The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

Doug Allyn The Jukebox King

From Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine

August 1960. Worst heat wave since ’43. The year of the riots.

No clouds. The sun cruising a sheet-metal sky, scorching Detroit’s mean streets all day long, hammering the heat down to the ancient salt mines beneath the city.

By noon the auto plants were like ovens. People said the temperature at Ford Rouge hit a hundred and thirty up near the steel ceilings. Overhead crane operators had to rotate down to the factory floor every half hour, panting like dogs, their clothes soaked.

Welders were working half blind, squinting through steamy visors, torches slippery with grease and sweat. And the painters in the infrared booths? Hell on earth.

But the assembly lines never stopped. Never even slowed down.

Nightfall brought no relief. Black tar bubbling in the streets and alleys like grease on a griddle, black folks boiling out of their tenements and rowhouses. Restless and surly. And thirsty. Very thirsty.

Brownie’s Lounge on Dequinder was buzzing by seven, jammed tight by ten. Selling Stroh’s beer by the gallon. Straight up. No glasses. Shop rats guzzling the brew out of the pitchers. Getting high, feeling mighty. Ready to hear some blues.

John Lee Hooker’s trio came on at nine, kicking out jams on Brownie’s postage-stamp dance floor. Big John wailing on his old Harmony guitar, James Cotton on harmonica, and a pickup bass player.

No drummer. No need for one. If you can’t feel the beat when John Lee stomps his size 13 Florsheims on a hardwood dance floor, you’d best lie down. You might be dead.

Around midnight the crowd finally started to thin. Working men had to be up at four. Making Thunderbirds, making Fairlanes, making that overtime pay. The best way for a blue-collar black man to rise in this life. The UAW saved the crap jobs for blacks, but the bosses didn’t care if a man worked double shifts for time-and-a-half. Turning out Fords for Cadillac money.

By one-forty A.M. Brownie’s Lounge was down to a die-hard handful of customers.

Four white kids, blues fans from the University of Detroit, applauding wildly as John Lee closed his show with Smokestack Lightning.

A few couples still grinding each other on the dance floor, ignoring the beat, rocking to a rhythm of their hearts and loins. Hot to trot.

A few hookers gabbing near the door, too whipped to stroll the Cass Corridor for trade.

And at the bar? One old white man. A stone killer.

Moishe Abrams had wandered in a little after one, parked his wide ass on a stool at the end of the bar, his back to the wall.

Brownie spotted him instantly. Hard to miss Moishe. Most of Brownie’s regulars were black or beige, plus a few white hipsters. Blue collar. Or no collar.

But Moishe? A surly old white dude with coarse features. Built like a cement block, squat, square, and hard. Old-timey gray suit, wide tie, porkpie brim. Still dressing like swing was the thing.

But nobody ever joked about Moishe Abrams’s clothes. Not to his face. Not even behind his back.

Carolina was working the counter. A big woman, milk chocolate skin, a smile wide as a grand piano. She dressed like a man: tuxedo blouse, bow tie, and slacks. But nobody ever mistook her for one.

Brownie stood in the shadows of his office doorway, keeping an eye on Moishe. Watched him guzzle his first drink, then knock back another just as quick.

When Moishe swiveled on his stool to watch the band, Brownie motioned Carolina over to the waitress station. Leaned in close to her, keeping his voice low.

“The white dude at the end of the bar? He drinks free. On the house.”

“You sure?” Carolina frowned. “He’s already pig-drunk and he’s throwin’ down bourbon like Tennessee’s on fire.”

“I don’t care. Give him whatever he wants, no charge. And say yessir, nossir. He likes that.”

“Fine by me, long as he knows I’m not on the menu. Who is he, anyway?”

“He’s the local jukebox king,” Brownie said.

“King? You mean he’s some kind of singer?”

“No.” Brownie smiled. A good smile. “Moishe’s people own the jukeboxes. All of ’em. In every joint in Detroit. And the cigarette machines and the candy machines and even the damn slot machines in the blind pigs. They also own pieces of half the bars in Motown, including mine. You get my drift?”

“He’s mobbed up? That old dude?”

“Moishe damn near is the Mob. Used to be muscle for the Purple Gang during Prohibition. Ran whisky in from Canada, drove trucks right across the ice on the Detroit River in wintertime.”

“Must’ve been crazy,” Carolina said, glancing sidelong at Moishe. Curious now.

“Oh, he’s still crazy. Only nowadays he collects vending machine money and the vig for loan sharks. When Moishe comes round, you’d best have his bread ready. Slow-pays get stomped. Or just disappear. So, you make nice with Moishe, sugar. While I figure a way to get his honky ass out of here.”

“Got it covered,” Carolina nodded, sauntering down to sweeten Moishe’s drink with her wide smile. Leaving Brownie to worry. And wrestle with his conscience. Because he hadn’t told Carolina everything.

Sometimes Moishe Abrams killed people. Just for the hell of it.

Brownie saw Moishe cut a guy in a blind pig once, five, six years before. Bled the poor bastard out on a barroom floor over some stupid argument. Over nothing, really. On a hot summer night. A lot like this one.

Brownie was only a bartender then. Hired help.

He mopped up the blood, then helped the owner load the stiff into the trunk of the dead man’s ’54 Lincoln. They left the car in an alley off Twelfth. Keys in the ignition.

End of story. A black man knifed to death on the Corridor? Do tell.

But that was then. Brownie wasn’t a bartender anymore. The Lounge was his place, and these were his customers, his people.

Which made Moishe his problem. The trouble was, he still remembered the look on the old man’s face, sitting at the bar calmly ordering another drink with a dead guy on the floor a few feet away.

He looked... No, that was the thing. Moishe didn’t have a look. Empty eyes. Nobody home. He’d killed that dude like it was nothing. Maybe because he was black. Or maybe just because.

Leo Brown — Brownie to his friends and everybody else — was no coward. Running a blues joint on Detroit’s Cass Corridor, trouble just naturally came with the territory. Drunks, brawlers. He’d even faced down a stickup man once.

But Moishe? Down deep, where it mattered, Brownie was afraid of Moishe Abrams. Scared spitless.

He didn’t like the feeling. Didn’t like feeling small. Especially since he had an easy answer. The gun in his office. A Colt Commander, 45 auto. Nickel-plated. Loaded.

He thought about getting it, jacking in a round, walking up to Moishe, blowing his freakin’ brains all over the wall without saying a damn word to him. Solve the problem that way.

Permanent.

He liked the idea, the simplicity of it. The courage it would take. But he knew it wouldn’t end anything. It would only bring on more trouble. Which made it a dumb move. And despite his easy drawl and laid-back style, Brownie was no fool. In some ways, he was an educated man. He owned books and read them. Didn’t have much formal schooling but he listened to people. All kinds of people. And he remembered what they said. And learned from it.

But he’d never heard an easy way to manage Moishe Abrams. The old mobster was about as predictable as a weasel on amphetamines.

So Brownie took a deep breath and forced down his fear. Slipping off his tailored jacket, he hung it on the hook beside his office door. Wondering if he’d ever put it on again. Then he strolled casually over to Moishe.

And smiled.

“Mr. Abrams, how you doin’ tonight?”

Moishe didn’t look up. “Get lost, blood.”

“You remember me, Mr. Abrams. Brownie? This is my place. Can I buy you one for the road? We’re gettin’ ready to close.”

“It’s early.”

“Nossir, it’s almost two. Word is, beat cops are checkin’ up and down the Corridor. Writin’ tickets for after-hours.”

“No beat cops are gonna roust me.”

“Hell, I’m not worried about you, Mr. Abrams. More worried about them. You bust ’em up in my place, it’s bad for business. Mine and yours.”

Moishe glanced up at Brownie, looking him over for the first time. Tall, dark, and slender. Even features, liquid brown eyes, wide shoulders. Well dressed. Soft-spoken. “You tryin’ to give me the bum’s rush, Brownie?”

“Nossir, no way. Couldn’t if I wanted to, and we both know that. Now, how about that drink?”

“I’ll take the drink, but I ain’t leavin’. I’m stuck. My damn Caddy overheated, and I’ll never get a cab this part of town, this time of night.”

“No problem,” Brownie said. “I’ll drive you home.” And instantly regretted it. “My car’s outside, it’d be my pleasure.”

Moishe considered the offer. “What kind of a car?”

“‘Sixty Studebaker Hawk. Emerald green. Brand spankin’ new.”

“Hawks are pimp cars,” Moishe grunted, knocking back the last of his bourbon in a gulp. “Beats walkin’, though. Let’s go.”

Grabbing his jacket from his office, Brownie thought again about the gun in his desk. Decided against it.

If Moishe spotted the piece, Brownie’d have to use it or lose it. Mix it up with a pro like Moishe? Might as well jump in the ring with Joe Louis, try to land a lucky punch.

Brownie’s Stude hummed to life, rumbling like a caged cat. After a few blocks, the radio warmed up, WCHB, Inkster. Long Lean Larry Dean murmuring between soul tunes in his silky baritone.

Moishe switched it off. Glancing over his shoulder, he checked the road behind him, his eyes flicking back and forth like bugs in a bonfire. Paranoid. The price of being a prick.

Neither man spoke, Moishe stewing in his sour, boozy silence, Brownie not about to make conversation. Be like gabbing with a gut-shot bear.

“Stop,” Moishe said suddenly. “Pull over here.”

Surprised, Brownie eased the Studebaker to the curb. Moishe lived out in Grosse Pointe, a good five miles farther on. Here they were only a few blocks from downtown in the dead of night. Empty streets, eyeless windows.

Moishe climbed out. “Take off,” he said, slamming the door.

“You’re very welcome, Massa Abrams,” Brownie said. But very quietly. To himself.

As he circled the block to head back to the lounge, a car suddenly gunned out of an alley, pulling up right on his tail, staying just a few feet behind his rear bumper.

Prowl car. City cops. But they didn’t turn on their gumball flasher. Hit him with the spotlight instead, checking out his car.

Half blinded by the blaze, Brownie braced himself for the roust, wondering if they wanted grease money or just to bust his balls. Black man, new car. Must be up to no good, right?

Or maybe not. For whatever reason, they didn’t pull him over. Just tailed him for half a mile with their spotlight glaring through the Stude’s rear window, reminding Brownie he was the wrong color, wrong part of Detroit, wrong time of night.

Like he needed reminding.

The sweet scent of coffee woke him. The rich aroma dragging him back from the land of dreams. Brownie opened his eyes. Blinked. Breathed deep.

Black coffee. Fresh. His bedroom door opened a crack, and Carolina stuck her head in.

“Brownie? You awake?”

“I am now. What time is it? And how’d you get in here?”

“It’s a little after noon. I showed up for work, Eddie gave me a key, said to get my young butt over here, get you up. Couldn’t call you. Didn’t want to talk over the phone.”

“Why not?” Brownie asked, snapping fully awake. “What’s wrong?”

“That old guy you left with last night? He’s dead, Brownie.”

“What do you mean dead? Dead how?”

“How you think? Somebody did him in.”

Brownie shook his head, trying to clear it. Felt like a fighter who’d walked into a sucker punch. He remembered wanting to pop Moishe bad, even thinking about the gun in his office.

For a split second he wondered — no. He’d dropped Moishe off downtown. Alive and well. Maybe a little drunk. Or a lot drunk. With Moishe it was hard to tell.

“What the hell happened to him? Exactly.”

“Hey, don’t bark at me. I don’t know anything about all this. I just tend bar, okay?”

There was something in her tone. He glanced at her sharply. “Whoa up. You don’t think I iced the old dude, do you?”

Her hesitation said more than the shake of her head.

“No, of course I don’t think that. I got coffee on. You want some?”

“Yeah. There’s Canadian bacon in the icebox. Better fry us up some eggs, too. It’s liable to be a long day.”

He showered quickly, chose a dark blue Sunday-go-to-meetin’ suit from his closet. The jacket fit a little loose in the shoulders. Room enough for a .45 auto in a shoulder holster. Too bad the gun was still in his desk back at the Lounge.

But it was all for the best.

When Brownie stepped into the lounge, two men immediately rose from their barstools. Both of ’em wearing off-the-rack suits from Sears, Roebuck. One white guy, one black. Cops.

“Leo Brown?” the white cop asked. The black cop didn’t ask Brownie anything, just pointed at the wall.

Brownie raised his hands as the black cop patted him down for weapons, found nothing, then spun him around. He was a big fella, half a head taller than Brownie, probably outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Sad, deeply lined face. Like a blue-tick hound.

The white cop was smaller, freckled, maybe forty. Whitey showed Brownie an ID. Gerald Doyle. Lieutenant. Doyle did the talking.

“Tell us about last night, Leo. What happened between you and Moishe Abrams? Did he start trouble in here?”

“There was no trouble,” Brownie said, straightening his lapels. “Moishe came in about one, had a few, hung around till closing. Wouldn’t get a cab, so I gave him a lift uptown.”

“To what address?”

“No address. He got off at a corner, Clairmont and Twelfth.”

“Twelfth Street? That time of night?” the black cop said skeptically.

“You guys know who Moishe was, right?”

“We know,” Doyle nodded. “So?”

“So you know he could get off any damn place he wanted in this town, any time at all.”

“Maybe,” Doyle conceded. “I hear he had a piece of this joint. That so?”

“Moishe was the jukebox king. Worked for the people who own the jukes and cigarette machines.”

“We know who he worked for,” Doyle said mildly. “But that isn’t what I asked you, Mr. Brown. Did Moishe own a piece of this place?”

“Not exactly.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“What bank do you use, lieutenant?” Brownie asked.

“Me? Detroit National. Why?”

“Five years ago I was a bartender. Had about ten grand saved, needed a loan to buy this place, fix it up. Where do you figure I got the money? Detroit National?”

“I guess not,” Doyle said, smiling in spite of himself. “So what went wrong last night, Brownie? You a little late payin’ Moishe the vigorish?”

“I told you what happened. Nothing. I mean, look at me,” Brownie said, turning right and left, showing both profiles. “Do I look like I been alley dancin’ with Moishe Abrams?”

The two cops exchanged a look; then the white cop shrugged. “Maybe not, Leo, but you left here with him. Which makes you the last one to see him alive.”

“No way. It was around two when I dropped him off. A prowl car pulled out of an alley on Clairmont, tailed me a dozen blocks or so to make sure I got out of the neighborhood. Check with them.”

“We will. But even if that holds up it won’t get you off the hook, Brownie. If you know anything—”

“All I know is, Moishe was half in the bag, and he was a mean drunk. Mean sober, for that matter. And it was a hot night. I’m not surprised somebody got killed, I’m just surprised it was Moishe. What happened to him anyway?”

“Cut,” the black cop said, bass voice like coal rumbling down a chute. “Somebody opened him up. Sending a message, most likely.”

“What message?”

“Move over,” Doyle said. “Moishe was mobbed up with the Motown Syndicate, the old Purple Gang. I hear there’s a new bunch crowding them. Sicilians from Chicago. Which means you’re in a world of trouble, Brownie.”

“Why me? I don’t know a damn thing about this.”

“You’re still in the middle, like it or not. And if the Sicilians whacked Moishe to send a message, who do you think the Motown mob is gonna use to send one back?”

“Have them Italians been around to see you?” the black cop asked.

“I’ve heard they leaned on some people in the neighborhood,” Brownie admitted. “Haven’t gotten around to me.”

“They will. When they do, you better call us, hear? Maybe we can help you out.”

“Talk to y’all about mob business?” Brownie smiled. “Yeah, right. Why don’t you just shoot me in the head right now?”

“Maybe we should.” The black cop smiled, a wolf’s grin that never reached his eyes. “Might be doin’ you a kindness.”

“We’ve wasted enough time on this moke,” Doyle shrugged. “We got two more homicides to check out before lunch. One of ’em might interest you, Brownie. A guy got himself beaten to death a few blocks down on Dequinder last night. Makes you wonder who was mad at him, doesn’t it?”

“Nobody had to be mad at nobody, lieutenant. It was a hot night. People get edgy.”

“Want to take a ride with us, take a look at your future?”

“No, thanks,” Brownie said, shaking his head. “I’m doin’ fine right here.”

“So far, you mean,” the black cop snorted. “You ever hire blues singers?”

“Blues is what I do. Uptown places get the names, Jackie Wilson, Sam Cooke. The blues suits this neighborhood a little better. Local folks like it.”

“Ever book Jimmy Reed?”

“Can’t afford him. He’s The Big Boss Man.”

“Too bad. Ol’ Jimmy does a tune that oughtta be your theme song. ‘Better Take Out Some Insurance.’ In your situation you’re gonna need it. Big time. I’ll see you around, Brownie. Hope you’re still breathin’ when I do.”

After the law left, Brownie stepped into his office and closed the door. Didn’t turn on the light. Stood there in the darkness trying to make sense of what the two cops had said.

Some dude stomped to death on the Corridor? No news. Happened about three times a week.

Moishe murdered a few blocks from where Brownie dropped him off? Damned hard to believe. Partly because the old man seemed invincible. Partly because it was too good to be true.

The white cop had one thing right, though. With trouble brewing between the mobs, the middle was a bad place to be. Might as well sack out on the Woodward centerline at rush hour.

Switching on the lights, he opened his top desk drawer. Eyed the nickel-plated .45 Colt Commander a moment, then closed the drawer again, leaving the gun where it was.

Truth was, he didn’t like guns much. Kept the .45 strictly for show. But one crummy pistol wouldn’t impress the Syndicate or the Sicilians either. They had plenty of guns of their own.

Three Motown Syndicate hoods showed up an hour later, shouldering into the club’s dimness out of the afternoon heat.

He knew who they were, sort of. Tony Zeman, Jr., was royalty. Son of Big Tony Zee. Tony Senior was a Motown mob boss when Capone was still a bouncer. He was in a wheelchair now, people said. Lost a leg. Diabetes. Life whittling him away. Maybe as a payback for the way his goons carved up other people.

Tony Junior looked more like a preppie than a hood. Short, sandy hair, pasty face. Suit from Hughes and Hatcher. Wingtips. Buffed nails. Brownie had heard Junior was in law school. Which would make him more dangerous than his daddy ever was.

His bodyguard was a pushy little fireplug of an Irishman everybody called Red. Fire-haired, freckled, bad-tempered. Risky business to be around.

Brownie didn’t know the third guy at all, Spanish-looking dude in a gray suit. Pocked face.

“Mr. Zeman,” Brownie nodded, not bothering to offer his hand. “How you doin’? You want to talk in my office?”

“Forget it. We’ll sit here,” Red said sharply, marching to the end of the bar where he could watch the door. Moishe’s favorite spot. Even took the same damn stool.

Brownie told Carolina to take off, took her place behind the bar, shedding his jacket so Red could see he wasn’t armed.

“Would you gentlemen care for a taste?”

“We’re not here to drink, Mr. Brown,” Junior said. “You’ve got exactly five seconds to tell me what happened to my uncle.”

“Didn’t know Moishe was your uncle,” Brownie said. “Sorry for your loss. But that’s really all I know. He came in ‘round one, had a few drinks. I offered him a ride home, dropped him off downtown. At Twelfth and Clairmont.”

“You dumped him there?” Red butted in. “By himself?”

“Moishe told me to get lost, so I got,” Brownie shrugged. “A prowl car tailed me out of the neighborhood, but I expect y’all know that already, since you’ve got more lines into Detroit P.D. than Michigan Bell.”

“Did you see anybody hanging around when you dropped him off?”Junior asked.

“Nope. Not that time of night. And nobody followed us.”

“How do you know that?” Red asked.

“I don’t, but Moishe did. He checked. About a dozen times.”

“Like he was nervous?” Red pressed. “Expecting trouble?”

“More like he was bein’ Moishe. He was a careful man.”

“Not careful enough,” Tony Junior said, looking Leo over. Reading him. “Have any strangers been around to talk to you, Leo? Maybe about changing jukebox companies?”

“No. Maybe they’re saving me for last.”

“So you know who they are?”

“I’ve heard they’re Italians from Chicago. Serious people. But it doesn’t matter. Y’all fronted me the money when I needed it, Mr. Zeman. I’m not forgetting that.”

“Glad to hear it,” Junior said, leaning in. “Just so you know — I may be taking over the jukebox business. My uncle was... a good businessman. But he was old-fashioned. I’ve got new ideas. For instance, you should make some changes, Brownie. Get with the times.”

“What kind of changes?”

“For openers, lose the blues on your jukebox. Put on new music. Run some beer specials, hire some rock bands from the college, get a younger crowd in here. Put in some girls upstairs. You’re sitting on a gold mine here, Leo. Together we could turn it into a real moneymaker.”

“I like it the way it is,” Leo said evenly. “I don’t get rich, but I make my payments on time. And that’s all you’ve got to worry about, mister. This is a neighborhood joint. Local people come in to hear some blues, forget about life awhile. White kids and hookers would bring trouble, and I don’t like trouble. The big bucks won’t mean much if I have to blow it all on bail.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear what the man said.” Red said, doing a movie version of a badass stare. “You hard of hearing, blood?”

“I hear just fine,” Leo said, ignoring Red. “The thing is, my uncle’s alive and well and livin’ in Alabama. Yours is downtown coolin’ on a slab, Mr. Zeman.”

“Are you trying to threaten me, Brownie?”

“No, sir. I’m just sayin’ maybe you don’t understand how things work down here. If I was you, I’d be a lot more worried about who waxed Moishe than tunes on a jukebox. It’s the kind of thing you have to be sure about. Especially since a whole lot of people could get killed for nothing if you’re wrong.”

“We know who killed Moishe,” Red said. “Them Italians.”

“No,” Leo said, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“If the Italians took him out, they’d put it all over town so everybody’d know how bad they are. But I haven’t heard anything about it one way or the other. How about you? You hear any noise about Moishe gettin’ waxed? Like who did it? Or why?”

“No,” Tony Junior admitted. “We’ve talked to a few people. Leaned on a few more. Nobody knows anything. Including you.”

“I don’t know who killed Moishe, but I might have better luck finding out than you will.”

“How do you mean?”

“This is my part of town, Mr. Zeman. I know who to ask, how to ask. People will talk to me who won’t talk to you, you know?”

“Why be helpful?” Red sneered. “What’s in it for you?”

“Stayin’ alive, for one thing. If you start up with those Italians, I’m liable to get caught in the crossfire. On the other hand, if I can turn up the guy who did Moishe, it oughtta be worth something, right?”

“It might be,” Tony Junior nodded warily. “Like how much?”

“We just call it even. My loan’s paid off. Sound fair?”

“Not quite,” Junior said. “My dad taught me any deal should cut both ways. Something to win. And something to lose. So you’ve got twenty-four hours, Brownie. After that we start taking people out. With you at the top of the list.”

“Me? Wait a minute, I didn’t—”

“Save it, Brownie. You’re right, I don’t know how things are down here. And I don’t care. Maybe you people think I’m too young to take over from my uncle. Too green. Maybe you even think you can con me. Is that how it is?”

“No, I—”

“Shut up! And listen up! You’ve got one day to give me the guy who did Moishe. Or you’re the guy. You got that? Or should I have Red take you out in the alley and explain it some more?”

“No need,” Brownie said, swallowing. “I got it.”

Brownie didn’t waste any time. Five minutes after Tony Junior and his goons left, he was in his emerald Studebaker retracing the route he’d taken with Moishe the night before. From the club to the corner of Clairmont and Twelfth.

Easing the Stude to the curb, he scanned the area, remembering. Moishe hadn’t asked to be brought here. He’d spoken suddenly when he ordered Brownie to pull over.

As though he’d forgotten something. Or remembered it. Okay. What could Moishe remember about this corner?

A newsstand in the next block carried the morning papers, the Detroit Free Press, the News, a few magazines. But it hadn’t been open yet. Hell, it was after two A.M. Every damn thing was closed...

No. Not everything. Brownie parked the Hawk at the curb and climbed out. The steamy afternoon hit him like a blast from a furnace door. Instant sweat.

Dropping a dime in the meter for an hour, he strolled down the narrow service alley that led to the loading docks in the middle of the block behind the shops.

There. A wooden staircase led to a second-story warehouse above a print shop. No lights showing. Naturally. The windows were painted flat black. Trotting up the steps, Brownie rapped twice on the gray metal freight door, then twice again. And waited.

The tiny peephole winked as somebody inside checked him out. Then the door opened. Just a crack.

“We’re closed.”

“I know. I’m Brownie, I own the Lounge up on Dequinder. Tell Fatback I need to see him. It’s important.”

The door closed a moment, then opened to admit him. Bass, Fatback’s bouncer/bodyguard, patted Brownie down for weapons, then waved him through.

Inside, the blind pig was empty, chairs stacked on tables while an ancient janitor mopped the hardwood floor. Skeletal microphone stands stood on a small stage in the corner. The only difference between this joint and Brownie’s was a liquor license and the gaming tables. Roulette, craps, blackjack. All illegal.

So were his operating hours. Fatback’s place opened around midnight, stayed open till five or six. Or around the clock if a serious game got going.

Fatback was at the end of the bar, sipping a Vernors, thumbing through his cash register receipts. His nickname suited him. Five-foot-five, 360 pounds, with a full beard, Fatback looked like a black Santa Claus in a China blue sharkskin suit. Custom tailored, it fit without a wrinkle. Brownie pulled up a stool next to him. Fat kept counting.

“We’ve got trouble,” Brownie said quietly.

“What trouble? I’m just tryin’ to run a business.”

“I dropped Moishe Abrams in front of this place last night,” Brownie said, shading the truth. “I know he came in here, Fat. What the hell happened?”

Fat glanced up at him, then shook his head. “What always happens with the jukebox king?” he sighed, jotting down the tape tally in a tiny notebook. “Trouble happened. And thanks a bunch for dropping him off. Why didn’t you fire a couple of rounds through my front door while you were at it? Gimme a friendly warning.”

“I figured you’d notice Moishe soon enough. Did he get in somebody’s face?”

“Mine, for openers. I didn’t want to serve him, he was already loaded. Told me if I didn’t he’d toss my damn jukebox out the window and me with it.”

“Sounds like Moishe. So?”

“So I gave him a bottle. What else could I do? Didn’t figure he’d cause much trouble. I was dead wrong about that.”

“Why? What went down?”

“Nothin’ at first. Place was pretty quiet. Couple of card games, some craps goin’ on. The kid they call Little Diddley was playin’ guitar, but nobody was payin’ him no mind. Too damn hot to dance. Moishe yelled at Diddley to quit singin’ them blues. Little D don’t know who Moishe is, tells him to screw hisself. I told the kid to pack it in for the night just to save his damn life.” Fatback shook his head, remembering.

“Then Moishe decides he wants to play some cards. Butts into Charlie Cee’s game. Them studs been at it all night, serious money changin’ hands. Seven, eight hundred bucks every pot. Moishe antes up a grand, plays awhile. Loses his ass, naturally. He’s too drunk to pitch pennies, to say nothin’ of playin’ cutthroat poker. Then Moishe claims Charlie Cee’s cheatin’.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Brownie whistled. ‘“What happened?”

“All hell broke loose. Charlie came out of his chair with a piece. Me and Bass jumped in, cooled Charlie down, and hustled Moishe’s ass out of the place. Might cost me my jukebox, but it’s better’n havin’ Moishe kill somebody in here or get killed his own self.”

Brownie was staring at him.

“What?” Fatback asked, annoyed.

“You haven’t heard, have you?”

“Ain’t heard nothin’ about nothin,’ Brownie. I just rolled in here ten minutes ago. Why? What’s up?”

“Moishe bought the farm last night. Somebody cut him up. His body turned up on the street a couple of blocks from here. His people are lookin’ to bleed somebody for it.”

“Aw, man, you got to be kiddin’,” Fatback moaned. “Who his people lookin’ for?”

“You. Or maybe me. They don’t much care. They just wanna burn somebody quick. Any chance Moishe waited outside for Charlie Cee, maybe mixed it up with him?”

“Nah. I bounced Moishe around three-thirty. Cee’s game didn’t break up until seven or so. I closed up, and me and Cee went over to my woman’s in Greektown for breakfast.”

“Cee was with you the whole time?” Brownie pressed.

“Yeah, damn it. The whole time, just me and...” Fatback broke off, frowning.

“What is it?” Brownie asked.

“Just thinking. Half a dozen people saw Charlie Cee and Moishe get into it. But I’m the only one can cover for Cee after.”

“Sell Charlie out? That’s pretty cold, Fatback.”

“Hey, me and Cee ain’t family, you know? If somebody’s gotta get whacked over this, better him than us. Got any better ideas?”

“Not yet,” Brownie said, rising. “Hang loose, I’ll get back to you. Gonna be here?”

“Got nowhere else to be,” Fat sighed. “Might want to knock extra hard if you come back, though. I’m gonna lock this place down and turn my jukebox up extra loud. Any way you figure it, I probably won’t have it for long.”

Outside, Brownie stood at the top of the stairway looking around. According to Fatback, Moishe got tossed at three-thirty. What would he do next? Where would he go?

Nowhere. The answer came to him as surely as the turnaround in an old blues tune. Moishe would never accept getting bounced by a black man. He’d look to get even. And right away. So he wouldn’t go anywhere. He’d wait for Fatback or Charlie Cee.

Where?

Only one place. Against the warehouse wall in the shadows of the loading dock. Concealed there, you could watch the door and the stairway and make your move when somebody showed.

Trotting down the stairs, Brownie quickly scanned the area. Spotted the signs almost immediately. Polka dots. Dark droplets, more brownish than red now, spattered across the cardboard boxes that littered the alley floor.

Dried blood. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking.

Damn.

Brownie nudged the loose boxes around with the toe of his shoe, half expecting to find a body beneath them. He didn’t. Instead he found a battered chipboard guitar case. The name Little Diddley was crudely lettered on the side in white paint. Spattered with polka dots.

“The kid’s real name is Jonas Arquette,” Fatback said. “Calls his-self Little Diddley ’cause he tries to sing like Bo.” They were in Brownie’s Studebaker headed down Eighth as the steamy dusk settled over Detroit, darkening the streets without cooling them a single degree.

“Diddley worked for you long?”

“Few weeks. Came up from New Orleans a month or so back, scufflin’ for gigs. Boy sings pretty good, plays a mean guitar.”

“And works cheap,” Brownie added dryly.

“That, too,” Fatback grinned. “But it’s not like I’m rippin’ him off. I gave him a gig playin’ after hours, got him a room over at the Delmore Arms where most of the players stay. Figured the kid could make some connections, maybe get hooked up with somethin’ steady, you know? And this is how he pays me back. Gets into a jam with the damn jukebox king. Might as well head for the morgue and pick out a slab for hisself.”

“Maybe he’s already there,” Brownie said, wheeling the Stude into the Delmore Arms parking lot. “Cops said they found a stiff in an alley on the Corridor last night, beaten to death.”

“You think it was Diddley?”

“They didn’t mention a name. Let’s find out.”

Fatback slipped the Delmore desk clerk a five for a key to the kid’s room. He and Brownie rode four floors up, the rickety elevator rattling like a cattle car on the Rock Island Line.

Didn’t bother to knock. Fat silently unlocked the door, and the two men warily edged into the dark room. Brownie switched on the light.

“Aw, man,” Fat breathed. A body was on the bed, a tangled mess wrapped in bloodstained sheets. Fatback held a pudgy finger to the kid’s throat, shaking his head. “He’s alive. But not by much.”

“And not for long, no matter how you figure it,” Brownie said, gingerly picking up Moishe’s bloody razor from the nightstand.

Fat glanced at the razor, his mouth narrowing. Then he slapped the kid. Hard. “Wake up, Jonas! Come on.”

Diddley’s eyes snapped open, flicked from Fat to Brownie and hack again, dazed, terrified. Tried to sit up, then fell back, groaning.

“What happened last night?” Fat asked. “What’d you do?”

“Nothin’, I swear,” the kid rasped. “It was crazy. I was headin’ out like you told me; old dude jumped me. Never said nothin’ to me, just come out of the dark with a razor. Moved like lightning. Must’ve cut me five times before I knew what the hell was happenin’.”

“Then why aren’t you dead?” Brownie asked reasonably. “Moishe is.”

“The old dude’s dead?”

“You know damn well he is,” Fat growled. “You did him.”

“No,” the kid said, wincing, remembering. “I was holdin’ my guitar in front of me, just tryin’ to stay alive. His razor stuck in the case. I grabbed it, swung at him a couple of times, just lookin’ to back him off me, you know? He took off runnin’ one way, I went the other. Came back here. Snuck in. Guess I passed out. Damn, I gotta go back. I lost my guitar.”

“Relax, I’ve got it in my car,” Brownie said. “You stay still or you’ll start bleedin’ again.”

Turning away, he motioned Fatback over.

“Now what?”

“He’s cut up pretty bad,” Fat shrugged. “Needs a doctor.”

“If we take him to a hospital like he is, Moishe’s people are gonna hear about it five minutes later. We might as well shoot him now, save them the trouble.”

“Maybe he’s got it comin’,” Fat said evenly. “He’s the one that mixed it up with the jukebox king.”

“It wasn’t his fault and you know it. Moishe didn’t know who the kid was and didn’t care. After you bounced him, he jumped the first black man who came down those steps. Could’ve been you, me, anybody.”

“That’s Diddley’s tough luck.”

“And ours, too. Diddley works for you, Fat, and I dropped Moishe off at your place. Tony Junior’s mob is so paranoid they’ll figure we set Moishe up for the Italians. We can hand the kid over to ’em gift-wrapped and still get killed.”

“So? What do we do? Dummy up, hope this blows over?”

“Can’t. We found the kid, it’s only a matter of time before they do, too. Do you know a doctor who can keep his mouth shut?”

“My brother-in-law’s a medic, ex-army.”

“He’ll have to do. Get him over here, patch the kid up. But no hospital.”

“You got somethin’ in mind, Brownie?”

“Hell, no.”

Brownie sighed, wrapping the bloody razor in his handkerchief, slipping it into his pocket. “All I know is it’s too damn hot to think straight, and I’m tired of bein’ pushed around. I’m ready to push back. How ‘bout you, Fat? You up for some trouble?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No,” Brownie grinned. “Come to think of it, I guess you don’t.”

Waiting in the air-conditioned lobby of Churchill’s Grill, Tony Zeman, Jr., felt a twinge of unease. He’d sent Red for the car five minutes ago. What was the holdup? He was about to head back into the restaurant when his black Lincoln rolled up out front. A pudgy black valet in a blue blazer opened the rear door and stood aside, smiling.

But as Tony climbed into the Lincoln, the valet scrambled in after him, closing the door, seizing his wrists with one hand as he jerked Tony’s pistol out of its shoulder holster. “Don’t do nothin’ sudden, Mr. Zeman,” Brownie said, gunning the Lincoln into traffic on Woodward. “We just want to talk.”

“What the hell is this?” Junior blustered, eyeing the gun in Fat-back’s huge fist, trying to conceal his panic. “Where’s my driver? Where’s Red?”

“Back at the bar answering a bogus phone call. By the way, Red’s way too dumb to be your bodyguard, Mr. Zeman. You need to hire better people.”

“I’ll look into it,” Tony Junior said grimly. “What do you want, Brownie?”

“To give you a present,” Brownie said, nodding at Fatback. Fat took a handkerchief out of his valet’s blazer and laid it carefully on Junior’s lap.

Junior hesitated a moment, then peeled back the linen to reveal the bloody razor. “My god.”

“You recognize it?” Fatback asked.

“It’s my uncle’s. Where did you get it?”

“Bought it from some street kids. They took it off a body they found in an alley on Eighth last night.”

“What body?”

“The guy your uncle beat to death before he died of his wounds. The guy who killed him.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know his name, but with your connections you should be able to find out easy enough. He’s down at the city morgue. Unidentified body number fifty-four.”

“Was he a professional? Was it a mob hit?”

“Not likely. No pro would have taken on your uncle one-on-one with a blade. Looks like it was a street scuffle that went bad for both of ’em. You know how your uncle was when he was drinkin,’ right?”

“I know how he was,” Junior nodded, “but I don’t know about you. Why should I believe you? How do I know you’re not—”

“—working for the Italians?” Brownie grinned. “Because you’re still breathin’, young stud. If we were with those guys, you’d already be dead. Instead...” Brownie eased the Lincoln quietly to the curb and stopped. “We’ll be getting out here. And congratulations, Mr. Zeman. You’re the new jukebox king. Can I offer you some friendly advice?”

“Like what?” Junior said, swallowing, still half expecting a bullet from his own gun.

“The guy that turned up in the alley? Nobody knows what happened to him. You might want to put the word out that you happened to him, Mr. Zeman. That it was your people who took him down. Show the Italians how quick you can take out the trash.”

“I’ll think about it,” Junior said, climbing warily out of the car, sliding behind the wheel.

“And my loan?” Brownie pressed. “We’re even now, right?”

“I’ll think about that, too,” Tony yelled, mashing the gas.

The Lincoln tore off into the night, tires howling. Leaving Brownie and Fat standing at the curb. Next to Brownie’s emerald green Studebaker. “Jukebox king,” Fatback snorted. “You think you can trust that punk?”

“We can trust him to look out for number one,” Brownie said. “Junior’s in law school, so he must be at least half smart. And taking credit for the stiff in the alley is a smart move. If he goes for it, the kid’s off the hook. And so are we.”

“What loan were you talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’ll weasel on the deal. I owe him six large, and those white boys are killin’ each other over jukebox quarters.”

“Them quarters add up.”

“To what? Bleedin’ out in an alley? All I know about jukes is what’s on ’em. John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters, they’re the real jukebox kings. People will be playin’ their music a hundred years from now. Nobody’ll care who got the quarters.”

“We might care. If it was us.”

“Meaning what?”

“After seein’ Junior up close, I ain’t sure he’s smart enough to hang onto the jukebox business, Brownie. Or tough enough.”

“You want to be the jukebox king, Fat? Like Moishe? Look what it got him.”

“Okay, maybe not a king,” Fatback conceded. “Too risky. I ain’t sayin’ we should try to grab up the whole thing. But maybe we could take back the action around the Corridor. In our end of town.”

“Like... jukebox princes?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Fatback said with satisfaction, his vast face brightening. “Jukebox princes. Listen here, after you close up tonight, why don’t you come on down to my place. We’ll shoot us some pool, drink some beers. And figure out how to be jukebox princes. What do you say?”

“Gotta admit it does sound interesting,” Brownie nodded, mulling it over. “Jukebox princes? Yeah. Why not?”