Doug Allyn: The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

“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.