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

“He’s easy to find. He’s onstage takin’ care of business in front of five thousand witnesses.”

“Is he okay?”

“I’d say so. He’s spent the last half hour blowin’ away two guitar heroes young enough to be his grandkids. Why?”

“We found Cornell, the guy I had on Mojo’s door,” Landau said grimly. “He’s dead, stuffed in a broom closet. Pollack knifed him with an ice-pick. I found the shiv in Mojo’s room.”

“God, Jack, that’s hard,” Ax said, “you sure it was—”

“It was Pollack all right. Bastard even has blood on him.”

“Where was the blood?” Ax frowned. “Which hand?”

“Which hand? His right, why?”

“Because Mojo’s numb on his left side,” Ax said slowly.

“But if he’d been stabbed...”

“He might not feel it,” Ax snapped. “He looks okay, but — dammit, I can’t see anything from here. I’ll try the other wing. You catch him if he comes off this way, make sure he’s okay.”

Axton strode slowly to the opposite wing, keeping to the shadows at the rear of the stage, trying to get a closer look at Mojo as he crossed. In the center of the stage Mojo was winding down his one note solo, gradually turning to face the crowd again, lowering his guitar, letting the feedback dwindle away to stone silence that lasted a dozen heartbeats before the stunned audience reacted with a roar of approval that dwarfed the applause Turco’d gotten earlier. Nodding regally, Mojo dismissed the applause with a casual wave, then turned to LeVoy.

“How ’bout you, boy? You got anything left?”

LeVoy shook his head slowly, glowering at his uncle with mock resentment. Then he nodded and mimicked Mojo’s move, raising his guitar over his head. For a moment Ax thought he was going to attempt to match the old man’s feat, but he didn’t. Instead he flipped his guitar up into the lights, caught it by the neck as it fell, and smashed it into kindling on the stage, a three thousand dollar salute to a better player.

A master stroke. The audience erupted again, laughter and cheers mixed into applause that equalled Mojo’s ovation. The old man nudged the wreckage of LeVoy’s guitar with his lamed foot, shaking his head. Then he tossed his battered old guitar to his nephew, turned and limped slowly offstage, waving his fedora to the crowd. The band kicked in, reprising “Hard Luck Blues,” some traveling music for an old warrior.

Axton met Mojo halfway to the wings, taking his arm, offering his shoulder for support. “Are you okay, sir?”

“Jus’ fine, cracker boy, fine as wine. A little tired.”

“You’re entitled,” Ax said, relieved. “Mr. Tyrone, that was the goddamnedest show I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah,” Mojo nodded, “it was, wadn’t it? LeVoy got me, though, there at the end. Topped my one note, got hisself a big hand with no note at all. Boy’s gonna be somethin’, you watch. You got a drink on you?”

“No, sir, but I believe I can find you one. We have to go backstage now, some people want to talk to you.”

“Sure,” Mojo nodded, leaning against Axton, “anything you say.”

Onstage, Gary and LeVoy closed the set, exchanging riffs but without the earlier competitive intensity. The old man had stolen the show and they both knew it. They got a five minute standing ovation at the finish, and Gary took the opportunity to plug the live album of the show soon to be released on his new label. Still the applause continued.

“Hell, LeVoy,” Turco said, “tell somebody to get Mojo back onstage or we’ll be here all damn night.”

“I’ll get him,” LeVoy grinned, “my pleasure. Give the album another plug, I’ll be right back.” He was halfway to the wings before he realized that his white jacket was a ruin, spattered with blood from the back of Mojo’s guitar.

It was nearly five a m. before the police finished with them. Axton, Linn Harris, and Gary left the theater together, exhausted from the show and the marathon interrogation afterwards. Gary was unlocking the van when the door opened and half dozen street gang hoods clambered out of it, joined by others from the shadows of the parking ramp, ringing them in without a word, blades and chains showing in the dull glow of the overhead fluorescents. Ax didn’t bother reaching for his weapon. Willis Tyrone stepped into the ring, hands thrust deep in his overcoat pockets, his face an ebon mask, eyes dead as ice, unreadable.

“So,” he said quietly, “y’all enjoy the show? Have a good time?”

“Mr. Tyrone,” Ax said, stepping in front of Linn and Gary, “I know you’re hurtin’—”

“You’re damn right I am, Ax, but that’s not why I’m here. This is business. When your white punk boss talked my boy into this, I said anything happened, he’d pay the cost. I just come from the hospital. Mojo’s goin’ down slow, they don’t figure he’ll see the mornin’. So why don’t you and the lady just walk away, Ax. I’ll send a couple men along, make sure you’re safe. Motown’s a hard place late at night. Turco here’s ’bout to find that out.”

“The lady can leave, but not me,” Ax said, “I’m staying.”