Doug Allyn: The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

“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.”