Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 775 & 776, March/April 2006

The Top Ten List by Doug Allyn

In October of 2005 Five Star Press released a paperback edition of Doug Allyn’s much lauded novel The Burning of Rachel Hayes. The book brought Dr. David Westbrook, the series hero of several EQMM stories, to readers for the first time in a novel-length case. Mr. Allyn brings back another of his popular series characters, private eye “Ax” Axton, in this new story of vanity, deception, and greed.

Heads turned when he walked in.

For openers, he was a white guy and ofays aren’t all that common in Papa Doc’s Cajun Bar-B-Q, best baby back ribs in the city of Detroit. But it was more than that.

Jimmy McGuire has a face you never forget. Impish. Pug nose, curly red hair, freckles. Had to be in his forties now, but he still looked a lot like the smart-aleck kid he’d been at ten, when he starred on the hottest show on TV.

Stepping in out of the October afternoon, he paused inside the doorway, scanning the diner. Papa Doc’s isn’t The Ritz. Pearl-gray Formica counter, a dozen backless chrome stools, booths along the walls, windows facing 8 Mile Road. A revolving rack of chicken’n’ribs sizzling over a glowing bed of coals, scenting the air with a delicious haze of hickory smoke. Instant down-home Mississippi in the black heart of Detroit.

I was parked in a rear booth, a cell phone plugged in my ear. Easy enough to spot. I was the only other white face in the place. I belong, though.

Biker chic. Leather coat, Orange County Choppers sweatshirt, jeans. Half my face marked by road-rash scars gives me a junior Frankenstein look. Jimmy had no trouble spotting me.

“Are you Mr. Axton? I’m—”

“I know who you are, pal. So does everybody in this place. You played Little Richie in Stuck in the Sticks, right? Take a pew. Does this happen a lot? People spotting you the second you walk in?”

“A blessing and a curse,” the redhead sighed, sliding into the booth facing me. “If I cure cancer and win an Oscar for best actor, it’ll still be the first thing people say to me. ‘Hey, weren’t you that Little Richie kid on TV?’ When I say I am, I get big grins, because I was such a cute little sucker back then. A half-second later they feel sorry for me. Poor guy, big star once. What the hell happened to him?”

“Good question. What the hell did happen to you?”

“I’m still in show biz, in radio now. I host a morning drive-time show on WDET, Detroit-Toledo area. You’ve never heard me? I’m crushed.”

“Morning drive time’s long gone before I get up. What can I do for you, Mr. McGuire?”

“I’ve got kind of a... special situation. When I asked around, your name kept coming up. R. B. Axton. Ax. People in the business say you’re good at solving problems, you can find people to collect money or... whatever. They also say you’re discreet, that you can keep your mouth shut. Does that cover it?”

“More or less. I have a private investigator’s license, but mostly I do collections. In show biz people move around a lot. Sometimes they forget who they owe. I find ’em and remind ’em. Politely, for the most part. Does somebody owe you?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.” He glanced away, chewing the corner of his lip. Met the eye of an elderly lady at the counter who was staring at him. Gave her a quick smile, then turned back to me.

“Know what’s really scary? The dim ones think I actually was Little Richie. Like Stuck in the Sticks was some kind of reality show. And maybe they’re right. I spent more of my childhood being Little Richie Thurston than I did being Jimmy McGuire.”

“There are worse things than being recognized.”

“Yeah? Try landing an acting job when all they can see is that freckle-faced punk that crawled onto Grandpa’s lap at the close of every show and nodded out while the old man smoked his pipe. Which wasn’t acting, by the way. Grandpa used to lace his tobacco with hash. Two huffs and I was off to dreamland. Grandpa Thurston, played by Al Schmidt. Know how old Grandpa was?”

“Seventy or so?”

“Too high by twenty years. Al was in his early fifties. Looked like Methuselah because he used to knock back a pint of Stoli before noon. Only sixty-one when he died...”

His voice thickened and he looked away for a moment. If he was acting, he was really good. But I don’t think he was. He took a ragged breath, gathering himself.

“The tough part was, that old rummy was the closest thing to a real father I had. And when he died he took Stuck in the Sticks with him. My voice was starting to change and without Gramps the chemistry was gone anyway. It was a mercy killing when the network pulled the plug.”

“How long were you on?”

“Seven seasons. I went from second-grade to superstar to has-been before I was old enough to shave. Helluva ride. Spent so much time with actors and directors they seemed more real than my own family. Especially when I turned eighteen and found out my parents had blown every dime I’d earned. While I was on the set twelve hours a day, they were in Vegas or Monte Carlo on my tab. My lawyers told me to sue, but there was no point. Nothing to recover.”

“Aren’t there laws against that?”

“There are now, mostly because of what happened to me. They even sold my royalty rights. Stuck in the Sticks is in reruns all over the planet, twenty-four/seven, and I don’t get a freakin’ nickel from it. Is that fair?”

“Nope. On the other hand, you could have been born in Bangladesh and starved to death before you were five. No offense, Mr. McGuire, but if I want sad stories, I can hit any bar on Cass Avenue. I’ve got places to be. What do you want from me?”

McGuire hesitated. “I think I might be in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The kind that gets you killed. Are we off the record?”

“If you have to ask that, maybe you’d better find somebody else.”

He scanned my face a moment, then nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever he read there.

“Okay. It’s like this. I’ve been running a little scam. Almost a joke, really. I’ve been raising money to make a porn film. I call it Richie and Bitsy Go Wild and it’s supposed to star me, Janine Brady, who played Bitsy on Stuck in the Sticks, plus the whole cast of A Thurston Family Christmas including Mom and Grandma.”

It was my turn to stare. “Grandma?”

“Hey, when you’re trolling for suckers you lay out all the bait you’ve got. If you’ve ever seen The Producers, you know roughly how the con works. I talk people out of seed money to produce a movie. Later on, I claim we had production problems, the movie’s canceled, their money’s gone. Sorry about that.”

“And people actually fall for this?”

“You’re not a gambler, are you, Mr. Axton?”

“I’ve worked security in casinos, seen ’em haul the night’s take out in wheelbarrows. At the end of the day, the house always wins.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret, my friend. Gamblers don’t care about winning. They’re not stupid, they know they’ll lose in the long run. They don’t gamble to win, they gamble to be free.”

“Of what?”

“Of their money. Think about it. We slave our lives away for it, and if we do manage to scrape together a little pile, we worry about it even more. We don’t own our money, Ax, it owns us.”

“So?”

“So whether people are playing the slots, taking a flier on the stock market, or backing a bogus porn movie, we’re all doing the same thing. Declaring our independence. Sometimes the most fun you can have with money is to throw it away.”

“Convenient theory for a con man. You’re not really screwing people, you’re helping them out by lightening their wallets?”

“Bottom line, if they’re bankrolling a bogus porn flick, it’s money they can afford to lose. I keep it lowball, never more than twenty thousand per investor.”

“And they just let it go?”

“That’s why I keep the investment small. Hiring a lawyer would eat up their twenty and then some. Most people would rather kiss off the money than look stupid. Nobody really gets hurt. Until a couple of weeks ago.”

“Janine Brady,” I said, snapping my fingers. Getting it. “The girl that played Bitsy on the show. I remember reading about it. She was killed in... some kind of accident, right?”

“Up in Toronto. A hit-and-run. No suspects, no arrests.”

“The papers said she was strung out.”

“The media loves the celebrity/drug angle, but dope had nothing to do with her death. Janine’s been hammered since our show folded. Buzzed was normal for her. She was crossing a street to her car and got clipped by a pickup truck that ran her down and kept on going. A nun on her way to Mass would be just as dead.”

“And you think your little scam had something to do with it?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know. Janine called me a few months ago. Apparently she’d heard rumors about my bogus movie. She thought it was a terrific idea, actually wanted to do the damned thing. She was stoned, as usual, wasn’t making a lot of sense. I told her the movie was only a scam and blew her off. But after the accident, I started wondering. Maybe she tried to run the game on her own. I’ve been pretty cautious about who I make my pitch to — no mob guys, no nut jobs. But Janine was too wrecked to be careful.”

“You think she ran your game on the wrong people?”

“Could have. She’s been hanging with a pretty rough crowd. Or maybe she hit on somebody I already burned. They’d know it was a hustle the minute she opened her mouth.”

“Why kill her? Why not you?”

“Maybe they’re trying. Couple of weeks ago I was headed into the studio, early, five A.M. or so. Nobody on the road. Gravel truck came up behind me, started tailgating, so close I couldn’t see his headlights anymore. I slowed to let him pass but instead of going around, he rammed my car, nearly slammed me into a bridge abutment. If I hadn’t skidded into a ditch, I’d be dead. He never stopped, never even slowed down. Could have been road rage or maybe the guy was drunk or doped up, I don’t know. But after what happened to Janine, it seems like a hell of a coincidence.”

“Have you talked to the police?”

“To say what? That I’m running a porn scam that maybe backfired and got Janine killed? They’d bust me for fraud, and whoever’s after me would still be waiting when I got out.”

“Assuming anybody is after you.”

“That’s what I want you to look into. No cops, no fuss, strictly under the radar. I need to know if somebody’s actually trying to whack me. And if so, who.”

“And if I find them?”

“Do whatever it takes! Bust ’em up. Take ’em out if you have to. I’ll pay the freight.”

“No, you won’t. Look, Mr. McGuire, I find people, I collect what they owe, and that’s it. I don’t rough people up, and I’m not a hit man.”

“I’ve heard rumors you can get tough. For the right price.”

“I started most of those rumors myself. In the collection business, an ugly rep’s an asset. So are a few scars.” I gestured at the marks on my face. “Nervous people are more cooperative, you know? But get this straight, sport. Anything you’ve heard is just talk. All smoke, no fire.”

“If it’s about the money—?”

“I just told you it wasn’t. Anything wrong with your hearing?”

“No. Jeez, Axton, don’t have a cow. The last thing I need is more trouble. Okay, okay, you just find out who it is and what they want, I’ll take it from there.”

“How?”

“Hell, I’ll give it to ’em. Return their money, kiss their ass in Macy’s window, whatever.”

“Even if they had something to do with Janine’s death?”

Jimmy shivered. “Far as I’m concerned, if they killed Bits, it’s all the more reason to pay ’em off. You just find ’em.”

“Okay. Got anyone in mind? Somebody who might mean you harm?”

“Quite a few, actually,” Jimmy sighed, fishing an envelope out of an inner pocket, pushing it across the table. “I put this together last night.”

I scanned the first page and blinked. “Are you nuts, McGuire? How many names are on here?”

“Forty-seven. Everybody I’ve scammed so far plus a few enemies I picked up along the way. It’s a bummer figuring out how many people actually hate you.”

“But I’m a one-man show. I can’t handle all these.”

“You won’t have to. I chewed it over, narrowed it down to the most serious threats. They’re on the last page.”

I riffled through it, scanned the final page. And smiled in spite of myself.

“Top Ten People Most Likely to Whack Li’l Richie?”

“This whole thing started out to be a hoot, you know? Just a gag. But it was so damned easy, Ax. You wouldn’t believe how gullible people are. Or how greedy. I never dreamed it could go this wrong.”

“Maybe it hasn’t,” I said. “Maybe that trucker had a hard-on for the world and you were just the first guy he saw.”

“You think so?”

“Nope. I’ll let you in on a secret, my friend. You may think your little ripoff’s just a gag. But when it comes to getting screwed? Most people can’t take a joke.”

Back at my storefront office, I flicked on my computer, eased down behind the Salvation Army desk. Axton Investigations is Motown bare bones. A desk, a tatty couch for visitors or crashing out, a couple of file cabinets. The files are strictly decoration. I don’t keep records. My clients prefer it that way.

My private investigator’s license is on the wall beside the door, but I’m no Sherlock Holmes. Don’t have to be. Tracking down dead skips, especially show-biz types, just isn’t that tough. If you know how to look.

Most deadbeats are amateurs. When they skip out, they split for someplace they’ve been before, and somebody always knows where that is. Information’s like a cheap sweater. Yank the right loose end, the whole thing unravels.

A state license has its uses, though. I get a concealed-weapons permit to carry the battered Army .45 automatic my old man brought home from Korea. More importantly, it grants me access to LEIN, the Law Enforcement Information Net. Entering my password, I called up the Auto Theft file, narrowed it down to Michigan and Ohio, backed up two weeks, then scrolled the list.

An immediate hit. Thirteen days ago a gravel truck disappeared from a county garage outside Toledo. Ohio State Police found it abandoned in a quarry a few days later. Coincidence? Possibly, but I didn’t like the odds. The time frame was right and most joyriders wouldn’t steal a heavy-hauler on a bet. Too slow. Too easy to trace. No resale value.

More likely somebody copped the truck to take a run at Jimmy McGuire.

Next question: Was it a serious player? Maybe someone I knew?

I took my time scanning McGuire’s full list looking for familiar names. I spotted a few, but no heavyweight muscle or stone killers. McGuire was right, he’d been careful. But not careful enough.

Two names jumped out. Skeets Morehouse, a hard-rock record producer. And JayCee Dupree, an upper-class weed dealer. Neither one was notably violent. So far.

The other names I recognized were mostly fringe people, show-biz wannabes, caterers, producers, angels. All probably fat enough not to miss twenty grand.

Which doesn’t mean they’d just kiss it off.

Jimmy assumed his victims wouldn’t bother to sue because a lawyer would cost them more than the twenty thou they lost. But you don’t have to hire a lawyer to get even with somebody. If you know the right people, you can rent a killer for a lot less than that.

In Detroit, you can buy a name for a couple of C-notes. A hit? A grand for a street thug, five to ten for a serious pro. Somebody who could afford to ante up twenty K to back a bogus porn flick might be willing to drop another ten to get even. And guys like Skeets and JayCee always know people who know people.

The problem with that theory was the method.

Pros prefer to work up close and personal, and they mostly use guns. It’s easier to make the hit look random. A burglary or a carjacking gone wrong? Some poor sap capped in the head, left dead in the street? Do tell. How many does that make this month?

That’s how a pro would do it. He wouldn’t use a gravel truck. It’s a clumsy weapon. Amateurish.

Newer cars come equipped with a ton of safety gear: roll cages, air bags, chest restraints. You can probably ram a guy off the freeway at eighty miles an hour without mussing his hair. And if a cop spots you in the act, you’re dead meat. Dale freakin’ Earnhardt couldn’t outrun the law in a dump truck.

So. Assuming the same person who ran down Janine Brady also tried to slam McGuire into that overpass, he probably wasn’t a professional. Good. That meant McGuire might live long enough to pay me.

But it also made me wonder if the name I wanted was on his Top Ten List at all. I buzzed him on his cell phone.

“Axton? What’s up?”

“A quick question. You said the names on your list are mostly people you scammed? What about hate mail? People in the spotlight attract wackos. Have you gotten any threats recently? Off-the-wall stuff?”

“Not really. Hell, I’m on the air six hours a day, anybody with a gripe can just call my show and tell me off.”

“But since he went after Janine first, his problem might be with Stuck in the Sticks rather than your current show. Any weird mail about that?”

“That mail wouldn’t come to me. The Sticks is in reruns all over the world. When fans write to their local stations or the network, the letters are forwarded to Toronto.”

“Why Toronto?”

“That’s where we shot the show. Our quaint little Kentucky cabin was actually a soundstage in the warehouse district two blocks from Lake Ontario. A lot of TV production companies are based in Canada. Lower taxes, lower labor costs. Tex Jessup, the guy who played Papa Thurston, does public relations for the corporation that owns the show. If there’s any hate mail, Tex would have it.”

“The number-one guy on your Top Ten List, Stu Rankin, is listed in Toronto, too.”

“Janine’s boyfriend. She’s been up there the past few years trying to restart her career. Got a few bit parts, just crumbs, really, but she kept hoping. After the accident, Rankin called me, drunk as a skunk, raving. Blamed me for what happened. Threatened to rip my arms off.”

“You think he was serious?”

“Sounded serious enough to scare the hell out of me. Bitsy liked ’em rough and Rankin’s an ex-convict. Canadian police arrested him after her death but didn’t have enough to hold him. That’s why I ranked him number one.”

“Then I’d better look him up. Call Jessup for me, tell him I need to see your hate mail. I’ll be in touch.”

Maybe Stu Rankin was Jimmy’s number-one pick, but he wasn’t mine. I’d make the top slot a tossup: either Skeets Morehouse or JayCee Dupree. Neither man broke Jimmy’s top five, which made me wonder how well he really knew his clients.

Morehouse was a music producer who’d helped pioneer Detroit’s Christian rock scene. But as the Christian headbangers faded, Skeets kept moving his music to the right, all the way into Ku Klux Klan country. He finally had to move his studio across the river to Windsor, Ontario, to avoid U. S. restrictions on hate speech.

Sometimes guys who write songs about killing people take their art seriously. Ask Tupac or the Notorious BIG. Which didn’t make Skeets number one on my list, but since I was headed for Toronto to talk to Rankin and collect Jimmy’s hate mail anyway, Windsor could be my first stop.

Canada’s only a short hop across the river from Detroit, through the tunnel or over the bridge. But on the Windsor side, you’re definitely in Maple Leaf country. Better roads, cleaner streets, bigger casinos.

I drove my stakeout car, a leased Chevy Cavalier, gunmetal gray, no hubcaps. A car nobody looks at twice. Including me. I wasn’t planning to sit on anybody, but you never know.

Big House Sound Studios is eight miles west of Windsor in the boondocks. Looks like something hocked from a Hollywood set. Skeets bought a working farm, sold off the animals, leveled the house, then gutted and remodeled the barn to look like a theme-park Alcatraz, complete with bars on the windows and phony machine guns mounted in the towers.

At least, I hope they’re phony.

The security is a hundred percent real. I had to identify myself to an armed guard at the steel entrance lot gate and show my ID twice to enter the building.

Once inside, I realized what they were worried about. The posters on display in the reception area were advertising bands that could have opened a show for Hitler if he’d been into heavy metal rock.

ReichStag Fire, Sekond Koming, Der Braunshirtz. All hardcore white-supremacy bands complete with swastika tattoos, Nazi regalia, and song lists straight out of Jim Crow Alabama. Vicious stuff.

I told the teenybopper receptionist I had a meeting with Skeets; she held up four fingers and waved me past. Never questioned my right to be there. At a church social I might stand out, but in the rock biz, with my road-scarred face and battered leather jacket, I was probably the tamest guy she saw all day.

Studio four sat at the far end of a carpeted corridor. The green light above the door was lit, but I still opened it very, very cautiously. At seven hundred bucks an hour, you never barge into a recording studio. Ever.

Modern sound studios are nothing like the golden age of Motown when musicians actually made music together. Skeets was lounging at a digital mixing console that looked like NASA ground control listening to a skinhead punk in combat boots and torn fatigues scream at a helpless microphone inside a sound booth.

Skeets looked fat city. Literally. Custom-fitted Armani jacket over a teal polo shirt, shaved head, bleached blond beard. And at least a hundred pounds heavier than when I’d seen him last.

He glanced up from the VU meters, started to smile, then thought better of it.

“Ax? Were you just in the neighborhood or am I supposed to owe somebody?”

“Janine Brady,” I said, sliding into the seat beside his.

“Who?”

“Janine Brady. She played Bitsy on the old sitcom Stuck in the Sticks.”

“I still don’t — whoa, wait a minute. She’s dead, right? Killed in some kind of accident? I don’t remember the details. I don’t pay much attention to Jew-nited States government news media. But I know I don’t owe her anything.”

“It’s more about who owes you. Like Jimmy McGuire.”

“Little Richie Thurston, you mean? Yeah, he’s doing a movie and...” Skeets’ voice faded as his computer of a mind kicked into overdrive. Two blinks and he had the whole thing.

“It’s a con, isn’t it? There’s no movie. The little bastard scammed me. Very slick. And too damned bad. We could’ve made a ton of money with it. The concept is rock solid. Take a squeaky-clean mainstream show like Stuck in the Sticks and morph it into porn? It’s like adding double cheese to a pizza. It only gets better.”

“Or taking Christian rock and morphing it into this white-power nonsense?” I snorted. “No offense, but if that clown in the booth represents the master race, my money’s on brown.”

“White, brown, red, it’s all about the music for me. The message is up to the artist. If I find a kid with something punchy to say about black power, I’ll record him. Right now, KKK hate rock is all the rage. Pun intended.”

“And Jimmy McGuire? Got any rage left over for him?”

“If the movie’s a scam, I want my money back. Plus a penalty fee. Say, twenty percent. I’ll even hire you to collect it.”

“Sorry, no can do. Conflict of interest.”

“Then maybe I’ll send Der Braunshirtz to get it. All seven of them. Maybe I’ll even hint that Jimmy’s a Jew trying to pass.”

“No need for that. Tell you what, Skeets, I’ll get your money back, plus the penalty fee, no charge. But only if you let Jimmy off the hook.”

“That’s asking a lot, Ax. He cheated me.”

“Think of it as a not-so-practical joke that went wrong. Is stomping him worth twenty grand to you?”

“It’s not worth twenty cents. I’m not about violence.”

“No? So what’s that jerk in the booth ranting about? Peace and love?”

“Not even. This tune’s called Massacre the Mud People. But the violence is all virtual, the musical equivalent of a video game. Pop radio sells sappy love songs, we market rage and frustration. But only in small doses. Like dope. Just enough to keep people hooked on the adrenaline rush they get from the idea of violence. But I rarely use the real thing. Unless I have to.”

“You won’t. Do we have a deal?”

“Yeah, okay, deal. You get my money back with interest and we’ll call it even, Ax. You’ve got my word on it.”

“Good. But for the record, if you break your word, pal, it won’t be the only thing that gets broken.”

“Understood. And tell Jimmy if he ever decides to make that movie for real, let me know. Always looking for a good investment. Wish I’d bought a piece of the original Stuck in the Sticks. What a freakin’ goldmine. It’s burned out in the U. S., but it still plays in Third World markets like Turkey and Pakistan. American cop shows don’t make sense over there and even Gilligan’s Island shows too much skin for the imams. But the Thurston family and their little cabin in the hills? Perfect. Christian rock, skinhead rage, or Stuck in the Sticks, we’re all in the same business. Selling the American dream. One rock at a time.”

The kid in the recording booth was glowering at us. He’d finished his rant and was waiting for applause. Or something.

“Great job, Rudi,” Skeets said, flipping on the intercom. “You nailed it, man. But let’s try one more take, okay? And go for a little more rage. You really hate these people, right? Make us feel it, dawg!” Switching off his mike, he turned back to me.

“I’ll wait a week for my money, Ax. Then I’m sending Der Braunshirtz to collect it. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Anything else?”

“Just one thing.” Reaching past him, I switched on the intercom to the booth. “Hey, buddy? Know any old Motown jams like Beauty’s Only Skin Deep? No? How about I’m Black, I’m Proud by James Brown?”

The kid was screaming something at me, fairly frothing at the mouth. Fortunately, the booth was soundproof, so I couldn’t hear most of it.

But a few words came through loud and clear.

Rolling away to the west from the Lake Ontario shore, Toronto looks like a Disney World version of New York. Cleaner and better organized, its skyscrapers are far enough apart that you can actually admire the architecture without dislocating your jaw.

Jessup/OmniTel Productions’ offices were twenty floors up in an entertainment complex. CBC, the Canadian Broadcast Corporation, had the first three floors, with production facilities in the basement. Parking is a problem in any big town. I had to dump my stakeout Cavalier in a city lot and hoof it five blocks back.

Jimmy had called ahead, but I wasn’t expecting to meet an honest-to-God TV legend. Calvin “Tex” Jessup, Papa Thurston on Stuck in the Sticks, came out to the reception desk to meet me personally.

A big man, in every sense of the word. Six foot four, maybe two-forty. Thinning blond hair. Had to be pushing sixty but looked ready for Freddy. Sunlamp tan, show-biz smile, working-man’s handshake. Casually dressed: golf shirt, chinos, loafers, no socks. I trailed him back to his office.

His private digs were equally impressive: oaken paneling, an intricately carved Powderhorn desk. Corner window with a view of the CN Tower, the revolving space needle that dominates Toronto’s skyline.

The walls were decorated with framed marquee prints for Stuck in the Sticks and A Thurston Family Christmas in Japanese, French, and Arabic. A few more for other sitcoms and specials I remembered vaguely.

“Have a seat, Mr. Axton. Any friend of Jimmy’s is welcome, of course. I did a little checking on you after he called, though. You’ve got a bit of a reputation in some quarters, son. Do we have a problem?”

“You and I? No, sir. But Jimmy may have.” I gave him a partial rundown of the situation, leaving out Jimmy’s scam, but not the possible attempt on his life.

“I don’t understand.” Jessup frowned. “If Jimmy thinks he’s in danger, why doesn’t he call the police?”

“I think he wants to avoid the publicity.”

Jessup shook his head slowly, his face warming into that familiar “aw, shucks” grin. “My, my, you’re not a very good liar, are you, Mr. Axton? That’s good. It means you don’t get much practice. But you don’t have to cover for Jimmy with me, son. I’ve known that boy since he was a seven-year-old smart aleck. Love him like my own kin but he’s got a gin-u-wine gift for mischief. I don’t need to know what he’s gotten himself into this time, you just tell me how I can help. When Jimmy called, he said you needed to see his fan mail?”

“My best guess is that the person who’s threatening Jimmy is probably an amateur. Maybe a mental case. Sometimes nut jobs write to the people they’re obsessed with. Jimmy said any hate mail would come here.”

“We get letters, all right, bales of mail from every zip code on the planet. Most of ’em are mash notes from starry-eyed kids, but we get convicts and crackpots, too. We forward the originals to the Provincial police, but we dupe them first. Load ’em straight into the mainframe.”

“Can I see them?”

“Hell, I can run copies for ya right here, if I can remember how to work this thing.” Sliding into his executive throne chair, he touched a tab and a panel on the desktop slid back, revealing a keyboard and an LCD monitor. He typed in a command, then whistled. “Whoa. Do you want all the hate mail or just Jimmy’s?”

“How many are there?”

“More than a thousand, in five different languages.”

“Can we limit it to threats against Jimmy in English?”

“No problem,” he said, entering it. “There are... eighty-three of those. My God. You know, when Stuck in the Sticks began, I used to answer my fan mail personally. Every letter. Halfway through the first season, when our ratings rocketed up the charts, the network hired three secretaries just to mail form-letter replies. Know how they handle it nowadays? Reading machines scan the mail for threatening language, sort out the nut jobs, and shred the rest.” He entered a command and a printer in the corner started to whir. “Have ’em for ya in a minute. You know, back in the day, nobody thought the show would make it, not even me. It was my first try as a producer and I signed away most of my rights just to get it on the air. Now it’s a damn franchise, syndicated worldwide, new markets opening all the time.”

“Must be nice.”

“Be even nicer if I’d kept a bigger piece of the pie.” Jessup grinned. “Not that I’m gripin’. I was a damn stuntman before I got into the production end. Busted broncs, took three-story dives into a damp sponge, hell, even drove a car off a cliff once. Got the burn scars to prove it. Ain’t much I miss from those days.”

“Looks like you’ve done all right. This is a beautiful office.”

He nodded. “Twenty-fifth floor. The day I moved in, I figured I was on top of the world. Since then, I’ve noticed it’s a long way down, too. I think about Al Schmidt, sometimes, the guy who played Grandpa Thurston? Dying on the set thataway. Not a bad way to go, even if he did kill the show.”

I didn’t say anything. The printer clicked to a stop.

“Hot off the press,” he said, handing me a thick file. “When you see Jimmy, tell him I’m sorry about losing the Thanksgiving special. I talked to the network but without Bitsy they just wouldn’t buy it.”

“Funny, all those years playing a family, I loved Jimmy and Bitsy like my own. At the show’s wrap party we were all cryin’, promising to stay in touch. But the time slips away and the next time I see her, she’s in a box. And yet, she’s not gone at all. That’s the crazy thing about this business. You shoot a low-rent sitcom for a network, and nearly thirty years later Bitsy’s still sweet thirteen, touching people’s hearts all over the world. And egghead professors write books about what geniuses we all were.” He broke off, shaking his head, eyes misting.

Time to go. I thanked him for the copies and headed out, but as I hit the door a thought popped up.

“One last question, Mr. Jessup. You said the network pulled the plug on your Thanksgiving special after Bitsy’s accident? What would happen to the show if Jimmy died?”

Jessup stiffened. “That’s a pretty damn cold thing to ask, Mr. Axton, all things considered.”

He was right. I waited for his answer anyway.

“Fair enough, if the worst happened to Jimmy now, it wouldn’t mean doodley. Without Bitsy, the nostalgia factor of having the original cast is already gone. The networks won’t foot the bill for any more holiday specials. Why should they? As long as the show keeps finding new markets overseas, they’re happy as clams. Or leeches.”

“I see. Look, I’m sorry if I upset you. It wasn’t my intent. Thanks for your time.”

Back at street level, I glanced around for a quiet place to skim through the letters. No point in tracking down Jimmy’s Top Ten list if one of the crackpots in Jessup’s files had mailed him a heads-up in advance.

Spotting a Tim Horton’s coffee shop across the street, I stepped off the curb, when suddenly a massive maroon Cadillac Escalade screeched to a halt in front of me, blocking my path. The rear door opened.

I knew the man inside, tall, hawk-faced, with café-au-lait skin and a spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Dressed like a gangbanger: baggy jeans, bulky Carhartt coat. JayCee Dupree, the rock doc, an upscale show-biz drug dealer with more big names in his Rolodex than the William Morris Agency.

“Get in.”

No gun showing, but JayCee probably had a few within easy reach and I didn’t. American concealed-weapons permits aren’t valid north of the border.

So I climbed in, took a seat facing JayCee. The rear of the Escalade was a separate compartment, limo style. I recognized the driver, too. Rufus Youngman. Ex-linebacker for the Cleveland Browns. Rufus eased the Escalade back into traffic.

“Ax. How you been doin’?”

“Pretty fair, till now. How did you know I was here?”

“Got a couple calls, people saying you’re asking around about me, so I started looking for you. You weren’t that hard to find.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. I had business up here anyway. But it’s bad for my reputation to have somebody like you on my tail. So here we are. What’s on your mind?”

“Show biz,” I said simply. “I understand you put money into Jimmy McGuire’s movie.”

“I’m into it for more than money. Got me a part in it. Maybe it’ll make me one of them badass overnight stars like Ice Cube or DMX.”

“I didn’t know you were an actor.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Ax. And it better stay that way. As far as acting, let’s just say I’m a natural. Born to play porn.”

“You’re right, some things I don’t need to know. That was one.”

“Anyway, even if I don’t get face time on screen, a movie set’s a great place to meet customers, you know? High-class crowd. Hollywood’s full of stoners and I’m just the guy who can help ’em with their high.”

“Jimmy doesn’t run with Hollywood hotshots, JayCee. Stuck in the Sticks was shot in Toronto and he was only a kid.”

“Yeah, but his new movie will be—”

“There’s no movie,” I said, cutting him off. “There never was.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s a scam. McGuire’s been conning people out of money for a movie that’ll never happen.”

Dupree stared at me, reading my face. It wasn’t a comfortable experience.

“From what I’ve heard, Axton, you work the collection end of the business. So what’s your part in this?”

“Somebody’s trying to take Jimmy out. Maybe the same person who ran down Janine Brady a few weeks ago. I’m looking into it.”

“And you think it might be me? Why the hell would I?”

“Because there’s no movie and you’re a bright guy, JayCee. So maybe you already knew it was bogus.”

“Hell, I don’t know it yet, dawg. In my business, I hear a lot of things. That don’t make ’em all true.”

“The movie deal’s a scam, JayCee. Believe it.”

“I don’t think so. Jimmy’s too smart to burn me in some con game. He knows what would happen to him.”

“Even smart people make mistakes.”

“You’re dead right. Only you the one makin’ it, Ax. Maybe Jimmy told you there was no movie, but that don’t make it so. Could be he’s runnin’ the same game on me he did on Bitsy.”

“How do you mean?”

“Bitsy was one of my A-list customers, you know? A major stoner. We did a lot of business. When she heard about Jimmy’s new movie, she thought it could make her a big star again. Only he doesn’t want her in it. So she asked me to change his mind. Put a horse’s head in his bed or something.”

“And did you?”

“I talked to him, sure. But not about Bitsy. Told him I was a natural for his movie. He made a pitch for some green and it sounded righteous. Said he had a ready-made part for me. So I bought in.”

“You bought a part for yourself, but not Bitsy? Why not?”

“Just wasn’t possible, man. Time ain’t kind to some people, you know? Especially dopers. Bitsy looked like crap on a cracker. Maybe she could play a woofer in a dog movie but no way she could do a porn flick. He must’ve changed his mind once he saw her.”

“What makes you think he changed his mind?”

“Because when he was sellin’ me on it, he said he’d decided she’d be one of the stars after all.”

“Right. Along with his mom, his grandma, and the entire cast of A Thurston Family Christmas. It was all smoke, JayCee. A con.”

“Or so he told you. I figure he just found somebody hotter. Maybe one of them chicks from Charlie’s Angels. Anyway, he dumped Bitsy. Only I ain’t Bitsy, man. So if Jimmy’s looking to cut me out he can forget it. So can you.”

“Last time, JayCee. Read my lips. There’s no movie. There never was. I can get your money back, but—”

“I don’t give a damn about the money! Twenty K? You gotta be kiddin’. I drop more than that at the dog track most weekends. If somebody’s lookin’ to cap Jimmy, I’d put my money on Bitsy’s boyfriend, Rankin. He used to smack her around sometimes, tryin’ to straighten her out. Even got in my face once. Claimed I was a evil influence.”

“Hard to believe.”

“Damn straight. I had Rufus rough him up, but it still didn’t back him off. Boy ain’t wrapped too tight. Why don’t you look him up and get off me.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Ain’t no maybe about it, Ax. You startin’ to wear out my patience.” He tapped his armrest. It flipped open to reveal a gun. Not just any gun, an honest-to-God German Luger, circa 1939. Mint condition. Probably worth thirty grand. Looked so cherry it could have been a stage prop. But I had a gut feeling it was absolutely real. Especially when he jacked a round into the chamber and aimed it at my kneecap.

“Listen up, man. You tell Jimmy I’m in his movie, just like we agreed. End of story. Now get steppin’, dawg, while both your legs still work. Any questions?”

Not a one.

The big Escalade dropped me at the next corner, a full five miles from my car. No problem. I didn’t mind walking, considering the alternative.

Toronto’s a nice town to walk in, and I needed some time to think things through.

Question: Was JayCee really a natural-born actor or was he serious about holding Jimmy to the original deal?

Answer: Damned if I knew. But if he was acting, then he really belonged in movies. Because I damn sure believed him.

Either way, I could cross him off the list. He not only didn’t know about the scam, he wouldn’t believe it when I told him.

So JayCee had no reason to go after Jimmy. Yet.

And if he ever decided to take him out, he wouldn’t bother stealing a truck.

Took a break in a Tim Horton’s, sipping hazelnut coffee, sifting through the eighty-plus fan letters Jessup’s security people considered weird enough to be serious. Most were just batty, fans who thought the Stuck in the Sticks characters were real and Jimmy was a wiseacre. Couldn’t argue with that.

A dozen others were space cadets who claimed Jimmy was controlling their minds with CIA implants. Most of them were written from mental institutions or group homes, but not all.

Only seven sounded dangerous enough to check out. Four of those were from convicts. Jessup’s people had probably already made sure they were still incarcerated, but I could double-check when I got back to my office

The other three contained vicious threats, but were nearly incoherent. They might do Jimmy if they saw him on the street, but I doubted they had the resources to track him down.

Deranged, definitely. But not Top Ten material.

Closing the folder, I gulped the last of my coffee, then headed out to find Stu Rankin, Jimmy’s choice for number one on the list.

Rankin’s last known address was a modest brick apartment complex off Spadina near the U. of Toronto’s St. George campus. The girl who answered the door was college age, but I doubt she was a student. She was barefoot, wearing a dirty T-shirt and panties. Lifeless doll’s eyes that never rose above my jacket collar. Most folks are startled by the scars on my face. This chick never noticed.

I asked for Stu; she mumbled that he was at work. Brinker’s, a jazz club a few blocks over on the way to Chinatown.

No trouble finding it. Doors were wide open, airing out the smoke and stale beer stench.

In the dim interior, a half-dozen college kids were huddled near the jukebox, listening intently to Miles’s solo on “My Funny Valentine.”

Rats. Just when you think it’s safe to write off the younger generation.

Bartender was a long-haired hippie who didn’t look old enough to be in the place.

“Stu Rankin?”

“In the john.”

I started to take a stool.

“He’ll be there awhile, sport. He’s paintin’ it.”

The men’s room door was propped open with a yellow plastic men-at-work sawhorse. Rankin was daubing paint over the graffiti on the walls. Big guy, shoulder-length sandy hair, balding on top, sleeveless Maple Leafs sweatshirt that showed off serious iron-pumper muscles and jailhouse tattoos.

“Use the women’s,” he said without turning around.

“Are you Rankin?”

This time he did turn. Didn’t seem impressed, but didn’t turn his back on me either. “Who’s asking?”

“My name’s Axton.”

“You the law?”

“Private.”

“Then you’d best head back out the door. Unless you’d rather leave through the wall.”

“I’m not here for trouble. Besides, we start waltzing around, we’ll mess up your artwork.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk a minute. About Jimmy McGuire.”

“What about him?”

“Somebody tried to kill him last week. Know anything about it?”

“Oh man.” Rankin groaned, turning back to his work, slathering more paint over the crude scrawls. “Isn’t this crap ever gonna end?”

“I take it that’s a no.”

“Definitely a no. I ain’t been stateside in two years.”

“Who said it happened in the States?”

“That’s where he lives, isn’t it? Toledo, Detroit? Something like that?”

“Detroit’s not the back of the moon. You can drive it in a few hours.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t. Look, I admit I threatened the little bastard. I was pretty hot at the time. I’m cooled off now.”

“What were you hot about?”

“Because that punk messed me and Bits up. We were gettin’ along fine. I been workin’ steady and she’d pick up cameos and small parts on the CBC. Then she hears about this freakin’ porn flick McGuire’s putting together, gets all excited. She called Jimmy, but he blew her off. Said the story was bogus.”

“It was.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jimmy wasn’t making a movie. He’d talked to some people about it, but it was all smoke. He never intended to follow through.”

Rankin froze with his brush in midair. “That’s a crock! She told... a guy we know about the movie. He bought into it. McGuire even promised him a part!”

“If you mean JayCee Dupree, you’re right, he did put up some money. He’ll get it back. But the whole thing was bogus from the git-go. McGuire was running a scam.”

“My God.” Rankin sagged against the wall, then slid slowly to the floor, smearing paint all the way down. He didn’t notice.

“Are you okay?”

“Hell no.” He shook his head, like a prizefighter rocked by a punch. “Years back, if a chick posed topless in Playboy, she was finished in show biz. Nowadays, babes get famous bangin’ away naked on the Web. Bits thought a porn movie would jumpstart her career again. When Jimmy turned her down, she figured she wasn’t pretty enough. Wanted plastic surgery. Total makeover. You know the kind I mean?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“I told her she was already beautiful to me, but she wanted new boobs, butt pads, liposuction, the works. Got ’em, too. Took every last dime we had, flew out to L.A. When she came back I barely recognized her. We fought about it, that’s when I called McGuire, threatened to bust him up.

“When Bitsy found out I’d leaned on him, she freaked, claimed I was ruining her life, walked out on me. After she got run down, cops looked at me real hard. Had me in a holding cell for three days. Time enough to remember how bad it is inside. And time to think things through.”

“What things?”

“Like what Bits did to herself isn’t all on Jimmy, it’s that whole crazy show-biz scene. Besides, if anything happens to McGuire now, they’ll lock me up whether I did him or not. He’s a piece of crap, but he ain’t worth doin’ twenty-to-life.”

“No,” I agreed. “He’s definitely not.” I offered Rankin a hand up, and after a moment he took it. “It may not mean much, but I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You’re right it don’t mean much. But if it ain’t just talk, maybe there’s something you can do for me.”

“Like what?”

“Did you ever meet Bitsy?”

“No. I remember her from Stuck in the Sticks, but that’s it.”

“This was taken a year ago.” He took a 3-by-5 photo out of his shirt pocket, caressing it with a blunt fingertip before handing it to me.

The shot was an older version of the girl I remembered from the TV show. Pleasant enough, but bland. Like a saleswoman at Sears. “Very pretty,” I lied.

“That’s the before. She was so hot to star in a movie again, look what she did to herself.”

The second photo showed Bitsy soon after her surgery, her face still bruised from the procedures. Watermelon boobs, bee-stung lips, eyebrows arched in permanent surprise. I tried to keep the shock off my face but couldn’t.

“She couldn’t see it,” Rankin said sadly. “When she looked in the mirror, she saw a Baywatch babe or Marilyn freakin’ Monroe. A sex goddess. Had fresh publicity shots taken of her new look, sent them to every agency and producer on the planet. The only one who bothered to call back was Tex Jessup, all bent out of shape about their Thanksgiving special. Bits blew him off. She was gonna be too busy starring in Jimmy’s big porn flick. And now you say there wasn’t even a movie?”

I shook my head.

Rankin’s eyes met mine and held. And I was damned glad I wasn’t the guy he was mad at.

“You keep the pictures, Axton. Give ’em to McGuire. Show him what his little ripoff did to Bitsy. And tell him that someday, a long time from now, after all this settles down, maybe I’ll be around to give him a makeover. The real extreme kind.”

Rolling south on Ontario 401, Motown bound, in my stakeout Chevy. Chewing over my trip.

Rankin had been the last Canadian name on the Top Ten list. Jimmy had him ranked number one. Didn’t blame him. Stu had a chip on his shoulder and a deep reservoir of jailhouse rage. Problem was, he seemed angrier at life than at Jimmy McGuire.

Only an idiot thinks he can always tell when someone’s lying. But that doesn’t mean you can’t recognize truth when you hear it. And I was fairly sure Rankin had told me the truth.

He blamed Jimmy for what happened to his girlfriend, but bottom line, stomping Jimmy into a grease spot wasn’t worth going back to prison.

He was dead right about that.

Mentally, I deleted Stu Rankin from the Top Ten list. Dropped him down to twenty-five or so.

Which still left seven top names to go, two in Detroit, five more in Toledo. But not today. I needed a long, hot shower and some supper. Start fresh in the morning.

Hoped my fresh start would go better than Janine Brady’s. The pictures Rankin gave me were lying atop the hate-mail folder on the passenger’s seat. Bitsy kept drawing my eye as I drove.

Janine “Bitsy Thurston” Brady. Before and after.

Beauty’s a personal thing. No two people define it quite the same way. And in the moment we see it, it’s already fading.

Some beautiful tots grow into beautiful adults, like Liz Taylor or Natalie Wood. And some cute kids manage to stay cute as they age, like Jimmy McGuire.

But most of us aren’t so lucky. Janine Brady certainly wasn’t. The gawky teenaged caterpillar didn’t morph into a butterfly. More like a moth. Not ugly, just... ordinary. A woman who could stroll through a roomful of steelworkers without drawing a whistle.

But according to Rankin, they’d had a good life. She’d been landing parts on Canadian TV. Maybe not leading roles, but it had been enough. Until she heard the siren call of Jimmy’s phony movie.

Her big chance.

I’ve worked around show biz most of my life. It’s a crazy smorgasbord of a business — everything’s on the table, from stardom to the road crew. Choose what suits you and leave the rest. Sometimes it’s fun, sometimes it’s a hard road. But it’s never dull.

There’s a dark side to it, though: When the longing for the spotlight turns desperate, and becomes an overwhelming hunger. Like an addiction.

Some performers turn to drugs, looking for the energy to win over a crowd. Others slide into bulimia or anorexia, trying to starve themselves into the skeletal silhouettes that pass for beauty onstage.

Bitsy took the most savage route. Surgery. Butchery. Breast implants, collagen injections, and a face-lift that altered her looks so dramatically her own mom couldn’t have picked her out of a lineup.

It’s a part of the business I’ll never understand. The terrible price some people will pay for their lousy fifteen minutes of fame. Or fifteen more.

And yet I kept glancing at her face. Something about the photographs was bugging me. Something about her mom...? No. Not her mom. Her dad.

Tex Jessup. He wasn’t her real father, of course, he just played one on TV. But he’d said... that during the show they were like his own kids. He also said he hadn’t seen Bitsy since the Sticks wrap party.

And that wasn’t quite true.

Stu said Bitsy sent her new publicity photos to every producer and agent in the business. Including Jessup. Because he called her up all bent out of shape, worried about their new Thanksgiving special.

She blew him off, convinced she’d land the starring role in Jimmy’s porn flick. Did she tell him that, too? Probably. After all, he was almost like a father to her.

But he was also a guy with a hell of a problem. Bitsy’s surgery made her too garish for any G-rated Thurston Family programs, and the networks would cancel if he couldn’t deliver the original cast. As a producer, Jessup was about to be out of business. And a ton of startup expenses.

Even worse, the taint of Jimmy and Bitsy in a blue movie could destroy any chance to syndicate The Sticks in conservative Third-World markets. And if the show burned out, so would Jessup’s royalties.

All TV productions are insured against “acts of God.” Tornadoes or fires. Or the death of a crucial cast member. Janine’s accident let Jessup recoup the cost of his Thanksgiving show. But that only solved half of his problem.

McGuire’s movie could still wreck his franchise. And Jessup couldn’t take him out without attracting major heat. Nobody would buy the coincidence.

But maybe he could scare him off. That gravel truck wasn’t supposed to kill Jimmy. It was only supposed to spook him. And it worked. Except for one small detail. He hired me.

Not that it made much difference. Because it was all speculation. There was no hard evidence. And I doubted I could even get anybody to look.

On one side you’ve got lovable old Tex Jessup, a household name with a billion-dollar corporation backing him up. On the other side, Jimmy McGuire, a has-been punk who had no trouble making a Top Ten list of people who want him dead.

If I were a cop, I wouldn’t believe me either. And I’d definitely take Tex’s word over Jimmy’s anytime — but suddenly, getting Tex convicted was the least of my worries.

One last piece of the problem fell into place. Maybe Tex couldn’t whack McGuire without making an obvious connection, but he could send Jimmy a powerful message. By taking me out. Especially if he did it north of the line.

In the gathering dusk, I spotted headlights in my rearview mirror, coming on fast. Much too fast. I was cruising at 70, this guy had to be pushing a hundred. Heading directly at my trunk, making no move to change lanes.

Not a gravel truck this time. An SUV. Big one. A Humvee, civilian model, but tricked out with heavy metal push-bars that weren’t for decoration. And I was stuck in a compact Chevy four-banger that couldn’t outrun a power lawnmower.

Instinctively, I matted the gas pedal, but the Hummer was on me before I could gain any speed. I felt the little Chevy buck under me as the heavyweight SUV slammed into my trunk.

Then I was fighting the wheel, seesawing back and forth in my lane, trying to keep the car upright as the Hummer gained even more speed, pushing me ahead of it like a leaf on a breaking wave.

No time. I spotted an overpass coming up fast. At the rate we were going, we’d be doing over a hundred when Jessup slammed me into it. And that was clearly his intention. A shallow drainage ditch ran parallel to the four-lane. No way I could veer off. He’d just run over me.

On a back road I might have been able to outmaneuver the big Hummer but on the open freeway it had a monstrous edge. With all-wheel drive, an extra hundred horses under its hood, and three tons of momentum, my underpowered Chevy had no more chance than a flyweight going toe to toe with Muhammad Ali.

Weight. That was the big difference. And my only option.

We were approaching the overpass now, a crossroad supported by concrete pylons set between the four lanes. He’d chosen the spot well. No exit ramps and not a car in sight, empty fields rolling away to the horizon.

Any second now, he’d start to veer — but I didn’t wait. Stomping the brakes, I gave the wheel a quick crank to the right! The jolt bumped the Humvee off me for a split second, then Jessup matted the gas, coming on even faster than before.

I did the same, stomping the pedal to the metal, surging ahead, but angled to the right to cut across the shoulder. The Hummer rammed the Chevy just as I ran out of road, sending the little Cavalier airborne, soaring over the drainage ditch like a drop-kicked football.

Not Jessup. Too heavy to clear the ditch, the Hummer plunged downward, its front wheels plowing into the mud, jamming, twisting the wheel out of Jessup’s hands. I glimpsed the monster SUV spinning wildly out of control in my rearview mirror, tumbling end over end along the freeway before it slammed into the embankment upside down. And exploded.

And then my Chevy landed on the far side of the ditch, the airbag blew up in my face, and I was fighting the wheel blind, trying to keep the car from rolling as it fishtailed across the open field. Wrestling it to a stop, I bolted out of it, running for the burning Humvee. And then slowing to a walk. And finally stopping.

There was no hurry. The big machine was burning like a napalm strike. And if Jessup had any luck at all, he was already dead.

Jimmy looked way too pleased with himself. We met in downtown Motown, at Hart Plaza, near the Renaissance Center. At the sculpture of the clenched fist. A very public place. Beautiful autumn afternoon. A jazz trio playing on the dais at the far side of the plaza. Tourists everywhere.

I was fairly sure why he asked to meet here. But waited for him to tell me.

“So, I guess things came off pretty well up north,” he said, avoiding my eyes. We were strolling at an angle, away from the band, toward the concession stands.

“Got pretty rough, actually. But your problem is solved, if that’s what you mean. The RCMP located the pickup truck Jessup used to kill Bitsy and matched it to paint flakes they found on her body. As far as they’re concerned, his death closed the case.”

“And we’re in the clear?”

“The Mounties couldn’t think of any charges to file, so they cut me loose. But they aren’t happy. They don’t like Yanks killing each other in God’s country. I won’t be going back anytime soon.”

“No need to on my account,” Jimmy said smugly. “Thanks. You did one hell of a job.”

He glanced around, then passed me an envelope. A very thick envelope. I opened it. All hundreds.

“What’s this?”

“Your fee. Plus a fat bonus. For the kind of work you don’t do.”

“Wet work, you mean? You think I killed Jessup deliberately?”

“It doesn’t matter now. The bastard who murdered my friend and tried to take me out is toast, and I’m grateful, that’s all.”

For a moment I was tempted to take the money and shut my mouth. Really tempted. It was a lot of green.

“Keep it,” I said, handing it back to him. “I didn’t do it for you. I’m glad it was Jessup who hit the overpass and not me, but I’ll be damned if I’ll earn off his death. I’ll send you a bill, McGuire. A stiff one. You owe me for a car and wear and tear. But I won’t take blood money.”

“Suit yourself. I hired you to get me out from under and you did. Anytime you need a letter of recommendation — hey!”

Grabbing his shoulder, I jerked him around to face me.

“You two-bit punk! My God, you think you’re home free, don’t you? And you can go back to running your little con game.”

“C’mon, Ax, lighten up. Everything turned out okay—”

“Okay? Two people are dead over this thing and JayCee Dupree’s looking for you—”

“I can handle JayCee—”

“But you can’t handle me! You’re done with this, Jimmy. It’s over.”

“Or what?” he said slyly. “You’ll kill me? You don’t do rough stuff, remember?”

“Wrong! I just don’t do it for money. I’ll bust you up for free. And if it’s not me, it’ll be JayCee or somebody else. You made a Top Ten list this time. How long will it be next time? A Top One Hundred? Keep scamming and you’ll end up as dead as Bitsy or Jessup.”

“That’s easy for you to say, tough guy, but what am I supposed to do? I can’t change my damn face. I’m stuck being Richie Thurston forever!”

“Then put it to better use! Millions of people loved that show. To Jessup and the network it was just a product. A franchise. But you and Janine gave up your childhoods to make it, and Grandpa cashed in his life. It ought to be worth more than bait for a ripoff.”

“Like what?”

“Hell, I don’t know! You said you cared about that old man. Tell people the truth about what happened to him, how the business and the booze killed him. Make his life mean something. Make yours mean something!”

“Man, people were dead wrong about you, Axton. I heard you were a thug. You oughta have your own TV slot on Sunday morning. Preaching.”

“Screw you, Jimmy. Do what you want. But after you pay my bill? Lose my number. We’re done.”

But we weren’t, quite. I didn’t think he’d heard a word I said, but maybe some of it registered.

Jimmy made a minor news splash a few weeks later when he announced the Grandpa Thurston Substance Abuse Drive. The story would have faded quickly, but Jimmy got a massive jolt of publicity when the insurance company that owns the network sued him for copyright infringement.

Huge freaking mistake on their part. Jimmy was all over the news and talk shows, chatting up everybody from Oprah to Leno. Who really owns a character? The actors who sweat blood to bring shows to life, week after week? Or the faceless corporation that writes the checks?

Since everybody still sees Jimmy as Little Richie, the answer was obvious. Public sentiment swung behind him a hundred percent. It was shaping up to be the trial of the century.

Until he did what I’d been expecting all along. And took a payoff. Settled out of court for a sum so huge he couldn’t discuss it publicly.

I saw him a few days later on a late-night talk show. He counted down a Top Ten list of fun ways to spend a ten-million-dollar check. Number ten? Vacationing on Mars. Number four? Buying a Cadillac for everyone in the audience, which earned him a huge round of applause.

But the last one surprised everybody. Even me. Because he didn’t read it.

When he got down to the number one most fun you can have with ten million dollars, he handed the host a cigar, took one himself, then set the check on fire and lit their cigars with it. And the audience went nuts.

Jimmy’s has-been days are over now. A guy who torches a Havana Libre with a ten-million-dollar payoff check just became immortal. A headliner forever. The insurance corporation refiled their lawsuit, of course, but so what? Every day the case drags on buys Jimmy more free publicity.

His radio show’s going national, and he’s even getting movie offers. As Jimmy McGuire, now, not Little Richie.

I still can’t say I like him much. He’s one of those guys who go through life leaving a trail of wreckage. But I have to admit, the kid’s got style.

And he was dead right about one thing.

Most of us really do worry too much about money. Not because we’re greedy or evil. But because we work so damned hard for it, those dollar signs take on a life of their own.

But the truth is, sometimes the best thing you can do with money, the most fun you can possibly have with it?

Is to throw it away.