Doug Allyn: The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

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.