Doug Allyn: The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

“And not for long, no matter how you figure it,” Brownie said, gingerly picking up Moishe’s bloody razor from the nightstand.

Fat glanced at the razor, his mouth narrowing. Then he slapped the kid. Hard. “Wake up, Jonas! Come on.”

Diddley’s eyes snapped open, flicked from Fat to Brownie and hack again, dazed, terrified. Tried to sit up, then fell back, groaning.

“What happened last night?” Fat asked. “What’d you do?”

“Nothin’, I swear,” the kid rasped. “It was crazy. I was headin’ out like you told me; old dude jumped me. Never said nothin’ to me, just come out of the dark with a razor. Moved like lightning. Must’ve cut me five times before I knew what the hell was happenin’.”

“Then why aren’t you dead?” Brownie asked reasonably. “Moishe is.”

“The old dude’s dead?”

“You know damn well he is,” Fat growled. “You did him.”

“No,” the kid said, wincing, remembering. “I was holdin’ my guitar in front of me, just tryin’ to stay alive. His razor stuck in the case. I grabbed it, swung at him a couple of times, just lookin’ to back him off me, you know? He took off runnin’ one way, I went the other. Came back here. Snuck in. Guess I passed out. Damn, I gotta go back. I lost my guitar.”

“Relax, I’ve got it in my car,” Brownie said. “You stay still or you’ll start bleedin’ again.”

Turning away, he motioned Fatback over.

“Now what?”

“He’s cut up pretty bad,” Fat shrugged. “Needs a doctor.”

“If we take him to a hospital like he is, Moishe’s people are gonna hear about it five minutes later. We might as well shoot him now, save them the trouble.”

“Maybe he’s got it comin’,” Fat said evenly. “He’s the one that mixed it up with the jukebox king.”

“It wasn’t his fault and you know it. Moishe didn’t know who the kid was and didn’t care. After you bounced him, he jumped the first black man who came down those steps. Could’ve been you, me, anybody.”

“That’s Diddley’s tough luck.”

“And ours, too. Diddley works for you, Fat, and I dropped Moishe off at your place. Tony Junior’s mob is so paranoid they’ll figure we set Moishe up for the Italians. We can hand the kid over to ’em gift-wrapped and still get killed.”

“So? What do we do? Dummy up, hope this blows over?”

“Can’t. We found the kid, it’s only a matter of time before they do, too. Do you know a doctor who can keep his mouth shut?”

“My brother-in-law’s a medic, ex-army.”

“He’ll have to do. Get him over here, patch the kid up. But no hospital.”

“You got somethin’ in mind, Brownie?”

“Hell, no.”

Brownie sighed, wrapping the bloody razor in his handkerchief, slipping it into his pocket. “All I know is it’s too damn hot to think straight, and I’m tired of bein’ pushed around. I’m ready to push back. How ‘bout you, Fat? You up for some trouble?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No,” Brownie grinned. “Come to think of it, I guess you don’t.”

Waiting in the air-conditioned lobby of Churchill’s Grill, Tony Zeman, Jr., felt a twinge of unease. He’d sent Red for the car five minutes ago. What was the holdup? He was about to head back into the restaurant when his black Lincoln rolled up out front. A pudgy black valet in a blue blazer opened the rear door and stood aside, smiling.

But as Tony climbed into the Lincoln, the valet scrambled in after him, closing the door, seizing his wrists with one hand as he jerked Tony’s pistol out of its shoulder holster. “Don’t do nothin’ sudden, Mr. Zeman,” Brownie said, gunning the Lincoln into traffic on Woodward. “We just want to talk.”

“What the hell is this?” Junior blustered, eyeing the gun in Fat-back’s huge fist, trying to conceal his panic. “Where’s my driver? Where’s Red?”

“Back at the bar answering a bogus phone call. By the way, Red’s way too dumb to be your bodyguard, Mr. Zeman. You need to hire better people.”

“I’ll look into it,” Tony Junior said grimly. “What do you want, Brownie?”

“To give you a present,” Brownie said, nodding at Fatback. Fat took a handkerchief out of his valet’s blazer and laid it carefully on Junior’s lap.

Junior hesitated a moment, then peeled back the linen to reveal the bloody razor. “My god.”

“You recognize it?” Fatback asked.

“It’s my uncle’s. Where did you get it?”

“Bought it from some street kids. They took it off a body they found in an alley on Eighth last night.”

“What body?”

“The guy your uncle beat to death before he died of his wounds. The guy who killed him.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know his name, but with your connections you should be able to find out easy enough. He’s down at the city morgue. Unidentified body number fifty-four.”

“Was he a professional? Was it a mob hit?”

“Not likely. No pro would have taken on your uncle one-on-one with a blade. Looks like it was a street scuffle that went bad for both of ’em. You know how your uncle was when he was drinkin,’ right?”

“I know how he was,” Junior nodded, “but I don’t know about you. Why should I believe you? How do I know you’re not—”

“—working for the Italians?” Brownie grinned. “Because you’re still breathin’, young stud. If we were with those guys, you’d already be dead. Instead...” Brownie eased the Lincoln quietly to the curb and stopped. “We’ll be getting out here. And congratulations, Mr. Zeman. You’re the new jukebox king. Can I offer you some friendly advice?”

“Like what?” Junior said, swallowing, still half expecting a bullet from his own gun.

“The guy that turned up in the alley? Nobody knows what happened to him. You might want to put the word out that you happened to him, Mr. Zeman. That it was your people who took him down. Show the Italians how quick you can take out the trash.”

“I’ll think about it,” Junior said, climbing warily out of the car, sliding behind the wheel.

“And my loan?” Brownie pressed. “We’re even now, right?”

“I’ll think about that, too,” Tony yelled, mashing the gas.

The Lincoln tore off into the night, tires howling. Leaving Brownie and Fat standing at the curb. Next to Brownie’s emerald green Studebaker. “Jukebox king,” Fatback snorted. “You think you can trust that punk?”

“We can trust him to look out for number one,” Brownie said. “Junior’s in law school, so he must be at least half smart. And taking credit for the stiff in the alley is a smart move. If he goes for it, the kid’s off the hook. And so are we.”

“What loan were you talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’ll weasel on the deal. I owe him six large, and those white boys are killin’ each other over jukebox quarters.”

“Them quarters add up.”

“To what? Bleedin’ out in an alley? All I know about jukes is what’s on ’em. John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters, they’re the real jukebox kings. People will be playin’ their music a hundred years from now. Nobody’ll care who got the quarters.”

“We might care. If it was us.”

“Meaning what?”

“After seein’ Junior up close, I ain’t sure he’s smart enough to hang onto the jukebox business, Brownie. Or tough enough.”

“You want to be the jukebox king, Fat? Like Moishe? Look what it got him.”

“Okay, maybe not a king,” Fatback conceded. “Too risky. I ain’t sayin’ we should try to grab up the whole thing. But maybe we could take back the action around the Corridor. In our end of town.”

“Like... jukebox princes?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Fatback said with satisfaction, his vast face brightening. “Jukebox princes. Listen here, after you close up tonight, why don’t you come on down to my place. We’ll shoot us some pool, drink some beers. And figure out how to be jukebox princes. What do you say?”