Doug Allyn: The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

“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.”