The Best American Mystery Stories 1997

Dоug Allyn Blind Lemon from Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

“Hey, Axton, we gonna drive all night? I need to use the facilities, you know? I promise I won’t run.”

I glanced at Cootie Keyes. He was a hail jumper, a small-time dope dealer, a user, a snitch. Not one of nature’s noblemen. Still, he was worth twenty-five hundred bucks to the Saheen Bail Bond Agency back in Detroit, plus the mileage I’d run up on my old Buick driving down to Knoxville to pick him up. And he hadn’t been much trouble. So far.

“We’ll take a break at the next place I see.” I said. “But only if they’ve got chicken.”

“Very funny,” he said gloomily, staring out into the rainy Indiana night. He’d been hiding in a chicken coop when I rousted him. Which was appropriate. Cootie looked a bit like a chicken: scrawny neck, a beak nose, no chin to speak of. He even had a few scraps of feathers in his hair.

The neon sign said THE 3-В BARRELHOUSE, BURGERS, BEER ‘N’ BLUES. I wheeled into the half-filled parking lot.

“С’mon, Ax,” Cootie whined. “I was thinkin’ maybe someplace nice. It’s my last night of freedom, man.”

“I’m not on an expense account, Cootie,” I said. “Of course, if you’d rather wait in the trunk...”

“Okay, okay, I’m cool,” he said. “How about takin’ the cuffs off? It’s embarrassing.”

“No chance,” I said. “Besides, from the looks of this place, half the people in here may be wearing cuffs.”

I was wrong. The old log building was surprisingly pleasant inside, massive dark pine tables and chairs, checkered tablecloths, and a magnificent old Wurlitzer jukebox from the fifties pumping out roadhouse blues from the same era. Home sweet home.

We sat in the shadows at a corner table. Cootie kept his hands out of sight while we ordered cheeseburgers and beer from a surprisingly young and sweet waitress.

Most of the customers were college types, gathered at the far end of the building near a small bandstand. Some of them had Fighting Irish jackets, and it occurred to me that this place was probably only twenty miles or so from Notre Dame.

The burgers were great, flame-broiled, dripping with their own juices and homemade mustard. Cootie and I tore into them like wolves, and I made a mental note to remember the 3-B’s. Not that I’m likely to forget it now.

A small combo took the stage, took a moment to tune their instruments, then ripped into their opening number without so much as a “howdy, folks.” They were blues dynamite, jamming on a hard-driving Elmore James shuffle, “Dust My Broom.” The lead guitarist was a woman and a killer player, passionate and precise. And they weren’t even warmed up yet. I was truly sorry I was only passing through... and then she started to sing.

I froze, my beer mug posed in midair. I knew that voice. I’d know it anywhere. Cheryl Vanetti. I glanced sharply at Cootie, but he was busy making carnage of his burger, oblivious to the music. He was young enough that he might not have heard her anyway. Or remember, if he had. But I wasn’t likely to forget her. She’d helped kill a friend of mine.

It was back in the eighties. Detroit was still Murder City then. I was a lot younger and hadn’t gotten my private eye ticket yet. So I bounced in clubs or collected cash from folks who weren’t altogether sure they owed it. And in those days, I still had friends. Danny Liebman was one. A chubby Jewish kid from Grosse Pointe who’d parlayed a master’s in economics and a passion for music into a hole-in-the-wall dive a few blocks from the University of Detroit. He called the Place Yo Mama’s, a thoughtful touch, since the rumor was that he’d conned his mother into putting up most of the money for it.

Mama Liebman’s investment was paving off, though. Danny hired a young chick singer with a halfway decent band behind her. Cherry and the Pit. They were drawing a yuppie college trade six nights a week. It wasn’t my scene, the crowd was too young even then and the music was white bread, but I’d filled in as a bouncer there a few times as a favor to Danny, and I’d collected a few bad debts for him from guys who’d forgotten how to add up a bar tab. We couldn’t have been more different, Danny and I. He was a Detroiter, born into old Dodge motor money, and I’d drifted up to Motown from a Mississippi dirt farm looking for work a few years before.

We both loved music, though, and we whiled away many an early morning after Yo Mama’s closed listening to scratchy old 78’s of Big Mama Thornton. Tampa Red, and Blind Lemon Jefferson. Danny was heavy into old-time bluesers and did his best to turn me on to them, too. It might have worked eventually, but my business got in the way and our lives separated for a while, the way they do when you’re young. Or any time, for that matter. Stuff happens.

I hadn’t seen him for a few months when he called me out of the blue and said he needed to see me at the club the next day. Emergency.

Business at Yo Mama’s was slow that afternoon. Two U, of Detroit sophs were trying to score with a barmaid old enough to mother ’em. Three coeds with cropped hair, no makeup, and Goodwill duds were sharing a back booth and a pitcher of beer, arguing earnestly about things academic. They looked familiar. Either I’d seen them around or there’s a trio like them in every college bar every afternoon.

A deafening delta blues jam was thumping over the house sound system. I didn’t recognize the singer. Robert Johnson? Leadbelly? Definitely one of Danny Liebman’s precious dead bluesmen. The guy’s wailing was unintelligible, but it was a safe bet his life wasn’t going very well. No wonder the joint was nearly deserted. I limped across the postage stamp dance floor to the office, rapped once, and went in.

Danny Liebman was lost in the music, slumped in his swivel chair with an old Martin Flattop guitar cradled in his ample lap. He was playing along with the tape. Or trying to. Butchering the same lick over and over again. His timing was so lame I couldn’t tell if he was improving or not. Danny loved to play. And had zero aptitude for it.

“Yo, Danny,” I said. No response. I gimped over to the sound system and turned it down. Danny blinked up at me through his steel-framed granny glasses. He was dressed in his usual street-grunge duds, faded flannel shirt, ripped jeans, shaggy hair. And still looked exactly like a well-fed Jewish kid from Grosse Pointe. Genes will out.

“Are you limping?” Danny asked.

“I got kicked by some yo-yo’s girlfriend over at the Bucket of Blood,” I said, easing painfully down on the corner of the desk. “Thirty seconds earlier he’d been beatin’ hell out of her, but as soon as I step in, she boots me on the ankle. Hurts like a bitch. That’s my sad story, what’s yours? What’s the big emergency? You got a collection problem for me, I hope?”

“Au contraire,” Danny said, “somebody’s trying to give me money for a change. A guy stopped by to see me last night while I was closing up. Said he was seriously interested in buying the club.”

“No kidding.” I said, surprised. “I didn’t know you were looking to get out. How long have you been open? Six months?”

“Sell hell, this is a dream job. Running a blues bar near the campus, great music, many brews, and friendly coeds who think I’m too cool for school. I’m as happy as the proverbial pig.”

“Which you’re going to resemble soon if you don’t back off on the Bud Lite, bud.” I said. “But if you don’t have a collection job for me, what am I doing here?”

“I want to tell you about the offer.”

“Why? I’m jealous enough of you as it is.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be. The guy offered to take over my mortgage, double the points I paid up front, plus ten grand.”

“Ten? That’s chicken feed considering the sweat equity you put into remodeling this place. Who made the offer? Some stud from the Afro student union who figures you’re an ofay cashing in on black culture?”

“He’d be dead right about that,” Danny said mildly. “But this guy’s no brother, he’s Chinese, Ax. From across the border at Windsor. And he knew the numbers, my mortgage and points. To the nickel. He definitely did some homework.”

“So who asked him to? If you don’t want to sell, tell him to stick it.”

“Actually, I did. Sort of. I said I wasn’t interested. At which point he said the price was nonnegotiable. And it would drop a thousand a day until I took it.”

“A thousand a day?” I said. “Interesting. Did he threaten you?”

“Don’t be a schmuck, Ax. I may have had a sheltered upbringing, but I know a threat when I hear one.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Subtle, though. Not much to complain to the law about. So what do you want me to do?”

“Woof him off,” Danny said simply. “The guy weighs one forty tops, and you can pass for a facsimile of lusty American manhood in bad light. I figured you’d scowl a little, maybe threaten him with grievous bodily harm; end of problem. Of course, that was before you came gimping in here like somebody’s granny.”

“So I’ll woof him sittin’ down,” I said. “Unless you don’t think I’m up to it, in which case woof him yourself, Liebman. You weigh more than a hundred and forty. A lot more.”

“Get real,” a girl said from the doorway. “Danny couldn’t intimidate a bat mitzvah class. You’re Axton, right?”

I swiveled to face her. She was gaunt, gangly, and looked about sixteen. Her blonde hair was short as a boy’s, barely more than peach fuzz. She was pretty enough if you’re into the starving gamin type. Personally, I prefer grownups.

“Ax, this is Cheryl Vanetti, of Cherry and the Pit? My house band.”

“Right, I’ve heard the group,” I said.

“And?” she prompted.

“And it has... real potential. With a little work.”

The room chilled about ten degrees. “Gee, thanks so much, Mister Axton, sir. Are you a music critic? Or just a hired goon?”

“I do what I do,” I said. “And I’d rather do it somewhere other than this office, Danny. It’s too private in here. When’s this guy due?”

“Five minutes ago, and I’ve got a feeling he’ll be prompt.”

“Then let’s take a table,” Cherry said.

“Hold it,” I said. “No offense, but I don’t remember inviting you.”

“I don’t need an invitation, at least not from you, jack. I just signed a long-term development contract with Danny, so what affects him affects me. Besides, Danny says I need to learn more about life to be a better singer. What could be more lively than this? Oughtta be a hoot, right, Danny?”

“It might not hurt to have a witness present anyway, Ax,” Danny said sheepishly, leading us out to a table near the dance floor. “The guy’s just coming to talk, and with you here, there won’t be any trouble.”

“It’s your party,” I said, shrugging.

“Good. I like parties.” Cherry said, taking a seat at the table. “But you’d better turn that noise down, Danny. We want to woof the guy off, not bore him to death.”

“Bore him?” Danny echoed with mock indignation. “You little philistine. That’s Blind Lemon Jefferson. ‘Bed Spring Blues.’ It’s a classic.”

“Which is a synonym for outdated, passé, and boooring.” Cherry groaned. “If you played some new stuff once in a while, maybe your daytime business would pick up.”

“It’s kinda tough to find new Blind Lemon songs, miss,” I put in. “He froze to death in a Chicago alley back in 1930.”

“No wonder he sounds lame. Jeez. Danny, a guy who’s been dead sixty years isn’t relevant to... Is that your friend?”

Danny didn’t bother to answer. A couple was standing just inside the front door, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the murk after the coppery brightness of the Motown afternoon. Orientals. Taller than I expected. The man was six feet or so, slender as a clarinet, in a designer leather jacket, all gleaming zippers and studs. Slacks and tassel loafers. She was nearly as tall, but more conservatively dressed; dark suit, a pastel orange Oldham scarf that vaguely matched her shoulder bag. I couldn’t guess their ages; tough to do with Asians. Young, though. Thirtyish at the outside.

They spotted Danny and came directly back, moving between the tables with wary grace, like feral cats. And I fell my shoulders tensing, my gut knotting up. It was an intuitive response, not a rational one. The guy didn’t look threatening. More like a yuppie stockbroker. Or a lawyer. Hell, maybe that’s what was bugging me.

“Mr. Chen,” Danny said, “this is my partner, Mr. Axton.”

Chen glanced at me but didn’t offer to shake hands. Just as well. Up close he had a slightly rancid air, as though his cologne had passed its expiration dale. There was a smudge on his jaw where he’d shaved around an acne patch.

“This lady will translate for me if I need,” he said. He slouched into a chair across from Danny. “Wouldn’t want no misunderstandings.”

The woman lit beside him, hovering near his shoulder like a pilot fish. Orientals are supposedly inscrutable, but this one wasn’t hard to read. She was jumpy as a bat in a barn fire. Her brow and upper lip were dewy, and she avoided looking at us, even at Cherry, which was odd. Women usually check each other out for at least a split second. I was picking up seriously bad vibes from these two. Something was definitely wrong. I gave Chen my ugliest thousand-yard stare and he barely noticed. He seemed more interested in looking over the room, as if he already owned it. And us.

But the thing was, he wasn’t exactly a physical type, and I could see by the cut of his jacket that he wasn’t packing iron. So what was I missing?

“I told Liebman our offer yesterday,” Chen said, addressing me directly, sizing me up. His accent was odd, more British than Chinese. “He said he had a... silent partner? Must be pretty silent. The cosigner on the mortgage and incorporation papers is Maris Liebman, his mother. So you got no legal... standing in this thing. Is that not so?”

“My standing is really none of your business,” I said. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. Mr. Liebman isn’t interested in selling. And for a ten grand walkaway? That was a joke, right?”

“No, not a joke,” Chen said with a faint smile. “I promise you it is a... serious offer. Deadly serious. You understand? We’ll take over the bank debts and give you a good profit. Nine thousand.”

“Nine? You said ten,” Danny protested.

“Yesterday’s price,” Chen noted. “Tomorrow it will be eight. Maybe less. It’s a good offer. You should take it.” Chen’s eyes met mine and held. There was a flat challenge in them. “But the price isn’t the only number. There’s one more number you should know.”

“What number?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

Chen made a production of it. He took out an engraved silver lighter and a matching case that held cigarette papers. Took out a single sheet, jotted a figure on it, and held it up: 23K. He flicked the lighter and touched the flame to the corner of the paper. It flared instantly and vanished into the air. Flash paper. Very theatrical. Very effective. It impressed the hell out of me, and not because I thought it was magic.

Twenty-three К was a Chinese triad, one of the gangs that had been carving up Windsor and Toronto like so many won tons. Gambling, drugs, extortion. Murder. Serious gangsters. International. And now they were moving into Detroit. Or at least one smug weasel was. And then it hit me. That was what was wrong with his attitude. He was way too cool. About me, about this whole situation. He didn’t care whether Danny look his offer or not. Because his gang was just beginning its move on Motown, and at this point a few dead bodies to serve as examples would be as valuable to them as Danny’s club.

And the woman with him? Translator my foot. She hadn’t said a word and didn’t even seem to be listening. She wasn’t there to talk, she was a mule. Chen wouldn’t risk packing his own gun, that was her job. It was probably in her purse, which was below the table now, beside Chen’s knee. And that’s why she was so edgy. She knew what was going down here. There wouldn’t be any more offers. If Danny said no, Chen meant to settle things today.

He was coolly scanning the room again, probably counting the witnesses. Danny was saying something about thinking things over, but Chen wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes had gone empty. In his mind Danny was probably already dead. He shifted his position slightly, with his left hand beneath the table. My God! He was getting ready to take us out, right here and now. And I was unarmed and didn’t have a prayer of getting to him before he could fire, unless...

His accent. I wondered how long he’d been off the boat. And how sharp he really was.

“You must be new to this country, Mr. Chen,” I said.

He hesitated. “I’m here long enough.”

“For Toronto or Windsor, maybe. This is Detroit. Things are different here. We’re only a small business, but we have a friend. Every business on this street has a friend. A big friend.”

I had his attention now. This was something he could understand. “So what?” he said. “I got friends. Probably more than you.”

“Then you can see our problem.” I said. “The truth is, Danny couldn’t sell to you if he wanted to. Nor could I. It wouldn’t mean anything. And our friend wouldn’t like it. We could get hurt. So could you. So you’re wasting your time talking to us. If you’re serious about doing business, you need to speak to our friend.”

Chen’s eyes zeroed in on mine. “Really? And what’s his name, this friend?”

“I can’t mention his name to strangers, you understand. But a man with your... resources should have no trouble getting it.”

“Maybe he isn’t nobody, this friend. Maybe he don’t exist.”

“He exists,” Cherry put in, the first time she’d spoken. “He’s a Cuban. He has one eye.”

Chen glanced at her. Through her, really. As a woman, she counted as less than nothing to him. “What’s the matter? He’s so bad, this friend, you’re afraid of his name? Say it. If it’s real.”

“Delagarza,” Cherry said. “Eladio Delagarza.”

Chen glanced back to me. “Is what she says true?”

“That’s right.” I said, swallowing. “Delagarza.”

Chen eyed me for what seemed like a very long time, then shrugged, mildly annoyed. He’d probably been looking forward to waxing us. “Name like that, he’ll be easy to find,” Chen said, rising abruptly. The woman rose with him. Her hands were trembling. With fear or relief? I couldn’t be sure.

“You better understand somethin’,” Chen said quietly. “Whether I find your friend or not, my offer won’t change. I’ll be back in a few days. Price then will be five thousand. You better take it. These are hard times. Will get harder. For you.” He turned and sauntered out of the room without a backward glance. The woman trailed him like a shadow, zipping her purse closed.

Danny shifted in his chair and stared at me. His face was slick with perspiration. “Have both of you gone absolutely psycho?” he said at last. “What the hell was that about?”

“Your pal here was trying to run a bluff,” Cherry snapped. “Only he couldn’t think of a name, so I tossed one in.”

“Some name,” I said.

“Who is this — Delagarza, anyway?” Danny asked.

“A crime boss,” Cherry said. “A big one. Or so I read in the papers.”

“That’s crazy,” Danny said. “I don’t know him.”

“No, but Chen doesn’t either,” I said. “And while he’s asking around, we’ll have time to figure what to do next.”

“There won’t be any next,” Cherry said flatly. “Delagarza’s in some kind of federal trouble. So if Chen asks. Delagarza will just blow him off. Chen’ll do some checking, find out Delagarza’s nobody to mess with, and back off. End of problem.”

“It won’t be that simple,” I said.

“Maybe you just hope it won’t so you can collect another fee,” Cherry said. “I thought you were supposed to scare this guy off. Axton, not run some kind of a scam on him.”

“Lady, you don’t have any idea what was going on. Danny, this guy didn’t come here to do a deal, he isn’t bright enough. I make him as a stone shooter who’d rather whack you out than buy your place. You’d better go to the police about this. Or seriously think about giving him what he wants.”

“Give him what he wants?” Cherry said, aghast. “Are you nuts? Some guy sits at a table with you, runs his mouth, and yon wanna pack it in? Jesus. Danny, where did you—”

“Okay, okay, cool it you two,” Danny interrupted. “All’s well that ends well, right?”

“That’s just it, Danny,” I said. “This isn’t over. He’ll be back.”

“In which case I’ll give a yell and you can muscle him off again,” Danny said. “Or maybe Cherry’s right and he’s history. Either way, the problem’s settled for now, and I could use a beer. Why don’t you both join me?”

“No, thanks,” Cherry said, rising. “I’ve got a rehearsal, and I’d better not be late if I want to live up to the promise Axton thinks I’ve got, though I doubt he knows any more about music than he does about muscle. I’ll see you tonight, Danny. And just for the record, whatever you’re paying your goon friend here, it’s way too much.” She turned and stalked off.

“How much am I paving you. Ax?” Danny asked as I got painfully to my feet. “Things happened so quickly we didn’t discuss the details.”

“No charge,” I said grimly. “If Chen’s gone for good, then it was as much Cherry’s doing as mine. I was just trying to come out of this alive.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, isn’t it?” Danny said.

“I don’t think it is. Look, you know me, Danny. You know I don’t spook easily, and I’m telling you this guy is serious trouble. What are you gonna do?”

“I... don’t know,” Danny said hesitantly. “I need to think.”

“I doubt he’ll give you much time.”

“I expect I’ve got at least a few days, and if Cherry’s right, maybe a lot more than that. I can’t just hand over my place to some thug. Ax.”

“Then you’d better talk to the police. And soon. And no matter what, if Chen contacts you again, don’t meet him alone, okay? You get hold of me.”

“Okay,” Danny said simply. “Whatever you say. But I wish you’d try to get along with Cheryl. She’s young, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders, and she’s got a world of talent.”

“I’ll just bet she has,” I said.

“No, man, it’s not like that at all,” Danny said, smiling. “Even if she was my type, I wouldn’t be hers, and neither would you. She’s gay, man. Got a steady girlfriend mean enough to whip Godzilla. But I’m dead serious about her talent. Maybe it isn’t shining through yet, but it will. She’s gonna be a keeper someday. You mark my words. So cut her some slack, okay? I like my friends to get along.”

“Well. I’ll admit she could be right on one small point,” I said. “Your daytime trade might improve if you lightened up on the music. Maybe bag Blind Lemon and play something newer.”

“I’d rather listen to the real thing, thanks.”

“It’s your place,” I grumbled. “At least for now.”

My ankle turned out to be severely sprained. I stopped at a doc-in-the-box infirmary on Jefferson, and a medic taped me into a plastic walking cast, which meant I was temporarily unemployable as a bouncer, bill collector, or anything else I knew how to do. Terrific.

I decided to call it a day, pick up some barbecued ribs on my way home, and fort up for the evening.

Papa Henry’s Hickory Hut serves the best barbecued ribs in the city of Detroit. Bar none. The rotisserie in the storefront window revolves slowly, cradling racks of ribs and chicken flame-kissed by the fire below. The aroma alone could turn Gandhi into a carnivore.

I was in a back booth finishing off an order of spiced slaw when I caught a name on the TV newscast from the set above the counter. I turned slowly to face the screen. The volume on the set was low. I couldn’t catch it all.

“Alleged mob figure Eladio Delagarza... luxurious Eastpointe home... explosion.” The flames blazing on the screen were nearly as bright as the barbecue pit, greedily licking the skeleton of what had once been a mansion. “Victims’ names are being withheld pending notification of next of kin...”

Coincidence. That’s all it was. Just a freaking coincidence. Delagarza was in trouble with the law, maybe one of his rivals... Besides, I was lame and my rack of short ribs wouldn’t be ready for another ten minutes. Best barbecue in the city of Detroit.

Damn.

I dropped a twenty on the table and gimped out to my rusty Buick.

I parked on McNichols, around the corner from the club. Dusk in Detroit. The street was deserted. A wino crouched in the entryway of the vacant barbershop next door. A chill wind nipped at my jacket as I limped cautiously into Yo Mama’s Blues.

The place was empty. No surprise. Blind Lemon Jefferson’s moaning on the sound system would have driven off any customers who weren’t deaf or too drunk to stagger out. Damn Danny anyway. A bar’s supposed to be a business, not a freaking history of music seminar.

I stumped quickly across the dance floor to the office. And stopped in the doorway. Danny was slumped in his chair. A slather of crimson was leaking down his cheek. He’d been shot. Once. In the eye. Through the right lens of his glasses.

Triad. I’d read somewhere it was their trademark. A way to tell their killings from the two dozen others in a Motown month.

Stepping into that room was maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I managed, somehow. I touched Danny’s throat, just to be certain. His skin was already cooling.

Sweet Jesus. Nine-one-one. Call 911. I reached for the phone but hesitated, not wanting to smear any fingerprints. The thundering blues tape was so loud I couldn’t think...

There was a clatter from the other room, and I froze. Then I took a deep breath and edged silently to the open door. I peered around the corner of the jamb. The bar still looked empty, but someone was out there, I knew it at the core of my soul. As I’d known about Danny somehow, the moment I saw those flames on the TV screen. I glanced back into the office, desperately scanning the room for some kind of a weapon. Damn it, with my ankle in a cast I couldn’t even run for it...

“Danny?” Cheryl Vanetti called from the shadows near the bar.

“No, it’s me, Axton,” I said, stepping out where she could see me. “Danny’s... had it.”

“What do you mean, had it?” she said, stalking angrily toward me. “You’re lying.”

“No,” I said, grabbing her arm, trying to keep her away from the office. She stared into my face for a moment, then shrugged off my grip and moved to the office doorway. And looked inside.

“Oh.” She said it so softly I barely heard. I gave her a moment, then touched her arm. She drew away.

“We have to get out of here,” I said.

“But... what about the police?”

“We’ll call ’em,” I said, “from somewhere on the road.”

“What are you talking about? Chen—”

“Didn’t do this,” I said.

“What?”

“He didn’t do this,” I repeated. “Not personally, anyway. He knows we can tie him to it, so he’ll have an alibi that will hold up long enough for his people to take us out. This isn’t just a murder, it’s first blood in a gang war. They hit Delagarza’s house an hour ago, and if they’re up for that, they can swat us like flies whenever they want. We’ve got to get out of here, now.”

“But what about my band? I can’t just leave.”

“You have to, and right now. My car’s outside. Let’s go.”

“But—”

“Dammit, girl, we’ve both made enough mistakes for one day. If you don’t think so, ask Danny. Now move it, or I’ll by God leave you here.”

She looked up at me, blinking as though I’d slapped her. Then her eyes cleared, the anguish in them erased by anger. “You bastard,” she said. “This is your fault.”

“You’re half right,” I admitted. “Which is the only reason I’m willing to lake you along. Are you coming or not?”

“Just a minute.” She disappeared into Danny’s office and came out carrying his old Martin guitar. I just stared. “It’s a good guitar and he loved it,” she said defiantly. “It shouldn’t go to strangers. Besides, he never could play it worth a damn anyway.”

I started to say something, but her eyes stopped me. They were brimming, and the hurt in them was deep. She was only a word away from falling apart. So I turned away and went out to my car. She followed, carefully stowed the guitar in the back seat, and climbed in.

We drove all night, south mostly. And neither of us said a solitary word to the other. Not one.

I dropped her at a truck stop in Tennessee. She said she could make a few calls, find a friend to stay with. Under the circumstances it would be best if I didn’t know where she was going. Danny was right, she had a good head on her shoulders.

I drove all the next day, wound up at a cousin’s farm in Mississippi, and called a friend on the Detroit P.D. to fill him in on what happened. He told me Chen was dead already, whacked by Delagarza’s people, but the shooting was still going on. It might be wise if I stayed gone for a while.

So I did. I picked up a few odd jobs repossessing cars for a detective agency in Biloxi, worked a few skip traces, and kept body and soul together. It took most of a year for things to shake out between the triads and the Cubans. I kept in touch with my contacts in Detroit. Eventually they told me things were cool, that nobody in particular was looking for me. So I moved back and picked up the pieces of my life.

That was ten years ago, maybe a little more. And Danny’s memory had faded some, like an old photograph. It happens. I’d never seen Cheryl Vanetti again. Until tonight.

She looked different, of course, and it was more than just the years. He hair was waist-length now, and dark, though whether she was coloring it then or now. I couldn’t tell. Her face had a few character lines, but they weren’t unbecoming.

I glanced at a poster on the wall. The band was called Truth in Packaging. She wasn’t billed separately, so I couldn’t tell whether she was using her own name. I could have asked a waitress, I suppose, but that might have alerted Cootie, so I didn’t risk it. If she was still hiding, it was none of my business.

Her band was really good. A lot better than promising now. I couldn’t tell if she’d spotted me or not. She was wearing sunglasses, so it was impossible to follow her eyes. Or read anything in them.

They ended their set to enthusiastic applause. And I noticed that Cootie was getting restless, which was a bad sign. He was dumb enough to make a run for it, and I didn’t feel like chasing him around a redneck roadhouse in freaking Indiana.

I asked the waitress for our tab, but while she was totting it up, the background noise in the room tapered off.

Cherry had returned to the stage alone, carrying a battered old Martin guitar that I recognized instantly. She tuned it, then glanced around the room, waiting for the audience to quiet, and began to fingerpick a tune. Blind Lemon Jefferson’s “Bed Spring Blues.”

It’s an old song, a classic, but there was nothing derivative in her version of it. She sang it with power and anguish and heart. With soul. She’d always had the voice, the talent, but now what her singing had was passion, and the pain was real.

I didn’t know whether the song was meant for me or just part of her show, but I think it was for me. When she played a short solo before the final verse, she built it around a mistake, a broken lick, note for note, the same lame way Danny used to butcher it all those years ago. The timing was off, the tune was wrong, but in her hands it was brilliant, as imperfect as real life.

She sang the last verse, and maybe she and I were the only ones in the room who knew what the loss in that song was really about, but it didn’t matter. She was singing the truth and the audience sensed it.

When she finished, there was a stunned moment of silence before the roar of applause began, and it was far more telling than all the hooting and hollering in the world. Even Coolie joined in.

I left without speaking to her. I had Cootie in tow, but it was more than that.

The truth is. I don’t know what we can say to each other now. Some hurts never heal. They just scar over. It’s best to let them be.

I hadn’t liked her much, and her recklessness had helped get a friend of mine killed. But most of the blame was mine. Cherry had no way of knowing how dangerous Chen was. But I should have.

Still, we were both younger then, and when you’re green, the world’s a superstore, with everything you want. The catch is, the prices aren’t marked. So you make choices, but you don’t know what they’re going to cost you until later. Or how much your friends and loved ones will pay. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can make it up to them in some way. Not this time, though.

A few hours later, cruising through Toledo, halfway to the morning with Cootie snoring in the back seat, damned if I didn’t hear another Blind Lemon blues tune on a college station out of Lansing. And for a moment it brought Danny back so clearly I could almost sense his presence in the car.

And I had to smile, remembering how crazy we were in those days, about music and life and all of it. And it occurred to me that if Danny had been with me earlier, if he’d come back from Shadow-land to hear Cherry sing that one Blind Lemon song... if I’d asked him if the price we paid was too high, I know what his answer would have been.