts till the end of the month, that gives us three weeks to pull it off.”

“Three weeks?”

“Lady, we’re gonna be feeding the poor and bringing back a guy from the dead. If you can’t drum up a crowd in three weeks for that, you’re in the wrong business.”