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

“I guess I can fit you into my dance card,” he said, peering up at me with his good eye. “But if you want me to headline one o’ them soul revues, I’ll have to pass.”

His words were slurred by the twisted corner of his mouth. But his voice carried me back to steamy Mississippi nights, blowing down backroads in my daddy’s pickup, WLAC Nashville blaring clear and righteous on the radio. The Sultans of Soul. “I’m comin’ home, Motown Mama, I just can’t live without ya...” I think I could’ve picked Horace DeWitt’s voice out of a Silverdome crowd howling after a Lions’ touchdown.

“Fact is, in a way I’m already working for you, Mr. DeWitt,” I said, squatting beside his chair. “Varnell Mack hired me to try to collect some back royalties for the Sultans.”

“Did he now?” DeWitt said, cocking his head, looking me over. “What’s he got against you?”

“Nothing I know of, why?”

“ ’Cause the last guy I heard of tried to squeeze a nickel outa Sol Katz wound up tryna backstroke ’cross Lake St. Clair draggin’ a hunert pounds o’ loggin’ chain.”

“Maybe I’ll have better luck. I can’t promise anything, but I think there’s a fair chance we’ll shake a few bucks loose.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, turning to his game. “The check’s in the mail, right? So what you want from me?”

“Not much. I was hoping you could tell me a little about Mr. Mack.”

“Varnell? Fair bass singer, better songwriter. Wrote ‘Motor City Mama,’ only song Sol didn’t screw us out of, and he only missed that one ’cause he blew town in a hurry. That why Sol sent you around? Hell, I signed over my rights to that jam years ago.”

“I’m not working for Sol Katz, Mr. DeWitt, I’m working for Varnell Mack.”

“So you said.” He nodded. “But if you workin’ for him, why ask me about him?”

“Because I think he may be in some kind of trouble. Would you know a reason why anyone would be videotaping his movements? Police maybe?”

“Videotape?” the old man echoed, glancing up at me again, exasperated. “Sweet Jesus, what is this crap? The damn stroke messed up my arm some, but my brains ain’t Alpo yet. At least the last dude Sol sent around askin’ about Vamell came at me straight on. I don’t know what kind of a scam you’re tryna pull, but take your show on the road.”

“I’m not pulling a scam, Mr. DeWitt.”

“Hell you ain’t,” DeWitt snapped. “Look, I let you run your mouth to pass the time, but I’m tired of listenin’ to jive ’bout friends of mine. Varnell Mack never hired you for a damn thing, sonny, so tell your story walkin’ or I’m liable to get out’ this chair and throw your jive ass outa here.”

“Mr. DeWitt, why don’t you think Varnell Mack hired me?”

“I don’t think he didn’t, boy, I know. Hell, he ain’t even been Varnell for more’n twenty years. He went Muslim after the sixty-seven riots, changed his name to Raheem somethin’ or other. Wouldn’t hardly speak to a white man after that, say nothin’ of hirin’ one.”

“Maybe he’s mellowed.”

“Musta mellowed one helluva lot. Musta mellowed hisself right outa the ground.”

“What are you saying?”

“The man’s dead, boy. Died back in eighty-three. Lung cancer. Wasn’t but a dozen people at his funeral and most of them was Farrakhan Muslims. So you trot back an’ tell Sol if he wants to use that jam, go ahead on. I won’t give him no trouble, and Varnell sure as hell won’t neither. You got what you came for, now get on away from me.” He turned back to his game, shutting me out as effectively as if he’d slammed a door.

I rose slowly, trying to think of something to say. It wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t going to buy anything I was selling now. And maybe he was wrong, had Varnell and this Raheem whatever mixed up somehow. Maybe.

I stopped at the front desk on my way out and asked the Dresden milkmaid on duty if DeWitt had regular visitors.

“I wouldn’t know offhand,” she said, frowning. “We have so many patients. Why do you ask?”

“He seems to be a little confused. About who’s alive, and who isn’t.”

“That happens quite a lot.” She smiled, scanning the visitor’s log. “Let’s see, a Mr. Rothstein visited a few weeks ago. And a Mr. Jaquette. A Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. Does that help?”

“No one named Mack?”

“Apparently not, not recently anyway. I wouldn’t be too concerned about it though,” she added. “Residents often get confused about friends who’ve passed on. They even talk to them sometimes. It can give you shivers.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know the feeling.”

I found my steps quickening as I made my way out of the rest home, and when I hit the sidewalk I was sprinting for my car. I scrambled in and peeled out of the lot, pedal down, headed back to the heart of Motown.

And Rock ’n Soul Recollections. I barely made it. It was after five and the blinds were drawn, but I could still see movement inside. I hammered on the door. “Open up, Cal! It’s an emergency.”

“An emergency?” he said quizzically, letting me in. “At a record store?”