Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

“He never was,” Puck snorted. “Boy was born forty years old. Hey, check out the setup, boys, a Michigan twist. Car radiators instead of copper line to distill the hooch. Model T Fords, looks like, from the ’twenties. Must have set all this up during Prohibition, used it right on through the war. No booze shortages at the ole Gin Mill. Who do we report this to, Danny? Eliot Ness?”

“We’ll let Mrs. Belknap worry about that. Meantime, nail the door shut, Puck.”

“What the hell, Danny,” Mafe protested. “Don’t you trust me?”

“No,” I said.

“Don’t take it personal, Mafe,” Puck added. “He don’t trust nobody else, neither.”

Mafe laughed. But Puck wasn’t kidding.

I’d been staying at an el cheapo motel outside Malverne, but after the hassle with Romanik and his goons, I moved a sleeping bag into the Belknap Building. Just in case.

There were plenty of bedrooms, two floors’ full. But I felt most comfortable sleeping in my office on the floor. Very lightly.

Which is why I heard the truck.

Early the next morning, six A.M. or so, a vehicle pulled up out front. Snapping awake in a heartbeat, I crossed to a window with a view of the street. A pickup truck was parked at the curb, engine idling, driver eyeing the building. Checking the place out before he made a move.

I made mine first. Grabbing a chunk of two-by-four, I trotted out to the truck. Black guy at the wheel. I rapped on the side window and he rolled it down.

Café-au-lait complexion, work clothes. Calm brown eyes. “Yeah?”

“It’s awful early, pal. What are you doing out here?”

“It’s a public street, isn’t it?”

“Sure it is, but we’ve had some trouble. So I’m asking. Politely. Is there something you want?”

“I’m looking for Dan Shea.”

“Why?”

“That’s my business.”

“Mine too. I’m Shea.”

“Really? You don’t look much like a boss.”

“I’m still Dan Shea. Want to check my driver’s license?”

He smiled. A good one. Warmed his whole face. “I’m Guyton Crowell,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m looking for a job. I’m a finish carpenter. Got a notebook here with some of my work in it.”

He passed me the ring binder and I flipped through the photographs. Kitchen cabinets, entertainment centers, even a spiral staircase, all expertly crafted.

“You do good work,” I said. “Or you fake good pictures. Did the union send you down here?”

“Nah, I heard you were fixing up this building, thought I’d come down, see if I could help out.”

“Why?”

“My granddad worked here years ago. A waiter in the old Gin Mill. Had an accident. Fell down some stairs. Lost his sight.”

“Tough break.”

“Could have been worse. Old Cyrus Belknap took care of him. Paid his hospital bills, put him through a trade school. Did the same for my dad, later on. Back in the day, the Belknaps hired black people when nobody else would. I figure maybe I owe them something for that. Anything else you want to know?”

“Yeah. When can you start?”

Guyton Crowell was a treasure. A master craftsman, easy to get along with. He even hit it off with Mafe Rochon. Had Mafe laughing till the tears came two minutes after they met. A rare talent. One I envied.

Crowell also found me the journeymen I needed. Two young guys fresh out of trade school. Hard workers. I told Guyton about our trouble with the union but he shrugged it off.

“This local’s no help to Aframericans. But folks around Idlewild still remember what the Belknaps did for ’em during the War. You just let me know if you need any more people.”

Actually, I was getting more people than I needed. Artie Cohen, the gawky Banner editor, came by my second-floor war room of an office a few days later, with an older black gentleman in tow. A slender man, maybe seventy, a halo of silver hair around a bald pate, granny glasses, expensive gray suit, and a Moroccan leather briefcase.

“Mr. Shea, this is Reverend James Jackson, of the First Bethel Baptist Church. We were wondering if we could see the old Gin Mill.”

“It’s not exactly prepped for tourists—”

“I don’t mind a little dust,” Jackson said quickly. “It would mean a lot to me, Mr. Shea. My mother used to work there. And Artie said you had some questions about the old days...?”

I had plenty of them, but I saved them until we were actually in that strange, silent room with the moving lights from its revolving mirrored ball dappling the dance floor and the tables.

Jackson looked it over, then walked slowly to the stage, staring up at the microphone for a long time. Then he nodded. When he turned to me, his eyes were misty.

“I was here a few times, as a boy. Twelve or thirteen in those days. Rehearsal days. My mama sang with the band, Coley Barnes and his Barnstormers. Lula Mae Jackson. Went by the name Misirlou. Wonderful singer. My daddy was high church, didn’t approve of Mama singing here, but she loved it so. And truth was, the family needed the money. I brought some pictures with me.”