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

Mojo Man by Doug Allyn

Axton watched the Beech Bonanza drop out of the waning sun and touch down lightly on the runway, snow devils swirling and dancing behind it as it taxied toward the terminal. Turco’s charter flight? He hoped so. He hated waiting around airfields when he wasn’t getting paid.

Linnea Harris apparently didn’t like waiting, either. She’d been pacing the nearly deserted V.I.P. lounge since Axton arrived. She was a striking woman, not pretty in the conventional sense — hawkish, aquiline nose, wide set gray eyes, short auburn hair, no makeup, none needed. She was wearing a rumpled dun trenchcoat that somehow looked chic on her. A tarpaulin would have looked chic on her.

Her companion, Benjie, a chubby guy in thick granny glasses and faded denims, knew how to wait. He was folded across two chairs, zonked, a “Turco and the Turks” tour cap tipped down over his eyes.

The sleeper suddenly blinked awake, caught Ax staring at him, and grinned, an open apple pie of a smile. He stood up, yawned and stretched, then trotted over to the tunnel door just as Gary Turco pushed through it. Turco handed the kid a guitar case, and Benjie jogged off, no greeting, no handshake. All business. Turco was taller than Axton had expected, cornstalk thin, pallid as a vampire, his albino blond hair teased into a rock star shambles, stub-bled jaw, sunglasses. He was wearing an ankle-length black leather overcoat.

“Welcome to Detroit, Mr. Turco,” Linnea Harris said. “Good flight?”

“Fine,” Turco said curtly as Ax sauntered up. “Is this guy my new bodyguard?”

“No, sir,” Axton said, his drawl thick enough to pour over grits, “leastways not yet. Benjie asked me to meet your plane, but he said you’d decide whether I get hired or no.”

“Where’d Benjie get you?”

“Bob Seger’s road manager recommended me. I’ve worked security for Seger, Rod Stewart, the Stones. My name’s Axton, R. B. People call me Ax.”

“Yeah?” Turco said, unimpressed. “I guess you’re big enough, Axton, but your face looks like you lose more fights than you win.”

“Motorcycle accident,” Ax said. “You lookin’ for a bodyguard or a model?”

“You got a concealed weapons permit?”

Ax nodded.

“Then I guess you’ll do for now.”

“Maybe not,” Ax said, “we need to clear the air first. If I sign on, I bodyguard. I don’t gofer, I don’t pimp. Unless you’re diabetic I don’t want to see any needles; if you smoke dope, you hold your own stash. I’ll keep the little girls from ripping your clothes off, but I won’t sneak ’em up to your room. You still want to hire me?”

Turco arched one eyebrow and shot Linnea Harris a look. “Did anybody tell him why I need a new guy?”

“Mr. Turco’s last bodyguard is in a Toronto hospital,” Linnea said evenly, gauging Ax’s reaction, “with two broken arms and a concussion. And just for the record, Mr. — Axton, he wasn’t a pimp either. He was a former N.F.L. linebacker.”

“What happened to him?”

“Two guys came by my dressing room at the Toronto Civic Auditorium while I was onstage,” Turco said. “There was a — scuffle, my bodyguard got the short end.”

“Two broken arms doesn’t sound like a scuffle,” Ax said, “more like a train wreck. What’d they want?”

“We don’t know, they didn’t say.”

“Do you know what your bodyguard said to them?”

“What he said? No, why?”

“Just wonderin’,” Ax shrugged, “so I can avoid sayin’ it to anybody.”

“Very prudent,” Turco nodded, smiling faintly. “You know, we might just get along, Axton. You want the gig or not?”

“Absolutely. And call me Ax. Everybody calls me Ax.”

Benjie pulled up at the passenger pickup lane in a silver six-seat GM van, which surprised Axton. He’d figured Turco for the limousine type. Turco and Linnea Harris climbed into the back and immediately went into a heavy conference. Ax helped Benjie load the luggage, taking special care with Turco’s guitar, then climbed into the passenger seat up front.

“So, you want to fill me in?” Ax said. “What brings y’all to Detroit?”

“Recording studio,” Benjie said, gunning the van into the river of headlights leaving the airport. “Turco and the Turks just finished a sold-out Canadian tour and inked a new record deal with Magnus Music. Magnus gave Gary a studio of his own here in Detroit as part of the deal.”

“Where does the lady come in?”

“She’s on loan to us from Magnus headquarters in New York to help Gary get the studio up and running. She’s a vice-president for label liaison. Got a nice sound, don’t it? Label liaison.”

“I think it means company spy.”

“I think you’re right,” Benjie grinned, glancing at Ax curiously. “You know the music business?”

“I’ve been at it awhile,” Ax nodded, “how about you?”

“I’ve been with the Turks from day one. Started out as a roadie when they were playin’ bars, strip joints, anything we could get, worked my way up to road manager. Lotta long miles, short money, but Gary always said we’d make it. And this year things finally started to happen. Canadian tour sold out, then the record deal with Magnus. When we get our studio runnin’, we’ll be on top. Bigtime.”

“Bigtime,” Ax echoed, “right. Where are we headed? A hotel?”

“Nope, the Porkpie Hat. A black club downtown, just off Cass. You know it?”

“I’ve been there,” Ax said. “Who’s playing?”

“Kid named LeVoy Tyrone. Smokin’ blues guitarist, good singer. Gary figures he can be the next B. B. King if he’s handled right.”

“Somehow I never pictured a heavy metal hero like Turco as a blues fan.”

“Don’t let the eyeshadow fool ya. Gary’s a complicated guy. I imagine a lotta people take you for a dummy just because you’re big and talk like you grew up in Mayberry or someplace.”

“Considerin’ what happened to my predecessor, they might be right.”

“Your what?”

“Never mind. Take a left here, I know a shortcut to the Hat.”

The Porkpie Hat was a converted supermarket with plywood-panel windows, low ceilings, a spotlit stage at one end, a glass-brick bar at the other. Strings of flickering Christmas lights taped to the ceiling cut the gloom enough to make walking possible, barely. The club was jumping, the audience a racial bouillabaisse, college kids from nearby Wayne State, street hustlers from the Cass Corridor, a few parties of middle-agers dressed to the nines.

The manager greeted Benjie warmly and personally escorted the party to a table near the dance floor, which meant the kid had laid out some heavy bread. The band was jamming “Big Leg Woman” as Turco’s party was being seated, and they were as good as Benjie had promised, perhaps better. The rhythm section, keyboards, Fender bass and drums, was tight and taut, but the star of the show was the young lead guitarist. He looked more like a young black banker than a band guy, conservative suit, narrow tie, horn-rimmed glasses, hair cropped close and razor parted, which made his manic, brilliant playing all the more surprising. He cooked a long solo at the end of “Big Leg,” taking the tune and the audience back to the Delta origins of the blues, then snapped back to the mean Motown streets with a flare of fingertap flash at the finish.

Ax and Benjie both rose and applauded, and they weren’t alone, most of the older blacks were also standing, whooping, giving the youth his propers for a job well done and for keeping the blues alive. No reaction from Turco, though, he was chatting up Linnea Harris as though nothing had happened. He leaned over as Ax resumed his seat.

“Don’t do that again,” he said softly, with an edged, plastic smile, “we’re here on business, okay?”

“You’re the boss,” Ax shrugged, “but most artists prefer doin’ business with people who appreciate their work, you know?”

Turco ignored him, turned back to the woman. But she glanced across at Axton as though really noticing him for the first time. Their eyes met across the table for a moment, and Ax felt a soft click. Then Turco said something to her and she turned away. Still, there’d been something in that look. Maybe.

When the set was over, Benjie made his way to the stage, spoke to the guitarist, and brought him back to the table.

“Mr. Turco, this is LeVoy Tyrone. LeVoy, this is Gary Turco, Linnea Harris from Magnus Music and—”

“Hello, Ax,” LeVoy said softly, “how you been doin’?”

“Anybody I can. You sounded great, as usual.”

“Thank you,” LeVoy said, easing into a seat.

“You know Mr. Axton?” Turco said, his eyebrows arching a quarter inch.

“Everybody knows Ax,” LeVoy smiled, “he’s — notorious, you know? Not the same as bein’ famous, but close. He workin’ for you?”

“At the moment,” Turco nodded grudgingly. “I, ah, liked what I heard of your set. I also liked the demo tape Benjie sent me, especially one cut, ‘Hard Luck Man,’ the old Mojo Tyrone jam.”

“Just keepin’ it in the family. My uncle wrote it.”

“Mojo Tyrone was your uncle?”

“Well, actually he’s my dad’s uncle, but we all call him Uncle Mo’. Why?”

“Dammit, I knew it,” Turco grinned, “I knew there was something familiar about your style. Not to mention your name. You sound a little bit like him.”

“Maybe so,” LeVoy said neutrally, “we still jam together some.”

“Jam together?” Turco said. “I thought he died back in the sixties.”

“Almost did. He had a bad stroke, was in a rest home for a long time. My dad put it out that he died so people would leave him be.”

“But he’s better now? He can still play?”

“Some,” LeVoy said cautiously, “he’s nothin’ like he was. The stroke pretty much paralyzed his left side. Why so interested in my uncle?”

“No big thing,” Gary shrugged, “it’s just that I really dug his music when I was growing up. Considering how many guitar heroes’ve cashed in their chips, it’s good to hear one of ’em’s still around. Could you arrange for me to meet him sometime?”

“That’s probably not a good idea,” LeVoy said. “He, ah, ain’t in the best shape mentally, you know? He’s an old man, lives alone.”

“I understand,” Turco nodded, “but think about it, okay? It’d mean a lot to me. Tell you what, I think you’ve got real potential both as a singer and a player. If you’re interested in a record deal, why don’t we do breakfast after your gig, work out the details?”

“You mean tonight?” LeVoy sounded surprised.

“Time is money, Mr. Tyrone,” Turco said, smiling faintly. “I never waste either one.”

“I guess you don’t. Thing is, my father’s the businessman in the family. How about we meet at, say, ten tomorrow morning at my dad’s pawnshop, over on Livernois. Ax knows where it is.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Turco sighed. “Ten’ll be fine.”

“Good, meantime I got two more sets to do. Nice meetin’ you all.”

Turco stared after him. “Mojo Tyrone’s nephew,” he said softly. “I’ll be damned.”

“I don’t get it,” Benjie said, “who in hell was Mojo Tyrone?”

“Who was he?” Gary said, surprised. “He was a great blues player, like Muddy Waters, or Howlin’ Wolf.”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” Turco sighed. “Sometimes I think havin’ your head screwed on straight in this business is like being the smartest kid in the third grade. Let’s blow this joint, I’ve had a long day.”

The night was brisk, a few snowflakes dancing in the parking lot lights as they hurried toward the van. Just ahead of them, four men moved out of the shadows, blocking their path. Street punks, hard-eyed whiteboys, matching blue running suits, hightop white sneakers, blue bandannas over their faces like highwaymen.

“Cool out, folks,” the tallest of them said, stepping forward, “just fork over and nobody gets hurt. Money on the ground, then jus’ boogie on back inside.” He flicked his wrist, flashing an eight inch butterfly knife open, blade agleam in the faint light. “Shuck your coat, too,” he said to Turco, “looks like my size. Take it off.”

“You gotta be kiddin’,” Turco said, sidling to his left, “you think you just wave a blade and people fold up? You never heard of guns?” Ax was already moving to his right; Benjie stayed with Linnea, herding her back.

“Look, sucker—”

“Nah, you look,” Turco said, snaking his belt out from under his coat, a motorcycle chain belt, chrome steel links glittering as he hummed it overhead like a bullwhip and slapped it on the pavement with a gunshot crack! “My bodyguard’s got a piece,” Turco said grimly, nodding at Ax, “and I got five pounds of iron here, and what you got, sucker, is about three seconds to beat feet, or buy a ride in an ambulance, sirens and all. What’s it gonna be?”

Turco was swinging the chainbelt back and forth like a pendulum. The thug in front seemed hypnotized by it, but one of his buddies glanced at Ax, who was still circling them, his hand inside his coat.

Without a word the guy broke and ran. The others exchanged glances, then followed him. “I’ll be back!” the tall one shouted, stabbing a finger at Turco. “You ain’t seen the lasta me!”

“Bring yo mama next time!” Turco yelled after him, cracking the belt overhead. Benjie sprinted to the van, yanked open the sliding door, and climbed behind the wheel as the others scrambled inside.

“Come on, Benjie,” Turco panted, “fire it up before they come back and Axton has to shoot somebody.”

“That’d be a pretty good trick,” Ax said, “considering I’m not carrying.”

“What?” Turco said, stunned. “You’re unarmed? What the hell kind of a bodyguard are you?”

“The kind that doesn’t carry guns into airports,” Ax said evenly. “I got a call to meet a plane, remember?”

“Fortunately, you weren’t needed,” Linnea snapped, “since Gary— What? What’s so funny?”

Benjie was giggling hysterically, laughing so hard he could barely keep the van on the road. Turco was shaking his head slowly, grinning.

“The chainbelt’s just for looks,” Turco said, “it’s not real, it’s only plastic. I was bluffing, figured Axton could handle things if it didn’t work.”

“Plastic,” Linnea echoed, “plastic? My God, what if they hadn’t run?”

“If we were lucky, adjoining hospital rooms,” Ax said. “Oh, and by the way, welcome to Motown, folks.”

Benjie dropped Linnea at the parking ramp near the studio. Axton walked her to her car, trying to come up with something witty to say, but the night wind harried them along, whipping his thoughts away. She slid angrily behind the wheel of her BMW without a backward glance. Left him Standing in the deserted parking ramp, chilled by more than the wind. Tough lady, he thought, all business. Still, there’d been that moment in the club when their eyes met. Maybe. Hell. He jogged back to the van.

“Sit back here,” Turco said, “I want to talk to you.”

“What about?” Ax asked, sliding into the plush, throne-backed seat opposite Turco.

“About you. For openers, where’re you from originally? Alabama?”

“Missouri. Little town called Winona.”

“How’d you end up here?”

“I was a bass player in a road band, we got booked up here. We were doin’ okay until I skidded my ’cycle into a tree. Got my face banged up, my right hand too. I couldn’t play for awhile so the band split for the coast. I stayed on, worked as a troubleshooter for a couple of booking agents, turned out to be pretty good at it. So I opened my own office, got a P.I. license so I could carry—”

“A P.I. license? You’re a detective?”

“That’s what my license says. Mostly I just — fix things for people in the business, mediate contract hassles, collect percentages, book, bodyguard, whatever.”

“And the Tyrone kid? How do you know him?”

“I know most of the players in Motown, one way or another. LeVoy’s righteous, from what I hear. No drugs, no hassles. Head’s screwed on straight.”

“He struck me that way, too. What about his uncle?”

“Mojo Tyrone? I had one of his albums back home but never made the connection with LeVoy. I thought the ol’ guy was dead.”

“Me too. I guess we were supposed to. Thing is, I saw him play once,” Turco said, as much to himself as to Ax, “at a festival when I was a kid. He was hammered, stoned to the bone, but he still did a helluva show. Something about him... You know what I’m sayin’?”

“Magic time,” Ax nodded. “I’ve seen LeVoy hit that groove a few times.”

“Have you ever seen my group play?” Turco asked, a bit too casually.

“A few years ago, in Atlanta, when you opened for Kiss.”

“And we were wearing dresses and makeup, and we definitely weren’t magic, right?”

“You had a solid commercial sound,” Ax said carefully, “you worked the crowd well. It must’ve been tough, opening for Kiss.”

“Nothing about this business is easy,” Turco said quietly, “nothing. You bust your butt, play a million one nighters in hick towns... and still never make it.”

“Well, you’re making it now,” Ax said.

Gary glanced at him sharply, reading him for an implied slight, then took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m makin’ it now. But...”

“But what?”

“Never mind. What about LeVo’s father? You know him?”

“Willis Tyrone,” Ax nodded, “I’ve met him. He’s big, surly, runs a pawnshop on the wrong side of Montcalm. Deals guns and numbers. From what I hear, he’s nobody to cross.”

“A guns and numbers king,” Turco sighed, “terrific. I think I need a drink. Hey, Benjie, how far is it to my new apartment?”

“We’re here,” Benjie said, swinging the van into a parking garage.

“You’re gonna love this place, Gary,” Benjie said eagerly, as they rode the elevator up, “it’s got a view of the river, kingsize waterbed, big screen TV—” The elevator door shushed open but Ax grabbed Benjie before he could step out. “What—”

“Is that the place?” Ax said, “the one with the door open?”

“We’d better get out of here,” Turco said, fading back to the rear of the elevator.

“Cool it a second,” Ax said, “I don’t hear anything. Let me take a quick look.” He edged warily along the wall to the doorway, risked a glance inside.

Chaos.

The apartment door had been jimmied and the place was a shambles, TV kicked in, furniture slashed and gutted. A DayGlo orange sentence was spraypainted on one wall: DO THE RIGHT THING. Ax did the right thing. He grabbed a broken table leg and did a wary recon of the apartment. The other rooms were empty and just as trashed. He tossed the table leg into the living room debris and brushed the painted message with his fingertips. Dry.

“Interesting,” Ax said. “A film fan with taste.”

“What?” Turco echoed numbly, staring at the wreckage from the doorway.

“Do the Right Thing, the Spike Lee flick? Good movie.”

“You think this is some kind of a joke, Axton?” Turco snapped.

“Maybe not a joke exactly, but there’s definitely something funny about it.”

“Meaning what?”

“C’mon, Turco, I’m a little slow, but I can read the handwriting on the wall. Do the right thing. Your bodyguard gets stomped in Toronto. We get hassled in the Porkpie parking lot by white gangbusters who were as out of place there as nuns at a beer bust. That area’s Black Pharaoh turf, and those punks could’ve been blown away just for walkin’ past it, which means they weren’t workin’ the lot, they were waiting for us. And now your new apartment gets trashed. Not ripped off, trashed. Nobody’s luck is that bad. So what’s going on? What’s this ‘right thing’ you’re supposed to do?”

Turco met his eyes straight on a moment, then shrugged. “Nothing’s going on. People in show biz attract crazies. Ask John Lennon.”

“I’m asking you, Gary. Look, I’m on your side. You want protection, I’ll do my best—”

“Your best hasn’t been too impressive so far. Look, I hired you as a bodyguard. You want to play detective, do it on your own time, okay? What do we do now?”

“I guess we call the cops,” Ax said, groping through the debris, rescuing a cordless phone, “if you don’t mind them poking around.”

“Call ’em. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Right,” Ax said, “whatever you say.”

It turned out to be a very long night. Turco booked a room at the downtown Holiday Inn, leaving Ax at the trashed apartment to wait for the police. It was after two A.M. before a pair of bored patrolmen showed, took Ax’s statement, and made a cursory search. Ax didn’t make it back to his own place until four.

Promptly at nine the custom van pulled up in front of his apartment and beeped twice. Cursing, Ax pulled on a wool turtleneck, slipped into his shoulder holster, grabbed his scuffed leather jacket, and took the stairs two at a time down to the street. His hair was still damp from the shower, and the hawk wind nipped at it, instant icecap. Gary Turco was behind the wheel wearing a conservative suit and tie, his shaggy albino mane tied back in a prim ponytail. “Did you call the papers?” Turco asked as Ax climbed into the passenger seat.

“About what?”

“The burglary. We could have gotten some media coverage on it. Rock star ripped off his first day in Motown, something like that. You know the business, you should have thought of it.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Ax said, “and the apartment wasn’t ripped off, just messed up.”

“Who cares, as long as they spell my name right?” Gary grunted. “How do I get to LeVoy’s father’s shop?”

“Left at the next light. It’s down a mile or so. Where’s Benjie?”

“At the studio, getting things shipshape. And speaking of shipshape, from now on dress appropriately, okay? Jacket and tie.”

“You wanna dress to impress Willis Tyrone, you’ll have to do better than a jacket and tie.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“A full suit of armor. Or maybe a bulletproof vest.”

The Revelation Pawnshop stretched half a city block on Montcalm, a brown brick building, its steel-grilled windows filled with radios, guitars, power tools. LeVoy Tyrone, looking studious in a maize and blue U of M sweater, met them at the door and escorted them back to his father’s office, a large raised platform in the center of the rear wall ringed by a fortress of filing cabinets. Willis Tyrone observed their approach from his desk on the dais like a dark Buddha, a huge man, custom tailored lavender silk shirt stretched taut by his barrel chest, rep tie at half mast, a shaved head the size of a lineman’s helmet, cool pawnbroker’s eyes.

He rose as they mounted the platform, offered them seats and coffee. Gary gave him a copy of a recording contract. Willis scanned it cursorily, tossed it aside. “Seems straight enough,” he grunted, his voice a deep bass rumble, “but I’ve seen it before. Uncle Maurice signed papers to make records for some white dudes, gonna get rich, take care of the family. He cut the records, worked himself damn near to death, and now I gotta take care of him. Whitey used him up, threw him away like trash.”

“Mr. Tyrone,” Gary said earnestly, “I can assure you—”

“Don’t assure me nothin’,” Willis interrupted, cutting Gary off with a wave of his massive paw. “I meet jive artists every day can talk the birds outa the trees, so don’t make me no promises, Turco. Let me make you one. My boy’s got his heart set on takin’ a shot at music. I won’t say no to him, but I ain’t forgot what happened to my uncle, either. And I assure you, mister, that if LeVoy comes out on the short of this, I’m gonna hold you responsible. Ever heard an old blues song called ‘Payin’ the Cost to Be the Boss?”

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“Good. Just remember anything goes wrong, you’re gonna pay, and I’ve got dudes workin’ for me who’re real good at collectin’. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

“Fair enough,” Gary nodded, “what about your uncle?”

“Maurice? What about him?”

“LeVoy told me he can still play a little. I’ve got this idea, of maybe taping him, using it to intro the first cut of LeVoy’s record. Might make a good promotional gimmick. Any objection?”

“A gimmick,” Willis shook his head slowly. “You people are all alike. You tell him what shape Maurice is in?” he asked LeVoy.

“No, sir. Just that he’s — better than he was.”

“Ain’t sayin’ much,” Willis shrugged, “considerin’ he was almost dead. You know why they call him Mojo, Mr. Turco? You know what it means?”

“It’s — magic, right? Something to do with voodoo.”

“That’s right,” Willis said, “you afraid of voodoo?”

“No, sir,” Gary said evenly, “I’m not afraid of magic, or much of anything else.”

“That’s good,” Willis nodded, showing a wolfs grin, “a young man needs sand to get on in life. I don’t believe in magic neither, but Maurice was a seventh son, so he took it more serious. Still burns the candles, even thinks he brought himself back from the dead. You wanna see what’s left of Maurice, you go right ahead. And take a good look. ’Cause if any wrong comes to my family because of you, you’re seein’ your future. And if that don’t scare you some, boy, then you ain’t near as bright as you look.”

“I don’t understand,” LeVoy said somberly as they made their way through the cluttered aisles toward the front door. “I’ve seen him angry before, but not like this.”

“He’s afraid for you,” Gary said, “because of what the life did to your uncle. He’ll mellow out when we can show him some long green, and the sooner we get a session rollin’, the sooner we can do that. When can I meet your uncle?”

“Look, I really don’t think that’s such a hot idea,” LeVoy said reluctantly. “He was in a home for a long time after his stroke. He’s better now, but he’s still — pretty strange.”

“I promise not to upset the old guy, okay,” Gary insisted. “I just wanna see him, maybe hear him play. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it might be important.”

“I guess I can fix it,” LeVoy conceded, unconvinced. “This afternoon if you want. Time don’t mean much to Uncle Maurice. Tell you what, he lives on a little farm out in Oxford, 2203 Rathbun Road. Meet me out there around two. I’ll go out early, make sure it’s okay.”

“Why not just call ahead?”

“He’s got no phone,” LeVoy said, “and we better get a couple things straight. I’ll meet you in the yard. If I’m not there, don’t come up to the house. And if I say he don’t wanna see you, you leave right then, no argument. Understand?”

“Why all the mystery?”

“No mystery. He’s just a little—”

“—strange, right,” Gary nodded. “Would it be better if I came alone?”

“Might be better if you came with a battalion of Marines,” LeVoy sighed, “but Ax’ll have to do. But just you two. Nobody else.”

The farmhouse stood alone on a snow-crusted barren knoll, a two room white clapboard building, its windows iced over and eyeless. There was a swaybacked barn out back, a chicken coop, a hog pen, but no animals in sight. The only sign of life was a thin plume of gray smoke rising from the chimney.

“Sheesh, where’s Norman Rockwell when you need him?” Gary said, gunning the van up the rutted driveway. LeVoy stepped off the porch into the yard as the van crunched to a halt.

“Y’all can come in,” he said, his breath a white cloud in the icy air, “he’s in a fair mood today. Just be cool, okay?” He slid a pint of wine from under his sweater and passed it to Gary. “If he asks, you give this to him. But no weed, nothin’ else, understand?”

“No problem,” Gary said, “grab my guitar case will ya, Axton?” He scrambled out without waiting for a reply. Ax shrugged and followed, but bumped into Gary as he hesitated on the porch steps. A bloody hatchet was buried in a chopping block beside the front door, red stained feathers clinging to the blade.

“Organic McChicken,” Ax said, “homestyle.” Turco arched one brow, then trailed LeVoy into the house.

The living room was uncomfortably warm, a potbellied woodstove glowing against one wall, a box of firewood beside it, cheap Formica-topped table in the corner ringed by scarred wooden chairs. Tattered throw rugs were scattered about on the rough wood floor; the only decoration on the walls was a sepia waterstain shaped like Louisiana. A battered old V-shaped guitar stood in the corner leaning against a grubby Monkey Ward’s amp. The room was deserted, but Ax sensed a presence in the darkened bedroom doorway, watching them.

“Y’all just stand around a minute,” LeVoy said quietly. Ax scanned the barren room, looking for clues to the man who lived there. A worn leather belt was hanging from a peg behind the front door. A gunbelt, with an empty holster. Ax casually lowered Gary’s guitar case to the floor, unzipped his jacket, and moved between Turco and the bedroom doorway. There was a soft snick of metal and Maurice Tyrone brushed the blanket aside and shuffled slowly out, dragging his left foot.

He looked like a dark prophet, a shattered giant of a man nearly a head taller than Axton’s six two. He was wearing a frayed workshirt, faded bib overalls, and a rumpled felt fedora on his nearly hairless skull. Below the hat’s warped brim the left side of the old man’s face had sagged like melted wax, reducing his eye to a slit, pulling his mouth into a permanent scowl. “Uncle Maurice,” LeVoy said quietly, “I’d like you to meet some folks.” He introduced Ax and Gary quickly, uneasily.

“Y’all got anything for me?” the old man rumbled, his voice rusty from disuse.

“Yes, sir,” Gary said, “I thought we could have a taste—” Mojo took the bottle from him, twisted the cap off with his teeth and drained it “—together,” Gary finished lamely.

“Got any more?” Mojo asked, tossing the empty bottle toward the bedroom door.

“No, sir,” Gary said, “I’m afraid not.”

“Next time bring one for yourself, boy. Don’t like drinkin’ alone. Got any weed?”

“Ah, no, sir,” LeVoy said hastily, “they don’t smoke. Big fans of yours, though. Came to hear you play.”

“I use to do a lotta weed back when I was playin’,” the old man said, cocking his head to examine Turco and Ax with his good eye. “Good stuff. Black Sheba, Lebanese, fine as country wine. Sure y’ ain’t got any?”

“No, but I brought my guitar,” Gary said. “LeVoy tells me you still play.”

“Play? Boy, I’m Mojo Tyrone. Devil hisself taught me to whup the blues ’fore you was born. B. B. King used to carry my bags, Albert Collins hoed my patch. Pop your case, white boy, let’s see what you got.”

Gary shed his leather trench-coat, knelt and took his guitar out of the case, a gleaming red Fender Stratocaster, its custom finish glowing like a bed of coals. He checked its tune, then plugged into Mojo’s amp and ripped off a few flashy licks.

“That’s a lotta notes, boy,” Mojo growled. “What’s the matter? You cain’t find the right one?” He picked up his own guitar, eased down in a chair facing Gary. He carefully fitted a bottleneck over the ring finger of his crippled left hand, slid it up the strings. For a moment Ax thought the old man was moaning low in his throat, then he realized it was the guitar, murmuring softly, breathing between phrases like a vocalist. Singing. There was no other word for it.

Gary was staring, transfixed. “Well, boy,” Mojo said, “you come to play, or jes’ look?” Shaking his head ruefully, Gary flipped his pickup switch to bass and began punching out a rhythmic shuffle, a walking Delta blues. The old man nodded along for a moment, then joined in, his guitar whining above Gary’s rhythm like a hawk circling its prey. The music was uneven for a few moments, two street fighters sparring, testing each other, and then they found a groove, rock solid, and began to jam in earnest, their guitars meshing like gears in a rhythm machine. The music was crude, powerful stuff, sharp as home-brew whisky, and both men drank it deep, letting it take them over. LeVoy was lost in it, too, nodding to the beat, smiling as Turco and the old man worked through a medley of blues, changing tunes with only a look or a nod.

Casually Ax wandered over to the bedroom doorway, glanced inside. A rumpled cot against one wall, empty bottles scattered around. A candle was burning on a beside table, a black candle, lighting a framed picture of St. Michael and a neatly arranged pile of bones. He turned away, and met Mojo Tyrone’s good eye, glaring at him fiercely from across the room. The old man stopped playing.

“What you lookin’ for, cracker? You lookin’ to steal from me? You’d best get some insurance on yourself.”

“No, sir, nothing like that. I was just—”

“Playin’s over anyway,” Mojo said, putting his guitar aside. “Y’all got a bottle’s worth. I want you gone.”

“Show’s over, folks,” LeVoy said briskly, unplugging Gary’s guitar, handing him his coat.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Gary protested, “we were just getting warmed up.”

“You remember the deal,” LeVoy said firmly, glancing a warning at Ax, “it’s time to go.”

“You can come back sometime,” Mojo said to Gary, “you don’t play too bad for a white kid. Too many notes is all. Bring me another taste, maybe some reefer next time. But don’t bring that cracker boy. I don’t wanna see his ugly face again.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Tyrone,” Gary said, glaring at Ax, “you won’t.”

“Thanks, Axton,” Gary snapped, as he threaded the van down the back country road away from Tyrone’s shack, “you’re supposed to protect my life, not screw it up.”

“I was doing my job,” Ax said. “There was a gunbelt hanging behind the front door, no gun in it. I thought maybe he left it in the bedroom.”

“So the old guy lives alone, he keeps a gun around. So what?”

“That’s just it, it wasn’t around. I think he was packing it, and when a guy who’s two bricks shy of a load is carryin’ a piece, I get nervous.”

“Next time take a Valium.”

“If you want to stay healthy, there shouldn’t be a next time, Gary. Look, the old guy plays great guitar, but he’s also more’n half nuts. He’s got a voodoo altar in his bedroom, mojo bones and all. That stuff about the devil teaching him to play? I think he really believes it.”

“Maybe he’s right. Maybe he really is magic. I’m a pretty fair guitarist, and LeVoy’s even better, but that old man’s somethin’ special. Walks like a stomped cockroach, but he plays... well, you heard him. It’s like he went to hell and everything burned away but — truth. And that truth’s gonna set me free.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I’ve one big problem in getting my studio rolling. Me. I’m a hack, an over-the-hill glitter rocker. Nobody’s gonna take me seriously as a producer. I need a gimmick. How’s this? I bring Mojo Tyrone back from the dead to play on his nephew’s first record.”

“Are you serious?” Ax said. “You want to put him in a recording studio?”

“Hey, there may not be much juice left in that old man, but I’ll squeeze out what there is. Give him a couple bottles of wine, he can play for an hour or two at a time. That should be enough. Linnea can get us media coverage with the zombie-from-the-grave angle, and when people hear LeVoy and Mojo together, it’ll knock their socks off.”

“It’s an interesting angle,” Ax admitted, “but there’s still a problem. With your reputation as a — showman, you can’t just announce Mojo’s on the album. The press’ll figure it’s a hoax.”

“Okay, so we set up a few interviews—”

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Ax said. “Dammit, Gary, he was hiding in his bedroom with a gun when we came in. He belongs in a rest home, not at a press conference. What happens if he freaks, or maybe hurts somebody? Or would that just be more publicity?”

Gary didn’t answer. He was eyeing the rear view mirror. Ax glanced over his shoulder. A black limo was a quarter mile or so behind them. And gaining. Gary floored the accelerator and the van leapt forward, rocketing down the narrow country road, swaying like a boat in heavy seas.

“Something wrong?” Ax asked, shifting in his seat to watch the limo.

“I hope not,” Gary said coolly, concentrating on the wheel, “just being cautious.”

“If this is cautious, what does crazy look like?”

“About the same,” Gary grinned. He ran the stop sign at the road’s end, careened onto the fourlane on two wheels, then threaded the van through the traffic like an Indy 500 racer, and at nearly the same speed.

“You can cool it,” Ax said, “you lost them.”

“Probably nobody to lose,” Gary said, slowing the van to the speed limit.

“Sure there was,” Ax said, “and you know it. Why don’t you quit shuckin’ and tell me what’s goin’ on? We could’ve wound up dead in a ditch back there.”

“Lighten up, Axton, no harm, no foul. And there are worse things than dying in a ditch.”

“Like what?”

“Like getting old. Ending up like Mojo.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Ax said, “the way you’re goin’, Turco, you’re never gonna get old.”

“Welcome to the new home of the hits, Young Turk Studios,” Turco said, stepping out of the fourth floor elevator, “what do you think?”

“Looks... busy,” Ax said. The office was semi-organized chaos, boxes of rack-mount recording equipment stacked to the ceilings, desks and filing cabinets still in plastic wrap. Linnea Harris, looking charmingly domestic in jeans and a T-shirt, was taking inventory on a clipboard. Benjie gave them a nod, then trotted off carrying an armload of cases.

“Hi, guys,” Turco said, shedding his coat, “how’re we doing?”

“Good news, bad news,” Linnea said. “The good news is Benjie thinks we can get the studio up and running this week. The bad news is, New York headquarters nixed LeVoy Tyrone as a prospect. They say blues is passé, want you to record pop groups more like your own.”

“They can’t do that,” Gary said slowly.

“I’m afraid they can. Headquarters has final say on—”

“But dammit, I’ve got a surefire gimmick and LeVoy’s too good to pass up! Those headquarters bean counters couldn’t spot a hit group if one mooned ’em in church.”

“They signed up your group,” Linnea pointed out.

“Which proves my point,” Gary shot back. “They only signed us because they counted the crowds and the gate receipts on our Canadian tour. Numbers is all they understand. So... maybe we can show ’em some numbers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe we can make ’em buy LeVoy the same way they bought me. Suppose we put on a concert, drum up some media coverage, and do a big gate. Make it a charity bash for the homeless or something.”

“Even charity concerts cost money,” Linnea observed.

“We can pay for it with our development budget. We don’t submit our accounts till the end of the month, that gives us three weeks to pull it off.”

“Three weeks?”

“Lady, we’re gonna be feeding the poor and bringing back a guy from the dead. If you can’t drum up a crowd in three weeks for that, you’re in the wrong business.”

“I can get you some publicity all right, I’m just not sure I should. If you blow your whole budget on some charity concert, Magnus will cancel your contract.”

“Maybe, but if LeVoy and Mojo hit as hard as I think they will, New York will not only okay our budget, they’ll give us a free hand from now on. It’s gut check time, Harris, you have to decide whose side you’re on. How about it, you in or out?”

Linnea stared at him for a moment, frowning, then nodded slowly. “You’re still the boss. For the moment, anyway. What about a concert hall? Can you hire one on such short notice?”

“I don’t know,” Gary said. “You know the local scene, Ax-ton, what about it?”

“You can probably find a hall,” Ax nodded, gazing out the window at the street below, “there are plenty of empty theaters in Detroit these days. Know what else there are?”

“What’s that?”

“Lots of black limousines. One just pulled into the alley down there. Three guys getting out. Anybody you know, Gary?”

Turco stepped quickly to the window, glanced down, then shrugged. “I know them,” he said, his face expressionless, “they’re okay.”

“You sure? Looks like they’re coming up. If you want me to stop ’em—”

“I said they’re okay. Tell you what, why don’t you take Linnea and try to book us a hall.”

“You mean now?”

“Right now. The clock’s running on this. Three weeks isn’t much time, and you’re the guy with local connections.”

“And who covers your back while I’m finding a hall?”

“I’ll be safe enough here. I need to get this place in shape anyway. Get crackin’, okay?”

The Bubba Factor. Northerners often assume anybody with a southern accent is an inbred illiterate. As dimwitted as, say, Bubba Faulkner or Bubba Dickey. Unfortunately something about being alone in an elevator with Linnea Harris made Ax feel like a Bubba, big, and battered, and as slow as ’lasses in January.

Too soon they were on the ground floor. The doors shushed open and they were facing the three men Ax had seen get out of the limo. Two of them, straight citizens in suits, ties, and overcoats, stepped into the elevator without a word. The third man, a square-faced blond giant in a bombardier’s jacket, scar tissue on his brows above his mirrored shades, blocked the doorway.

“Hey, Ax,” he said softly, “how you been doin’?”

“Swede,” Axton nodded, “I’m breakin’ even. You?” Neither man offered to shake hands.

“Flyin’ high, like always. You workin’ here, Ax?”

“Nah, just passin’ through.”

“Good,” Swede nodded, “that’s good. So I probably won’t be seein’ you around, right?”

“I hope not,” Ax said.

“Yeah,” Swede grinned. “Me too. Take care, Ax. See ya.” The giant edged into the elevator, his eyes locked on Axton all the way.

“What was that all about?” Linnea said as she and Axton crossed the street to her BMW.

“I don’t know who the two suits were,” Ax said, “but the big guy was the Swede. We’re in the same business, sort of, and since bustin’ people up is his hobby, I think there’s a fair chance he’s the guy who stomped Turco’s bodyguard up in Toronto.”

“What?” she said, stunned, “but — shouldn’t you warn Gary?”

“Get real, Miss Harris, Gary knows who those guys are. I think he’s known all along.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but I’m going to. Here,” he said, taking a small notebook out of his jacket pocket jotting down an address, “you see the guy at this address, Gus Kakonis. He owns a theater called the Forum. Tell him I sent you and if I don’t like the deal I’ll be around to see him myself. I’ll meet you back at the studio in a couple of hours.”

“Where are you going?”

“To check some things out. Turco may think he knows what he’s doing, but if he’s mixed up with the Swede, he’s liable to need the Forum to hold his own funeral. Or somebody’s.”

It was after dark before Ax made it back to the studio. Turco was sitting on the receptionist’s desk, arms folded across his chest. Linnea Harris was checking her clipboard, looking uneasy.

“Place looks good,” Ax said, glancing around, “you’ve been busy.”

“No thanks to you,” Turco said. “Where have you been?”

“Doing what you hired me for, protecting you. Did some dig-gin’, all part of the service.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’m gonna be needing your services any more, Axton. You’re off the clock as of now. Send me a bill.”

“I see,” Ax said slowly. “So you decided to do the right thing. It’s probably best. You’ll stay healthy longer.”

“You been smokin’ rope, Ax? You’re babbling.”

“Am I? I made a few calls today, found out the Swede is working for a couple of Canadian hard guys. Dopers. The two that were here today, right?”

“Wrong. I don’t know any dopers, Axton, and who I see is none of your business, so hit the door, okay? We’ve got work to do.”

“Fair enough, but let me give you some advice. You watch yourself around the Swede. The guy’s like industrial pollution. People tend to get very sick in his vicinity.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Do that. And one other thing. If you’re serious about putting Mojo Tyrone onstage for your little shindig, there’s something you’d better know. That near fatal stroke he had? It wasn’t just old age and booze. He had it in the middle of a fight after a concert in Flint. Tangled with a kid over a dope deal, beat him nearly to death. If he’d been fit to stand trial he’d have done hard time. The rest home LeVoy mentioned was a mental hospital, and Mojo was there nearly ten years. The old guy isn’t just eccentric, Gary, he’s stone crazy, and he probably always was.”

“Everybody in this business is crazy, one way or another,” Gary shrugged, “why should Mojo be any different?”

“Yeah, right,” Axton snapped, “do me one favor, Turco. If this cockamamie concert of yours comes off, comp me some tickets, will ya? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

And that was that. Ax strode the mile or so back to his apartment, letting the night wind cool him off. He found another job waiting on his answering machine and spent the next ten days in Toledo chasing down a roadie who’d skipped with a soul revue’s equipment. A tricky gig, the guy’d already traded some of the stuff for dope and Ax had to do some hardcase negotiating to get it back. By the time he returned to Detroit, he’d managed to put Linnea Harris completely out of his mind. For nearly twenty minutes at a time.

In Detroit it was harder to forget her because she was so very good at her job. The drumbeat of publicity for the concert was everywhere, carried as hard news in the entertainment sections of both the News and the Free Press. The Chronicle did a week long retrospective on Detroit blues that painted Mojo Tyrone as a folk legend, a blues demigod the equal of Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters. FM rock stations were giving heavy airplay to the Turks’ earlier albums, hyping the concert with giveaway contests. WLLZ even dug out Mojo’s only album and started playing “Hard Luck Man.”

No one had actually seen Mojo, Gary was keeping him under wraps, no interviews, not even a photo op. And as the concert approached, the press was evenly divided on whether the original Mojo Tyrone really would appear or the whole thing was just a Gary Turco publicity stunt.

The day before the concert, two tickets arrived in Ax’s mail, no note, just the tickets. Perfect. It gave him the chance to call Linnea to say thanks, and perhaps... but he didn’t have to call her. He was in the middle of breakfast at the Greek’s diner across the street from his office when Linnea Harris and Gary Turco walked in, spotted him, and came over.

“Hi, mind if we sit?” Turco said, slumping down into the booth without waiting for an answer. He looked rough, haggard, red-eyed, wired and wary as a wolf. Linnea looked tired too, her auburn hair in disarray, smudges under her eyes, but she still looked better than anybody had a right to that early. He wondered if she always looked—

“We’ve got serious trouble,” Turco said bluntly, “I want to hire you back.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“You name it, we got it. Threatening phone calls, a wrecked studio, a torched car—”

“Hold it, slow down,” Ax said, “run it by me from the top, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Turco nodded, taking a deep breath. “We got the studio up and running a few days after you left—”

“After you fired me,” Ax amended.

“Whatever,” Gary shrugged. “Anyway, we’ve been recording nonstop since, damn near around the clock. It’s been tough. Mojo can’t remember arrangements worth a damn and he’s definitely more’n a little strange to work with, but we still got some great tracks down. Nuts or not, that old man can flat smoke a guitar when he’s in the mood, Ax. Workin’ with him is like, I don’t know, bein’ eighteen again, havin’ it all in front of me. But now it’s — gone. We started getting threatening calls a week or so ago. Then last night somebody broke into the studio after we left, wrecked the place, destroyed the tapes. LeVoy’s car was in the lot, it got torched.”

“You call the cops?”

“Sure, for all the good it did,” Turco flared. “They gave me a case number to give my insurance company and that was it.”

“This is Motown,” Ax said, “the law’s stretched pretty thin. So what do you want me to do?”

“Find out who did this, or at least keep it from happening again. We’ve still got a chance to make this thing pay off if we tape the concert tomorrow night and get enough material to release on an album while Linn’s still got the media pumped up about it. If we don’t, everything we’ve got goes in the toilet. What do you say?”

“Sorry, not interested.”

“Look, if you got another gig I’ll double—”

“It’s not the money,” Ax said. “It’s smoke, Gary. I’m allergic to it, and you’re blowing it. I didn’t hear you mention the Swede in your sad story.”

“The Swede’s got nothing to do with this.”

“Bull,” Ax said. “Just out of curiosity, I did a little more checking on my own time. Ran down the clowns that jumped us outside the Porkpie Hat. The Swede hired them. He also paid ’em to trash a certain apartment and add some instant artwork to the decor. Don’t tell me he’s not involved.”

“That’s — been settled,” Gary said, “I took care of it.”

“Maybe you think so, but if you think I’m gonna mix it up with the Swede without knowin’ the score, you’re dreamin’. So either tell me what’s going on or get somebody else.”

“He can’t get anyone else,” Linnea put in, “LeVoy said unless you come back he and his uncle are out. They won’t play.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Ax said formally, “that’s nice to know.”

“Yeah, thanks a bunch,” Turco snapped. “Whose side are you on, Harris?”

“My side,” she said. “I’ve worked too damned hard to see this thing flushed because you’re playing some private game. Let’s have it, Gary, or I’m walking too. We’ve got a right to know.”

Turco glanced from one to the other of them, then swallowed hard. “All right,” he nodded, “I guess it doesn’t matter. Unless the concert comes off, I’m finished anyway. I, ah, did a deal with the Swede in Canada. My big Canadian tour, the one that got me my new studio? It didn’t really happen, or at least not the way people thought it did. On paper the Swede was listed as the promoter, but what he really did was pump up the gate, gave huge blocks of tickets away free, showed them on the books as receipts, which he claimed as legitimate profits.”

“In other words, you laundered money for them?” Ax said. “My God.”

“It was my last chance,” Gary said simply, “the industry’s shrinking, cutting out second-raters like me. My only chance for a deal was to show Magnus some big numbers.”

“Whether they were real or not?”

“You know this business,” Gary said, “if I produce a hit album, nobody will care how I got my studio. All they care about are results. The trouble was, my deal with Swede was supposed to be a one-shot thing, but it worked so well they wanted me to keep it up. Trashing my apartment and all the rest was his idea of friendly persuasion.”

“So what makes you think he didn’t trash the studio?”

“Simple,” Gary sighed, “he’s got no reason to any more. We had a little talk the day you left and I, uhm, agreed to do another tour for him as soon as I get my studio established. Told him we could set up the same laundering deal with the groups that record for me. He thinks everything’s cool.”

“You — bastard!” Linnea said, paling. “You mean you sold us out—”

“Hey, cool it. I’m no Boy Scout but I’m no doper either. I’ve already cut a deal with the Toronto authorities. When I go back to Canada, they’ll bust the Swede and his buddies, I’ll come out looking like a hero, and he’ll be off my back for good.”

“Maybe,” Ax nodded, “or maybe you’ll end up dead.”

“We all end up dead,” Turco said evenly, “it’s what happens in the meantime that counts, right? Point is, the Swede thinks things are okay. He didn’t wreck my studio last night, he had no reason to.”

“All right then, who did do it?”

“Hell, I don’t know. What about LeVoy’s father? He was dead set against it from the first.”

“No,” Ax said slowly, “I don’t think so. Willis is a hard man in a hard trade, but he wouldn’t cross up his son like this. If he wanted to derail things, he’d just have somebody bust you up. Any other candidates?”

“If I knew I wouldn’t need you, Axton, I’d just tell the Swede and let him handle it. You’re the one with the sign on his door that says investigations. You tell me.”

“Maybe I can at that,” Ax said, “but I’ll have to do some checking.”

“Aren’t you going to-tell him about Mojo, Gary?” Linnea put in. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

“What about Mojo?” Ax asked.

“Ahh, Linn thinks he might’ve done it. He, ah, he’s been sleepin’ in the studio storeroom, wanders around a lot at night, you know, like old people do.”

“Why is he sleeping in the storeroom?”

“Because he says he likes being with the instruments,” Linnea said bluntly, “he says they sing him to sleep. Ax, he’s crazy. When Gary and LeVoy went back to talk to him about recording, he was already packed, sitting there in the dark, waiting for them. Said he knew they’d come, that he called them back with his mojo bones. LeVoy and Gary have been able to jolly him along in the studio, but God only knows how he’ll react at the concert.”

“He’ll be fine,” Gary said, “you’ll see. Like an old fire-horse—”

“Like an old meal ticket, you mean,” Linnea snapped. “Dammit, Gary, you’re just exploiting him.”

“Maybe I am. But that doesn’t make it wrong. You think he was better off in that old house, talkin’ to the walls? Crazy or exploited or whatever, that old man’s back doin’ what he was put on this earth for. You’re not a player, you don’t understand. Ask Axton.”

“Well?” Linnea said, turning to Ax, searching his face.

“I hate to admit it,” he said, meeting her eyes, “but maybe Gary’s right, maybe playing again will help the old man. I’ve seen guys do shows who should’ve been in a hospital, or a morgue. That’s why they call it Dr. Stage. But if it’s any comfort to you, if Gary’s wrong, and anything happens to Mojo or LeVoy, he’d better get his Blue Cross paid up because Willis Tyrone is damn sure gonna do him some serious damage. And maybe the rest of us, too. What about security guards for the concert? Who’s handling it?”

“Mr. Kakonis recommended a local rent-a-cop company, Landau Security.”

“Jack Landau’s people will do fine for crowd control,” Axton nodded. “As for your other problem, I’ll do what I can. I’ll see you at the concert if not before.”

The Forum Theater was a wall to wall sellout, every seat on the main floor and the balconies filled a full forty minutes before showtime, standing room only. Jack Landau, the squat, bulldog head of security for the concert, should have been pleased when he’d closed the box office early, but he wasn’t.

“It’s an uneasy crowd,” he told Turco in his dressing room back-stage, where Gary was doing a last minute retouch of his makeup. Turco was in full heavy metal regalia, knee length red moccasins, spandex pants, studded black leather vest and matching headband. “It feels more like a mob than an audience, half black, half white, lotta bikers and punk kids. Edgy vibes. I don’t like it.”

“Don’t worry about the crowd,” Gary said, “the show we’ve got planned oughta keep everybody happy. You just make sure security stays tight. How’s Mojo holdin’ up?”

“I’ve got a man on his door, just like you said,” Landau said, “checks on him every few minutes. He’s just sittin’ there in the dark, waitin’. Weird.”

“He’s an artist—” Turco began. There were two quick raps on the door and Axton strode in.

“I think I’ve got a make on the guy who trashed the studio,” he said, tossing a photo on Turco’s dressing table. “This is the guy Mojo tangled with the night he had his stroke. Name’s Cory Pollack. He was a smalltime pimp and a pusher. Apparently Mojo owed him serious bread for services rendered, tried to stiff him. Cops busted Pollack after the fight, caught him holding dope, he wound up doing six years hard time in Jackson.”

“But that was a long time ago,” Gary said, “why—”

“I traced him to a sleazebag rooming house out in Highland Park,” Ax interrupted, “and ah, got into his room. Swastikas all over the place. He’s a race hater. He also had clippings about the concert and a poster on the wall, with Mojo’s name slashed out. He’s our man, Turco, and from what I’ve heard about him, he’s real bad news.”

“How old is this picture,” Landau said, frowning at the photograph.

“I’m not sure,” Axton said, “I lifted it from Pollack’s place. From the cars in the background I’d guess it’s ten years old or so, why?”

“I’ve seen this man,” Landau said slowly, “not looking like this, though. Face is different. He’s got a mustache now, maybe a beard.”

“Get real,” Turco snorted, “working the box office you must’ve seen five thousand faces in the last hour.”

“I may be just a rent-a-cop,” Landau said stiffly, “but I’m good at my job, and I’m telling you I’ve seen this guy tonight. Here. You’ll have to stall the show until—”

“I’m not stalling anything!” Turco snapped. “Ax could be wrong about this Pollack character, but if I jerk this crowd around, we’re damn sure gonna have a freakin’ riot on our hands. This gig’s going on just like it says on the program. Mojo won’t be onstage till the finish, which gives you plenty of time to find Pollack, if he’s here at all.”

“I still think you ought to stall,” Landau said.

“You’ve got your orders, Landau,” Gary said, turning back to his mirror, “you do your job and let me do mine, okay?”

Landau snatched up the photograph and stalked out. Ax hesitated, then followed.

“He’s right about one thing,” Landau said in the hall outside, “this show better run on schedule. That’s an ugly crowd out front. Why don’t you get up in the light rigging over the stage. You’ll be able to check out most of the crowd on the main floor from there. I’ll take the balcony. I’ve got a man posted at the old man’s dressing room, so he’s safe for now. With luck we’ll turn this guy up before Mojo goes on. If you spot Pollack, don’t try anything on your own. I’ll take care of him, understand?”

“What if we can’t find him?” Axton said.

“Then you and me are gonna lock Mojo in his dressing room, riot or no riot. I’m not going to take the chance of putting him onstage with some wacko loose.”

“Fair enough,” Ax nodded, “good hunting.”

Landau strode off. Ax jogged up the concrete stairway to the stage and scrambled up the metal ladder set in the wall. Up, up into the darkness high above the audience, to the catwalk used for servicing the spotlights. Swaying in space only a few feet beneath the vaulted ceiling, he had an excellent view of the theater’s main floor. Nearly every seat was filled, and he began scanning the rows, a face at a time, starting at the rear and working his way down. He was only half finished when the house lights began to dim and a Detroit FM jock came on to rev up the crowd and announce LeVoy Tyrone as the opening act. The response was mixed, mild applause from the white punkers who’d come to see Turco and the Turks, an enthusiastic roar from the blacks in the audience, with most of the noise coming from the front row center, a block of seats occupied by Willis Tyrone and what seemed to be a small army of his cronies, most of them gangbangers from the look of them. If Willis hadn’t come looking for trouble, he was definitely ready for it. Ax closed his eyes for a few moments to let them adjust to the dim lighting out front, then began scanning the crowd again.

It was a slow, painful process. Despite the no smoking signs the air was a hazy, heady smog of tobacco and reefer. Axton’s eyes were burning, watering, but still he continued, squinting I into the fog, forcing himself to focus on each face row by row. Nothing. He hestitated now and again, concentrating intently on faces that resembled the man in the photograph, but rejected each one and moved on.

On the stage forty feet below, LeVoy Tyrone, dressed in a retro-styled gleaming white tuxedo, opened the show, cranking out a blistering uptempo set of urban blues and jazz-tinged ghetto soul. His icepick sharp guitar work won over the rockers in the audience and gradually began to unify the crowd and make it his own. He finished to a huge round of applause, did a brief encore, then gave up the stage to Gary Turco and the Turks.

In the rigging overhead, Ax-ton had scanned through two-thirds of the crowd, but when Turco began his set, some of the punkers scrambled out into the aisle and rushed the stage, mobbing up beneath the footlights. Cursing, Ax tried to search the faces directly below. If Pollack was here, the mob near the stage would be perfect cover.

Impossible. Turco was showboating, strutting around the stage, and the crowd was swarming back and forth, aping him, dancing, shouting along with the lyrics, working themselves into a heavy metal frenzy. Ax could only catch momentary glimpses of the faces below. Perhaps between songs... He spotted LeVoy standing in the wings, digging the show, waiting to be called back on for the finish. Then he caught a flash of a uniform at the edge of the crowd. Landau was pushing his way through the mob to the stage, squirming through the bodies like a dinosaur in a tar pit. He gestured frantically at Ax, waving him down.

Ax clambered down the metal ladder to the stage wings just as Landau burst out of the crowd at the stage steps. The security chief was red-faced, exhausted, his uniform a shambles.

“What’s wrong?” Ax yelled over the amplified roar from the stage. “Did you spot him?”

“No,” Landau gasped, “he’s not out here. I remembered where I saw him. The parking lot. He’s working as an attendant. He’s in uniform.”

Ax bulled past him, sprinting down the steps to the dressing room corridor. Deserted. Everyone was up watching the show, and there was no guard on Mojo’s door. Ax hammered on the door. No response.

“Where the hell’s your man?” he yelled at Landau, trying the door. Locked.

“I don’t know. Cornell’s a good man, dammit! He wouldn’t—”

Axton reared back and kicked at the doorlatch, smashing it in, and charged into the shambles of a room. And stopped. Mojo Tyrone had Cory Pollack pinned to the wall, his powerful right hand clamped around Pollack’s throat, his face a carved mask of dark fury, teeth bared, eyes rolled back, his arm quivering like a high tension wire, holding Pollack a full six inches above the floor. Pollack’s face was bluish, his tongue lolling, eyes sightless. Only his boots showed any life, thudding reflexively against the wall.

“Mojo! Let him go!” Ax roared. “You’re killing him!”

No response. Mojo didn’t even look up. Ax grabbed his arm, trying to break him away from Pollack’s throat, couldn’t budge it. It was like wrestling with a tree. Landau seized the old man from behind in a bear hug, pulling him off. Axton caught Pollack’s body as it slumped to the floor.

“He cheated me,” Mojo panted, his chest heaving, “long time ago. Shouldna come back.” He staggered over to his dressing table and slumped against it, exhausted. Axton pressed his fingertips against Pollack’s throat. No pulse.

“Get an ambulance!” he shouted at Landau. The security chief nodded and sprinted out the door. Thunder rolled through the building as Turco finished his set. Axton tilted Pollack’s head back to clear his airway, then pressed his mouth to the dead man’s. He exhaled forcefully, twice, filling Pollack’s lungs. No response. The roar from the stage made it impossible to hear a breath or a heartbeat. Axton’s universe shrunk to the size of Pollack’s face, pinching the dead man’s nostrils, filling his lungs, waiting, then trying again. At some point Mojo stood up, groped through the wreckage, and found his crumpled fedora and his guitar.

“Siddown!” Ax gasped between breaths, “You’re not going any place!”

“They announcin’ me,” Mojo said, swaying unsteadily, “I’m on. Got to go.”

“Dammit!” Ax grabbed at the old man as he staggered past, couldn’t hold him. Then Pollack twitched convulsively and Ax forgot about Mojo, forgot about everything but breathing for Pollack, bringing him back to life. Pollack coughed explosively, then gasped his first breath on his own. Ax sat back, panting as Landau stormed back into the room.

“Ambulance is on the way, cops too,” Landau panted, “still can’t find my man Cornell. Where’s Mojo?”

“I don’t know,” Ax said, “he walked outa here a minute ago headed for the stage.”

“Jesus, that old man’s really somethin’, ain’t he? Took this creep one on one and half killed him. Maybe there’s somethin’ to that voodoo stuff he sings about.”

“Maybe,” Ax nodded, getting to his feet, “but I think I’d better check on him. You keep this piece of garbage here for the medics and the cops.”

As Axton ran down the corridor toward the stage he could hear Gary Turco’s voice booming over the p.a. system, ranting about a seventh son of a seventh son who could deal with the devil and raise the dead.

The stairway up to the wings was blocked by a cluster of stagehands and roadies who’d gathered to catch the last set. Ax caught a glimpse of Mojo’s fedora moving through the mob, but couldn’t get to him. By the time he shouldered his way through the crowd, Mojo was already shuffling out to the center of the stage, dragging his left foot, his battered old guitar clutched under his good arm. The old man was disheveled from his struggle with Pollack, his necktie askew, suit rumpled, the melted mask of his face gleaming with perspiration. Only his eyes seemed alive, energized by the lights and the noise and the smell of the crowd.

Gary gave Mojo a buildup, saying anyone who loved rock’n’roll owed everything to Mojo and bluesmen like him, players who invented it all, then just faded away, squeezed out by the system or broken by the life. His intensity took both Ax and the audience by surprise. Either Gary believed what he was saying or he’d been watching a lot of Sunday morning TV. Still, he didn’t belabor the point. The audience was still wired from the Turks’ heavy metal show, and when he sensed their impatience he cut his sermon, announced Mojo’s first song, and strode offstage into the wings.

“What the hell happened to Mojo?” he snapped at Axton. “I paid six hundred bucks for that suit—”

“He tangled with Pollack backstage, almost killed him. The police are on their way. They’ll want to talk to him.”

“No problem, he’s only doing one number,” Turco said, “he’ll be off in a few...” Gary’s voice trailed off as he glanced back at Mojo. The old man was still standing alone in the center of the stage, staring up into the spotlights, dazed, transfixed. The crowd was growing restless, shuffling their feet, a few scattered catcalls. “My God,” Gary said softly, “he’s frozen. Dammit, that’s all I need—”

But before Turco could move, Mojo seemed to snap out of it.

“HOW Y’ALL DOIN’?” he roared into the microphone, startling the crowd to silence. “I ain’t doin’ so good. I been dead. Lotta years...” He frowned, his voice fading as his train of thought derailed. “Lotta years...” he repeated. He plucked at his guitar strings fitfully, discordant twanks, as though the instrument could help him recall where he was.

Standing at the rear of the stage with the backup band, LeVoy shot Turco a look of sheer panic, then stalked over. “What’s wrong with him?” he hissed. “He’s freakin’ on us. He’ll blow everything.”

“DEAD!” Mojo shouted, “they stuck me away in a — place by myself, no woman, nobody, a dead man for sure. But I fooled y’all. I used my bones, and I called myself back...” He trailed off again, closed his eyes.

In the midst of the restless crowd, a solitary pair of hands began clapping. Willis Tyrone rose, applauding, glaring fiercely about, daring anyone to remain seated. His street gang entourage rose as well, joined prudently by everyone seated near them in an ovation that spread raggedly around the room. Much of the applause was sarcasm, white punkers who were convinced now that the whole thing was a Turco put-on, sending some old wino out to babble.

“Go for it, Pops! Right on, right on!” Mojo nodded and grinned at the crowd, accepting the ovation, drinking it in like a willow in a warm rain.

“Dammit, Gary,” LeVoy said, “they’re laughing at him. This is wrong, man. Now either get him off, or I will.”

“Thank you! I thank y’all!” Mojo swept off his fedora, bowed grandly, lurched and almost fell, a comic turn that brought a roar of approval from the crowd. He straightened slowly, his ebon face gleaming with perspiration in the spotlights. “I’m back,” he growled softly, as if to himself, “I come back from hell to jam one more time.” He tapped his foot slowly and began to pick, his guitar whining softly, like a woman crying in her sleep.

“What’s he doing?” Turco said desperately. “That’s not the song we rehearsed—”

“I think it’s the old intro to ‘Hard Luck Blues’,” LeVoy snapped. “My God, he’s on autopilot. He thinks he’s closing his old set.” LeVoy sprinted back onstage, grabbed his guitar, and whirled to face the band. “Key of E,” he said quietly, “blues changes, hard shuffle. Kick in when he hits the turnaround.” He gave them a silent count, three fingers and a clenched fist. They came in raggedly, but together, tightening up after two bars into a rock solid rhythm. Mojo picked up on it, nodding to the beat, melding with it, and began to cook harder, with more energy, playing like a man in a fever.

Four straight choruses, then five, the tempo gradually increasing, Mojo’s guitar growling fiercely with a familiar jubilation, freed from its cage. The audience didn’t respond at first, baffled by the turnabout. But the old man gradually won them over, blowing them away with his raw energy, his half-crazed passion. Gary Turco strode on stage, picked up his guitar, and joined in, playing rhythm with the band. The music was crude, unpolished, but it was the real thing, steelyard hard, irresistible.

Mojo sang a couple of verses, shouting into the lights, eyes closed, sweat streaming, burning off twenty years of frustration, a lifetime of rage. LeVoy and Gary moved forward, flanking Mojo at the mike, jamming in the background beneath the old man’s voice, dueling, a musical skirmish that broke into open warfare when Mojo came back in on guitar.

Three players, from different eras, different worlds, each playing at top form, forcing the others to raise the level of their games, to cook harder with every chorus or be blown out by the talent of the other two.

The song was pure energy now, art on another plane, transmuted, breathing on its own, a thirty chorus nonstop marathon, full tilt boogie on the edge of chaos. The audience was magnifying the electricity, on their feet, shouting, whistling, absorbing the intensity from the stage, reflecting it back five thousandfold. Twenty minutes thundered past, twenty-five, and then Mojo suddenly shattered the magic.

He quit in the middle of a chorus and stepped away from the mike, halting the backup musicians with a slashing motion across his throat, hammering on his guitar like a judge calling for order.

A moment’s stunned silence, LeVoy, Gary, Mojo, eyeing each other warily, panting, sweat-slick fighters between rounds, the crowd forgotten. Until the audience erupted in an ovation, a foot-stomping, howling roar for an encore. Mojo stood there in the lights, swaying in the noise like a willow in a gale. Then he slowly turned to Gary. “You warm yet, white boy? Show ’em what you got.”

Gary nodded gamely, took a ragged breath, and stepped forward. He began with the signature riff to the song, playing it slowly at first, then increasing the speed, bending it, dancing it all over the guitar neck, blurring it into a cascade of fingertapping heavy metal pyrotechnics. Ax had heard Turco before but never like this. He was playing so far over his head he should have been levitating. The audience responded with a roar of approval when he finished, but Gary didn’t seem to notice. He was watching Mojo. The old man met his stare eye to eye, then shook his head slowly.

“You don’t listen worth a damn, do ya? I told you that first day you usin’ too many notes. You don’t need all them notes, you just need a few, or maybe just one. The right one.”

Mojo struck a single note, a bell tone low on the neck, then turned away from the crowd to face the wall of amplifiers behind him, holding the note, letting it ring, sustaining it, letting feedback from the amps build it into a hum, then a howl. Eyes closed, his dark suit sweat-drenched, the old man slowly raised his battered guitar over his head with his numbed arm, shifting it gently, each movement altering the note, making it soar, swoop, even trill, the guitar singing in its own voice, a virtuoso display of talent and craft. Or magic.

Ax was as transfixed as anyone in the audience, perhaps more so since he understood the technical difficulty of what Mojo was doing. He scarcely noticed when Landau shouldered through the crowd to his side.

“The cops are here. They’ve got Pollack in custody, wanna talk to Mojo.”

“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.”

“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.”