Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

“He said he quit the business years ago, went into real estate,” I said.

Sol shrugged. “Well, if all Mack wants is a few bucks for Horace, maybe we can work something out. Tell you what, Ax, bring Varnell by the club tonight. Tenish? We’ll have a few drinks, talk it over.”

“Fine by me. I’ll have to check with Mr. Mack, of course.”

“Do that, and get back to me. Meantime, if you don’t mind, we’re gettin’ ready to roll tape.”

“No problem. I’ll be in touch. And thanks.”

I stopped at the first 7-Eleven I came to and used the drive-by phone in the lot to call Varnell Mack. He answered on a car phone; I could hear the traffic noise in the background. I tried to tell him what I had, but he cut me off.

“Boy, I can’t hear worth a damn over this thing. You got news for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then meet me at that rib joint down from your office. Twenty minutes?”

“I’ll be there.”

Mack’s Cadillac limo was parked illegally in front of Papa Henry’s, motor running. His chauffeur was behind the wheel, his huge hands tapping out rhythm to the thump of the Caddy’s sound system. Mack was sitting in a front window booth facing the street. Not a spot I would have chosen, but then I don’t need a cane to get around either. At least, not yet. I slid into the booth. Mack was warming his hands around a cup of tea. I gave him a quick rundown on what I’d turned up.

“Ol’ Sol’s still in the business and livin’ fat city?” he said, showing a thin smile. “And still with Millie? I’ll be damned. Who woulda figured it after all this time?”

“It hasn’t really been so long,” I said.

“Been a lifetime for some people,” Mack said, glancing out the flyspecked window at the street. A posse car cruised slowly past, a blacked-out Monte Carlo low rider. Mack didn’t notice it. He was looking beyond to... somewhere else.

“Millie remembered you,” I said.

“A lotta woman, Millie. Smart, too. Smart enough to marry money, and stick to it.”

“Maybe it wasn’t like that,” I said.

“No?” the old man said, annoyed. “Know a lot about it, do you, boy? You married?”

“I was. Once.”

“Once oughta be enough for people, one way or another. You know, Willis told me you were sharp, Axton, but I’ll tell you the God’s truth, when I laid that money on you, I thought I was kissin’ it goodbye, I truly did. You did okay.”

“I haven’t actually done anything yet,” I said.

“How do you figure?”

“You hired me to collect some money for the Sultans. Sol said he was willing to work something out about the rights to ‘Motor City Mama.’ He didn’t actually say he’d pay or how much.”

“Don’t worry ’bout it.” Mack smiled grimly. “The important thing is, he’s willin’ to talk. This ain’t really about money, you know? It’s about doin’ the right thing. So whatever Sol’s willin’ to pay, it’ll be enough.” He used his cane to lever himself painfully out of the booth. “I’ll pick you up here at nine-thirty.”

“Right,” I said absently. The posse car was coming by again, probably checking out Mack’s Cadillac. I watched it pass, then realized what was bothering me wasn’t the car, it was something above it, something glinting from the roof of the building across the street. For a split second I froze, half-expecting gunfire. But the flash was too bright to be metal. And it wasn’t moving. Mack was eyeing me oddly.

“Anythin’ wrong?”

“Nope,” I said, “not a thing. I’ll see you tonight.” I waited in the booth while he limped out to the Caddy and climbed in. As the car drifted away from the curb, a man stood up on the roof of the building opposite. With a minicam. He photographed Mack’s car as it made a left onto Eight Mile.

I slipped out the back door of Papa Henry’s into the alley, trotted down to the end of the block, and walked quickly to the corner, keeping close to the building. The man on the roof was gone.

Damn! I sprinted across the street, dodging traffic, and dashed down the alley. A blue Honda Civic was parked in a turnout, halfway down. It had to be his. Nobody parks in an alley in this part of town.

I heard a clank of metal from above and flattened against the wall. Someone was coming down the fire escape, moving quickly. A slender black man in U of D sweats and granny glasses, toting a black canvas shoulder bag. I waited until he was halfway down the last set of firestairs, then stepped out, blocking the path to his car.

“Nice day for it,” I said.

He froze. “For what?”

“Taking pictures. That’s what you were doing, right? Of me and the man I was with?”

He hesitated a split second, then shrugged. “If you walk away from me right now, maybe you can stay out of this thing.”

“What thing?”

“An official Metro narcotics investigation.”

“Narcotics investigation? Of who? Me? Papa Henry? You’ll have to do better than that.”

“I’m warning you, you’re interfering in—”

“Save the smoke,” I interrupted. “If you’re a cop, show me some tin, and I’m gone.”