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

“I can get you some publicity all right, I’m just not sure I should. If you blow your whole budget on some charity concert, Magnus will cancel your contract.”

“Maybe, but if LeVoy and Mojo hit as hard as I think they will, New York will not only okay our budget, they’ll give us a free hand from now on. It’s gut check time, Harris, you have to decide whose side you’re on. How about it, you in or out?”

Linnea stared at him for a moment, frowning, then nodded slowly. “You’re still the boss. For the moment, anyway. What about a concert hall? Can you hire one on such short notice?”

“I don’t know,” Gary said. “You know the local scene, Ax-ton, what about it?”

“You can probably find a hall,” Ax nodded, gazing out the window at the street below, “there are plenty of empty theaters in Detroit these days. Know what else there are?”

“What’s that?”

“Lots of black limousines. One just pulled into the alley down there. Three guys getting out. Anybody you know, Gary?”

Turco stepped quickly to the window, glanced down, then shrugged. “I know them,” he said, his face expressionless, “they’re okay.”

“You sure? Looks like they’re coming up. If you want me to stop ’em—”

“I said they’re okay. Tell you what, why don’t you take Linnea and try to book us a hall.”

“You mean now?”

“Right now. The clock’s running on this. Three weeks isn’t much time, and you’re the guy with local connections.”

“And who covers your back while I’m finding a hall?”

“I’ll be safe enough here. I need to get this place in shape anyway. Get crackin’, okay?”

The Bubba Factor. Northerners often assume anybody with a southern accent is an inbred illiterate. As dimwitted as, say, Bubba Faulkner or Bubba Dickey. Unfortunately something about being alone in an elevator with Linnea Harris made Ax feel like a Bubba, big, and battered, and as slow as ’lasses in January.

Too soon they were on the ground floor. The doors shushed open and they were facing the three men Ax had seen get out of the limo. Two of them, straight citizens in suits, ties, and overcoats, stepped into the elevator without a word. The third man, a square-faced blond giant in a bombardier’s jacket, scar tissue on his brows above his mirrored shades, blocked the doorway.

“Hey, Ax,” he said softly, “how you been doin’?”

“Swede,” Axton nodded, “I’m breakin’ even. You?” Neither man offered to shake hands.

“Flyin’ high, like always. You workin’ here, Ax?”

“Nah, just passin’ through.”

“Good,” Swede nodded, “that’s good. So I probably won’t be seein’ you around, right?”

“I hope not,” Ax said.

“Yeah,” Swede grinned. “Me too. Take care, Ax. See ya.” The giant edged into the elevator, his eyes locked on Axton all the way.

“What was that all about?” Linnea said as she and Axton crossed the street to her BMW.

“I don’t know who the two suits were,” Ax said, “but the big guy was the Swede. We’re in the same business, sort of, and since bustin’ people up is his hobby, I think there’s a fair chance he’s the guy who stomped Turco’s bodyguard up in Toronto.”

“What?” she said, stunned, “but — shouldn’t you warn Gary?”

“Get real, Miss Harris, Gary knows who those guys are. I think he’s known all along.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but I’m going to. Here,” he said, taking a small notebook out of his jacket pocket jotting down an address, “you see the guy at this address, Gus Kakonis. He owns a theater called the Forum. Tell him I sent you and if I don’t like the deal I’ll be around to see him myself. I’ll meet you back at the studio in a couple of hours.”

“Where are you going?”

“To check some things out. Turco may think he knows what he’s doing, but if he’s mixed up with the Swede, he’s liable to need the Forum to hold his own funeral. Or somebody’s.”

It was after dark before Ax made it back to the studio. Turco was sitting on the receptionist’s desk, arms folded across his chest. Linnea Harris was checking her clipboard, looking uneasy.

“Place looks good,” Ax said, glancing around, “you’ve been busy.”

“No thanks to you,” Turco said. “Where have you been?”

“Doing what you hired me for, protecting you. Did some dig-gin’, all part of the service.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’m gonna be needing your services any more, Axton. You’re off the clock as of now. Send me a bill.”

“I see,” Ax said slowly. “So you decided to do the right thing. It’s probably best. You’ll stay healthy longer.”

“You been smokin’ rope, Ax? You’re babbling.”

“Am I? I made a few calls today, found out the Swede is working for a couple of Canadian hard guys. Dopers. The two that were here today, right?”

“Wrong. I don’t know any dopers, Axton, and who I see is none of your business, so hit the door, okay? We’ve got work to do.”

“Fair enough, but let me give you some advice. You watch yourself around the Swede. The guy’s like industrial pollution. People tend to get very sick in his vicinity.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”