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

“You better understand somethin’, Axton,” Willis snapped, “you got no leverage here, you’re nothin’ to me. You want to buy into what your boss gets, fine—”

“Go on, Ax,” Gary interjected, “take Linnea and split. I’ll be all right. Mr. Tyrone’s been wrong from day one, I’m bettin’ he’s wrong again.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Turco? What you figure I was wrong about?”

“Everything. For openers you figured I was runnin’ a shuck when I said I could make your boy a star, but after the concert tonight, he’s on his way. LeVoy’s gonna be as hot as Hendrix after Monterey.”

“And what happened to Mojo, that’s just tough, right?”

“You’re damned right it’s tough. But what you did to him was worse. You thought you were doin’ him a favor, taking care of him all these years. If you’d let him be, he would have had to play to stay alive, and that’s what he should have been doin’ all along. You saw how he was on that stage tonight. He was magic! He was where he belonged. And even if he dies for it, it was worth it. He’d tell you so himself.”

“Maybe,” Willis said, “maybe he would. But he can’t tell me, can he? The only one talkin’ now is you, white boy.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just one more thing you’re wrong about. That old man isn’t gonna die. I don’t care what the doctors say, anybody that can play like he did tonight is gonna live forever. You want to take me for a ride, fine. Why don’t we drive back to the hospital, wait for Mojo to wake up in the morning. When he does I’ll tell him he has to shape up because we’ve gotta tour behind our album, a hundred, maybe a hundred and twenty one-nighters in a row. He’s not only gonna make it through the night, he’s gonna be draggin’ himself outa that place in a week. I’ll bet my life on it.”

“Fair enough,” Willis nodded slowly, “I’ll take the bet. We’ll take that ride to the hospital, but I’m warnin’ you up front, if Mojo checks out, you gonna be checkin’ in. I’ll say one thing for you, Turco, you got sand.”

“Oh, I’m scared,” Gary shrugged, “but not of you. You know what scares me, Mr. Tyrone? I been playin’ since I was a kid, and tonight I played better’n I ever have in my life, and that half dead old man still blew me away. If I go on tour with Mojo, you won’t have to do me in, I’ll probably die of embarrassment.”

“Right now, sonny, I’d say embarrassment’s the least of your problems, you know? Let’s go.”

“Why not?” Gary nodded. He flipped Ax and Linnea a mock salute, then walked off with Willis. A half dozen of Willis’s gangbangers closed in behind him, and the group faded into the shadows of the parking ramp as though they’d never been there.

“Will he be all right?” Linnea asked.

“I think so. If Mojo doesn’t make it, Willis might rough Gary up some, which he’s probably got comin’, but if I thought he was in real danger, I’d do something about it. Still, we better get over to the hospital, keep an eye on things. I’ve got to make a delivery anyway.”

“A delivery?”

“The black candle and the bones from Mojo’s dressing room. I think he oughta have ’em when he wakes up.”

“But surely you don’t believe in — all that?”

“Nah, of course not. On the other hand, after seein’ the show that old man put on tonight, I think I’ll get some mojo bones of my own, just to be on the safe side.”

“You know, Mister Axton, with that face of yours, it’s hard to tell when you’re kidding.”

“Yes, ma’am, I expect it is. Maybe you just need more practice. And call me Ax. Everybody does.”

And Down She Lay by Jeffry Scott

In dour moments his face resembled a section of cliff with frozen water trapped in a couple of crannies, reflecting an unpromising sky — those were the eyes. Nobody had ever accused Detective-Sergeant Dick Flinders of being an impressionable man.

Yet he liked Mary Taylor a lot, from the instant of meeting her, and eventually — on his side, at least — it went far beyond that. Secretly, Flinders thought her beautiful, though Mrs. Taylor was no great beauty.

She had the face of a Renaissance madonna, twenty years on, more than a touch overweight, who had lived through some hard times. She was a no-nonsense woman who generally wore flat shoes, crumpled pants and sweater, and a camelcloth coat with a faintly mangy air because its raised seams showed threadbare places. At the same time, Mary Taylor managed to be intensely feminine.

Operation Nail ran for months, so Flinders and Detective-Sergeant Taylor spent a total of days together.

From time to time a criminal gets target status, to be watched around the clock, his life analyzed in finest detail, every human contact logged and checked out, so that a picture of his activities can be built up. The subject of Operation Nail presented extra problems because he had one or more bent coppers on his payroll for the sole purpose of warning him about such interest. The special force recruited for Nail, therefore, was gathered by stealth and assembled under subterfuge, from all over the Metropolitan Police area.