Doug Allyn - The Best American Mystery Stories 2000

“Sounds fair. So?”

“I’ll be blunt. My wife is in no condition emotionally to make decisions that could affect her entire life. And mine. I’ll be happy to reimburse you for your time and trouble, but we won’t be requiring your services.”

“Sorry, but it doesn’t work that way.”

“She can’t pay you, Axton. I control the purse strings and I guarantee you’ll never see a dime.”

“Actually, Krystal and I never got around to discussing a fee, so I guess this one’s on the house. Call it Christian charity.”

“Are you mocking my beliefs, Mr. Axton?”

“Not at all. I have a question, though. That blue screen facing the broadcast dais? How do you morph the audiences in?”

He eyed me a moment, then shrugged. “We film the crowds when I speak at churches and halls. The congregations you see on television are mine, they just don’t happen to be in the studio at broadcast time. A miracle of the electronic sort. Why?”

“Just wondered. Look, Reverend, I know this is a tough time for you and I sympathize, but Krystal asked me to do this thing, I agreed, and that’s it. And right now she’s alone and half plastered. You should be talking to her, not me.”

“You intend to press on with this? Over my objections? Are you a Christian, Mr. Axton?”

“Probably not by your standards, no.”

“I’m not surprised. I imagine genuine Christian values could be a drawback in your line.”

“Actually, I think my line and yours are both a lot like making sausage, Reverend. The less people know about how we do it, the better off they are. Tell Krystal I’ll be in touch.”

Halfway between floors, Klein hit the elevator stop button and turned to face me.

“You shouldn’t have talked to Reverend Grace like that.”

“Like what?”

“Disrespectfully. When a man like him asks you to do something, you do it.”

“If I was working for him, I probably would. But I’m not.”

“Then I’ll make it simple. When you say no to Reverend Grace, you’re saying no to me. Your face has already been rearranged once. I could do it again.”

“Maybe. But not in this elevator.”

“Why not?”

“Because people are in mourning upstairs, Jerry. I doubt your boss would appreciate a dustup in the middle of it. No matter who

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Hell, you don’t look like you’re afraid of anything. Which makes me think you’ve led a pretty quiet life. Up to now. So? You wanna take your best shot? Or restart the elevator?”

“Maybe this isn’t the time or the place, Axton. But your time’s coming.”

“I hope so. I’d hate to think it was past.”

Krystal was half right. Raleigh Records was southern. Southern Michigan. South of Detroit, in Ecorse, to be exact. A rundown studio in a block of dilapidated warehouses off West Jefferson. Raleigh Productions: Rollie Newcomb, president, chief financial officer, salesman, packing clerk, secretary, janitor. Whatever. Strictly a scuffler.

I found Rollie working the phone in his second-floor office, trying to peddle the crates of CDs, tapes, and old LPs stacked in the open bay beyond. In the fifties and sixties, Rollie cut sides with Jackie Wilson, Mitch Ryder, and other Motown hometown heroes. A few hit it big later on, but not Rollie. He was stuck in Ecorse, selling second-rate recordings by stars who were nobodies at the time, or nobodies who stayed that way. Like...

“Bobby Penn and the Badmen?” Rollie said, eyeing me warily. Rollie’s fat, sixty, and still wears polyester leisure suits. And not because he’s into retro styles. “Is business so bad you’re down to working for the Badmen these days, Ax?”

“I thought they were defunct.”

“Went belly-up years ago. But sometimes a member of a group tries to use the name. If you’re looking for their royalties, you’re out of luck. Penn made all the contracts in his name only. The Badmen weren’t even named individually on the album jacket, which was just as well since he bagged two of ’em in the middle of the session. Bobby hired and fired people so fast if you lined all the former Badmen up they’d look like the Million Man March. Bobby’s got some dough coming, though. He hire you?”

“No. Actually I’m trying to find him for somebody else.”

“A drug dealer?”

“Hell no. Why?”

“Because the first couple of years after he split, at least a half-dozen slimeball dope dealers came around looking for him. He owed everybody.”

“Since when do dealers extend credit?”

“Oh, Bobby was slick, I’ll give him that. Kid could schmooze the Statue of Liberty out of her concrete skivvies. So what’s up? You lookin’ to bust his legs?” He sounded hopeful.

“Nah, I don’t do that kind of work. I’m just trying to run him down. A matter of paternity.”

“You’re kidding. He reproduced? How? In a pond with the rest of the scum? I hope you burn him for every dime he’s got.”

“I have to find him first.”

“Can’t help you there, Ax, but I’m holding eighteen hundred bucks of Bobby’s money. If you find him, maybe we can work something out.”

“What money?”

“Royalty checks. I packaged Bobby with a dozen other lousy groups, called it Garbage Band Nobodies, and put it on the Internet for the collector market. It’s been selling pretty well. His career’s doing better since he quit the business.”

“What makes you think he quit?”

“If he was still playing, somebody’s mention the record and three seconds later he’d be on the phone screaming for his cut and then some. He had a nose for a buck, that one.”

“So you’ve got no idea where he is?”

“Not a clue. And no loss.”

“What about his pal, Beans? Remember him?”

“Yeah, heavyset guy? Beans Marino?”

“Was that his name? Marino?”

“Yeah. He was Bobby’s road manager, so he signed off on the equipment rentals for the studio. Not a bad guy. In fact, I tried to hire him, but he and Bobby went way back. Boyhood pals or something. Can’t remember his first name but it was something like Beans. Dean or Gene or something.”

Not Dean or Gene. After leaving Rollie’s studio, I went back to my apartment office, fired up my computer, ran a couple of name searches, and scored. Benno Marino, Mr. and Mrs., lived upstate in the boonies, in northern Oakland County near the Mount Holly ski resort.

I called, got a lady with a delicious southern accent, told her I needed to talk to Benno about the royalties Rollie owed Bobby, and made an appointment for that evening.

Driving upstate is always a mindbender. Detroit’s a sprawling rustbelt relic frantically reinventing itself. Casinos a-building, warehouses imploding, housing exploding everywhere.

But drive forty minutes north of the city and you’re in Hicksville, U.S.A. — heavily wooded hills where transplants from Tupelo and Texarkana build replicas of the backcountry shacks where they were fetched up. Plus a few amenities like hot tubs, central air, and satellite TV.

The Marino place was a mountain ranch house sided in rough cedar. Perched on a bluff with a view of gently rolling hills to the south, it had an odd look as I approached. I didn’t realize what was out of place until I pulled into the driveway. Instead of steps, a ramp led up to the broad front porch and another around to the side door. Wheelchair ramps.

The woman who answered the door resolved the riddle. She was in a power wheelchair, though she looked healthy enough to get up and run a ten-minute mile: chubby, rosy cheeks, dark hair trimmed in a pageboy bob.

“Mrs. Marino? My name’s Axton. I called.”

“I’m Jeanie. Ben’s not home yet, but come in. Sorry about the ramps; a drunk driver dipped me seven years ago. This way.” She backed away from the door and I followed her into a brightly tiled country kitchen, copper pots, a brick island in the center, everything waist high. Wheelchair height.