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

“Get an ambulance!” he shouted at Landau. The security chief nodded and sprinted out the door. Thunder rolled through the building as Turco finished his set. Axton tilted Pollack’s head back to clear his airway, then pressed his mouth to the dead man’s. He exhaled forcefully, twice, filling Pollack’s lungs. No response. The roar from the stage made it impossible to hear a breath or a heartbeat. Axton’s universe shrunk to the size of Pollack’s face, pinching the dead man’s nostrils, filling his lungs, waiting, then trying again. At some point Mojo stood up, groped through the wreckage, and found his crumpled fedora and his guitar.

“Siddown!” Ax gasped between breaths, “You’re not going any place!”

“They announcin’ me,” Mojo said, swaying unsteadily, “I’m on. Got to go.”

“Dammit!” Ax grabbed at the old man as he staggered past, couldn’t hold him. Then Pollack twitched convulsively and Ax forgot about Mojo, forgot about everything but breathing for Pollack, bringing him back to life. Pollack coughed explosively, then gasped his first breath on his own. Ax sat back, panting as Landau stormed back into the room.

“Ambulance is on the way, cops too,” Landau panted, “still can’t find my man Cornell. Where’s Mojo?”

“I don’t know,” Ax said, “he walked outa here a minute ago headed for the stage.”

“Jesus, that old man’s really somethin’, ain’t he? Took this creep one on one and half killed him. Maybe there’s somethin’ to that voodoo stuff he sings about.”

“Maybe,” Ax nodded, getting to his feet, “but I think I’d better check on him. You keep this piece of garbage here for the medics and the cops.”

As Axton ran down the corridor toward the stage he could hear Gary Turco’s voice booming over the p.a. system, ranting about a seventh son of a seventh son who could deal with the devil and raise the dead.

The stairway up to the wings was blocked by a cluster of stagehands and roadies who’d gathered to catch the last set. Ax caught a glimpse of Mojo’s fedora moving through the mob, but couldn’t get to him. By the time he shouldered his way through the crowd, Mojo was already shuffling out to the center of the stage, dragging his left foot, his battered old guitar clutched under his good arm. The old man was disheveled from his struggle with Pollack, his necktie askew, suit rumpled, the melted mask of his face gleaming with perspiration. Only his eyes seemed alive, energized by the lights and the noise and the smell of the crowd.

Gary gave Mojo a buildup, saying anyone who loved rock’n’roll owed everything to Mojo and bluesmen like him, players who invented it all, then just faded away, squeezed out by the system or broken by the life. His intensity took both Ax and the audience by surprise. Either Gary believed what he was saying or he’d been watching a lot of Sunday morning TV. Still, he didn’t belabor the point. The audience was still wired from the Turks’ heavy metal show, and when he sensed their impatience he cut his sermon, announced Mojo’s first song, and strode offstage into the wings.

“What the hell happened to Mojo?” he snapped at Axton. “I paid six hundred bucks for that suit—”

“He tangled with Pollack backstage, almost killed him. The police are on their way. They’ll want to talk to him.”

“No problem, he’s only doing one number,” Turco said, “he’ll be off in a few...” Gary’s voice trailed off as he glanced back at Mojo. The old man was still standing alone in the center of the stage, staring up into the spotlights, dazed, transfixed. The crowd was growing restless, shuffling their feet, a few scattered catcalls. “My God,” Gary said softly, “he’s frozen. Dammit, that’s all I need—”

But before Turco could move, Mojo seemed to snap out of it.

“HOW Y’ALL DOIN’?” he roared into the microphone, startling the crowd to silence. “I ain’t doin’ so good. I been dead. Lotta years...” He frowned, his voice fading as his train of thought derailed. “Lotta years...” he repeated. He plucked at his guitar strings fitfully, discordant twanks, as though the instrument could help him recall where he was.

Standing at the rear of the stage with the backup band, LeVoy shot Turco a look of sheer panic, then stalked over. “What’s wrong with him?” he hissed. “He’s freakin’ on us. He’ll blow everything.”

“DEAD!” Mojo shouted, “they stuck me away in a — place by myself, no woman, nobody, a dead man for sure. But I fooled y’all. I used my bones, and I called myself back...” He trailed off again, closed his eyes.

In the midst of the restless crowd, a solitary pair of hands began clapping. Willis Tyrone rose, applauding, glaring fiercely about, daring anyone to remain seated. His street gang entourage rose as well, joined prudently by everyone seated near them in an ovation that spread raggedly around the room. Much of the applause was sarcasm, white punkers who were convinced now that the whole thing was a Turco put-on, sending some old wino out to babble.