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

“I hate to admit it,” he said, meeting her eyes, “but maybe Gary’s right, maybe playing again will help the old man. I’ve seen guys do shows who should’ve been in a hospital, or a morgue. That’s why they call it Dr. Stage. But if it’s any comfort to you, if Gary’s wrong, and anything happens to Mojo or LeVoy, he’d better get his Blue Cross paid up because Willis Tyrone is damn sure gonna do him some serious damage. And maybe the rest of us, too. What about security guards for the concert? Who’s handling it?”

“Mr. Kakonis recommended a local rent-a-cop company, Landau Security.”

“Jack Landau’s people will do fine for crowd control,” Axton nodded. “As for your other problem, I’ll do what I can. I’ll see you at the concert if not before.”

The Forum Theater was a wall to wall sellout, every seat on the main floor and the balconies filled a full forty minutes before showtime, standing room only. Jack Landau, the squat, bulldog head of security for the concert, should have been pleased when he’d closed the box office early, but he wasn’t.

“It’s an uneasy crowd,” he told Turco in his dressing room back-stage, where Gary was doing a last minute retouch of his makeup. Turco was in full heavy metal regalia, knee length red moccasins, spandex pants, studded black leather vest and matching headband. “It feels more like a mob than an audience, half black, half white, lotta bikers and punk kids. Edgy vibes. I don’t like it.”

“Don’t worry about the crowd,” Gary said, “the show we’ve got planned oughta keep everybody happy. You just make sure security stays tight. How’s Mojo holdin’ up?”

“I’ve got a man on his door, just like you said,” Landau said, “checks on him every few minutes. He’s just sittin’ there in the dark, waitin’. Weird.”

“He’s an artist—” Turco began. There were two quick raps on the door and Axton strode in.

“I think I’ve got a make on the guy who trashed the studio,” he said, tossing a photo on Turco’s dressing table. “This is the guy Mojo tangled with the night he had his stroke. Name’s Cory Pollack. He was a smalltime pimp and a pusher. Apparently Mojo owed him serious bread for services rendered, tried to stiff him. Cops busted Pollack after the fight, caught him holding dope, he wound up doing six years hard time in Jackson.”

“But that was a long time ago,” Gary said, “why—”

“I traced him to a sleazebag rooming house out in Highland Park,” Ax interrupted, “and ah, got into his room. Swastikas all over the place. He’s a race hater. He also had clippings about the concert and a poster on the wall, with Mojo’s name slashed out. He’s our man, Turco, and from what I’ve heard about him, he’s real bad news.”

“How old is this picture,” Landau said, frowning at the photograph.

“I’m not sure,” Axton said, “I lifted it from Pollack’s place. From the cars in the background I’d guess it’s ten years old or so, why?”

“I’ve seen this man,” Landau said slowly, “not looking like this, though. Face is different. He’s got a mustache now, maybe a beard.”

“Get real,” Turco snorted, “working the box office you must’ve seen five thousand faces in the last hour.”

“I may be just a rent-a-cop,” Landau said stiffly, “but I’m good at my job, and I’m telling you I’ve seen this guy tonight. Here. You’ll have to stall the show until—”

“I’m not stalling anything!” Turco snapped. “Ax could be wrong about this Pollack character, but if I jerk this crowd around, we’re damn sure gonna have a freakin’ riot on our hands. This gig’s going on just like it says on the program. Mojo won’t be onstage till the finish, which gives you plenty of time to find Pollack, if he’s here at all.”

“I still think you ought to stall,” Landau said.

“You’ve got your orders, Landau,” Gary said, turning back to his mirror, “you do your job and let me do mine, okay?”

Landau snatched up the photograph and stalked out. Ax hesitated, then followed.

“He’s right about one thing,” Landau said in the hall outside, “this show better run on schedule. That’s an ugly crowd out front. Why don’t you get up in the light rigging over the stage. You’ll be able to check out most of the crowd on the main floor from there. I’ll take the balcony. I’ve got a man posted at the old man’s dressing room, so he’s safe for now. With luck we’ll turn this guy up before Mojo goes on. If you spot Pollack, don’t try anything on your own. I’ll take care of him, understand?”

“What if we can’t find him?” Axton said.

“Then you and me are gonna lock Mojo in his dressing room, riot or no riot. I’m not going to take the chance of putting him onstage with some wacko loose.”

“Fair enough,” Ax nodded, “good hunting.”