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

“Bull,” Ax said. “Just out of curiosity, I did a little more checking on my own time. Ran down the clowns that jumped us outside the Porkpie Hat. The Swede hired them. He also paid ’em to trash a certain apartment and add some instant artwork to the decor. Don’t tell me he’s not involved.”

“That’s — been settled,” Gary said, “I took care of it.”

“Maybe you think so, but if you think I’m gonna mix it up with the Swede without knowin’ the score, you’re dreamin’. So either tell me what’s going on or get somebody else.”

“He can’t get anyone else,” Linnea put in, “LeVoy said unless you come back he and his uncle are out. They won’t play.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Ax said formally, “that’s nice to know.”

“Yeah, thanks a bunch,” Turco snapped. “Whose side are you on, Harris?”

“My side,” she said. “I’ve worked too damned hard to see this thing flushed because you’re playing some private game. Let’s have it, Gary, or I’m walking too. We’ve got a right to know.”

Turco glanced from one to the other of them, then swallowed hard. “All right,” he nodded, “I guess it doesn’t matter. Unless the concert comes off, I’m finished anyway. I, ah, did a deal with the Swede in Canada. My big Canadian tour, the one that got me my new studio? It didn’t really happen, or at least not the way people thought it did. On paper the Swede was listed as the promoter, but what he really did was pump up the gate, gave huge blocks of tickets away free, showed them on the books as receipts, which he claimed as legitimate profits.”

“In other words, you laundered money for them?” Ax said. “My God.”

“It was my last chance,” Gary said simply, “the industry’s shrinking, cutting out second-raters like me. My only chance for a deal was to show Magnus some big numbers.”

“Whether they were real or not?”

“You know this business,” Gary said, “if I produce a hit album, nobody will care how I got my studio. All they care about are results. The trouble was, my deal with Swede was supposed to be a one-shot thing, but it worked so well they wanted me to keep it up. Trashing my apartment and all the rest was his idea of friendly persuasion.”

“So what makes you think he didn’t trash the studio?”

“Simple,” Gary sighed, “he’s got no reason to any more. We had a little talk the day you left and I, uhm, agreed to do another tour for him as soon as I get my studio established. Told him we could set up the same laundering deal with the groups that record for me. He thinks everything’s cool.”

“You — bastard!” Linnea said, paling. “You mean you sold us out—”

“Hey, cool it. I’m no Boy Scout but I’m no doper either. I’ve already cut a deal with the Toronto authorities. When I go back to Canada, they’ll bust the Swede and his buddies, I’ll come out looking like a hero, and he’ll be off my back for good.”

“Maybe,” Ax nodded, “or maybe you’ll end up dead.”

“We all end up dead,” Turco said evenly, “it’s what happens in the meantime that counts, right? Point is, the Swede thinks things are okay. He didn’t wreck my studio last night, he had no reason to.”

“All right then, who did do it?”

“Hell, I don’t know. What about LeVoy’s father? He was dead set against it from the first.”

“No,” Ax said slowly, “I don’t think so. Willis is a hard man in a hard trade, but he wouldn’t cross up his son like this. If he wanted to derail things, he’d just have somebody bust you up. Any other candidates?”

“If I knew I wouldn’t need you, Axton, I’d just tell the Swede and let him handle it. You’re the one with the sign on his door that says investigations. You tell me.”

“Maybe I can at that,” Ax said, “but I’ll have to do some checking.”

“Aren’t you going to-tell him about Mojo, Gary?” Linnea put in. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

“What about Mojo?” Ax asked.

“Ahh, Linn thinks he might’ve done it. He, ah, he’s been sleepin’ in the studio storeroom, wanders around a lot at night, you know, like old people do.”

“Why is he sleeping in the storeroom?”

“Because he says he likes being with the instruments,” Linnea said bluntly, “he says they sing him to sleep. Ax, he’s crazy. When Gary and LeVoy went back to talk to him about recording, he was already packed, sitting there in the dark, waiting for them. Said he knew they’d come, that he called them back with his mojo bones. LeVoy and Gary have been able to jolly him along in the studio, but God only knows how he’ll react at the concert.”

“He’ll be fine,” Gary said, “you’ll see. Like an old fire-horse—”

“Like an old meal ticket, you mean,” Linnea snapped. “Dammit, Gary, you’re just exploiting him.”

“Maybe I am. But that doesn’t make it wrong. You think he was better off in that old house, talkin’ to the walls? Crazy or exploited or whatever, that old man’s back doin’ what he was put on this earth for. You’re not a player, you don’t understand. Ask Axton.”

“Well?” Linnea said, turning to Ax, searching his face.