Doug Allyn: The Best American Mystery Stories 1997

Danny Liebman was lost in the music, slumped in his swivel chair with an old Martin Flattop guitar cradled in his ample lap. He was playing along with the tape. Or trying to. Butchering the same lick over and over again. His timing was so lame I couldn’t tell if he was improving or not. Danny loved to play. And had zero aptitude for it.

“Yo, Danny,” I said. No response. I gimped over to the sound system and turned it down. Danny blinked up at me through his steel-framed granny glasses. He was dressed in his usual street-grunge duds, faded flannel shirt, ripped jeans, shaggy hair. And still looked exactly like a well-fed Jewish kid from Grosse Pointe. Genes will out.

“Are you limping?” Danny asked.

“I got kicked by some yo-yo’s girlfriend over at the Bucket of Blood,” I said, easing painfully down on the corner of the desk. “Thirty seconds earlier he’d been beatin’ hell out of her, but as soon as I step in, she boots me on the ankle. Hurts like a bitch. That’s my sad story, what’s yours? What’s the big emergency? You got a collection problem for me, I hope?”

“Au contraire,” Danny said, “somebody’s trying to give me money for a change. A guy stopped by to see me last night while I was closing up. Said he was seriously interested in buying the club.”

“No kidding.” I said, surprised. “I didn’t know you were looking to get out. How long have you been open? Six months?”

“Sell hell, this is a dream job. Running a blues bar near the campus, great music, many brews, and friendly coeds who think I’m too cool for school. I’m as happy as the proverbial pig.”

“Which you’re going to resemble soon if you don’t back off on the Bud Lite, bud.” I said. “But if you don’t have a collection job for me, what am I doing here?”

“I want to tell you about the offer.”

“Why? I’m jealous enough of you as it is.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be. The guy offered to take over my mortgage, double the points I paid up front, plus ten grand.”

“Ten? That’s chicken feed considering the sweat equity you put into remodeling this place. Who made the offer? Some stud from the Afro student union who figures you’re an ofay cashing in on black culture?”

“He’d be dead right about that,” Danny said mildly. “But this guy’s no brother, he’s Chinese, Ax. From across the border at Windsor. And he knew the numbers, my mortgage and points. To the nickel. He definitely did some homework.”

“So who asked him to? If you don’t want to sell, tell him to stick it.”

“Actually, I did. Sort of. I said I wasn’t interested. At which point he said the price was nonnegotiable. And it would drop a thousand a day until I took it.”

“A thousand a day?” I said. “Interesting. Did he threaten you?”

“Don’t be a schmuck, Ax. I may have had a sheltered upbringing, but I know a threat when I hear one.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Subtle, though. Not much to complain to the law about. So what do you want me to do?”

“Woof him off,” Danny said simply. “The guy weighs one forty tops, and you can pass for a facsimile of lusty American manhood in bad light. I figured you’d scowl a little, maybe threaten him with grievous bodily harm; end of problem. Of course, that was before you came gimping in here like somebody’s granny.”

“So I’ll woof him sittin’ down,” I said. “Unless you don’t think I’m up to it, in which case woof him yourself, Liebman. You weigh more than a hundred and forty. A lot more.”

“Get real,” a girl said from the doorway. “Danny couldn’t intimidate a bat mitzvah class. You’re Axton, right?”

I swiveled to face her. She was gaunt, gangly, and looked about sixteen. Her blonde hair was short as a boy’s, barely more than peach fuzz. She was pretty enough if you’re into the starving gamin type. Personally, I prefer grownups.

“Ax, this is Cheryl Vanetti, of Cherry and the Pit? My house band.”

“Right, I’ve heard the group,” I said.

“And?” she prompted.

“And it has... real potential. With a little work.”

The room chilled about ten degrees. “Gee, thanks so much, Mister Axton, sir. Are you a music critic? Or just a hired goon?”

“I do what I do,” I said. “And I’d rather do it somewhere other than this office, Danny. It’s too private in here. When’s this guy due?”

“Five minutes ago, and I’ve got a feeling he’ll be prompt.”

“Then let’s take a table,” Cherry said.

“Hold it,” I said. “No offense, but I don’t remember inviting you.”

“I don’t need an invitation, at least not from you, jack. I just signed a long-term development contract with Danny, so what affects him affects me. Besides, Danny says I need to learn more about life to be a better singer. What could be more lively than this? Oughtta be a hoot, right, Danny?”

“It might not hurt to have a witness present anyway, Ax,” Danny said sheepishly, leading us out to a table near the dance floor. “The guy’s just coming to talk, and with you here, there won’t be any trouble.”

“It’s your party,” I said, shrugging.

“Good. I like parties.” Cherry said, taking a seat at the table. “But you’d better turn that noise down, Danny. We want to woof the guy off, not bore him to death.”

“Bore him?” Danny echoed with mock indignation. “You little philistine. That’s Blind Lemon Jefferson. ‘Bed Spring Blues.’ It’s a classic.”

“Which is a synonym for outdated, passé, and boooring.” Cherry groaned. “If you played some new stuff once in a while, maybe your daytime business would pick up.”

“It’s kinda tough to find new Blind Lemon songs, miss,” I put in. “He froze to death in a Chicago alley back in 1930.”

“No wonder he sounds lame. Jeez. Danny, a guy who’s been dead sixty years isn’t relevant to... Is that your friend?”

Danny didn’t bother to answer. A couple was standing just inside the front door, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the murk after the coppery brightness of the Motown afternoon. Orientals. Taller than I expected. The man was six feet or so, slender as a clarinet, in a designer leather jacket, all gleaming zippers and studs. Slacks and tassel loafers. She was nearly as tall, but more conservatively dressed; dark suit, a pastel orange Oldham scarf that vaguely matched her shoulder bag. I couldn’t guess their ages; tough to do with Asians. Young, though. Thirtyish at the outside.

They spotted Danny and came directly back, moving between the tables with wary grace, like feral cats. And I fell my shoulders tensing, my gut knotting up. It was an intuitive response, not a rational one. The guy didn’t look threatening. More like a yuppie stockbroker. Or a lawyer. Hell, maybe that’s what was bugging me.

“Mr. Chen,” Danny said, “this is my partner, Mr. Axton.”

Chen glanced at me but didn’t offer to shake hands. Just as well. Up close he had a slightly rancid air, as though his cologne had passed its expiration dale. There was a smudge on his jaw where he’d shaved around an acne patch.

“This lady will translate for me if I need,” he said. He slouched into a chair across from Danny. “Wouldn’t want no misunderstandings.”

The woman lit beside him, hovering near his shoulder like a pilot fish. Orientals are supposedly inscrutable, but this one wasn’t hard to read. She was jumpy as a bat in a barn fire. Her brow and upper lip were dewy, and she avoided looking at us, even at Cherry, which was odd. Women usually check each other out for at least a split second. I was picking up seriously bad vibes from these two. Something was definitely wrong. I gave Chen my ugliest thousand-yard stare and he barely noticed. He seemed more interested in looking over the room, as if he already owned it. And us.