Doug Allyn: The Best American Mystery Stories 1997

“How much am I paving you. Ax?” Danny asked as I got painfully to my feet. “Things happened so quickly we didn’t discuss the details.”

“No charge,” I said grimly. “If Chen’s gone for good, then it was as much Cherry’s doing as mine. I was just trying to come out of this alive.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, isn’t it?” Danny said.

“I don’t think it is. Look, you know me, Danny. You know I don’t spook easily, and I’m telling you this guy is serious trouble. What are you gonna do?”

“I... don’t know,” Danny said hesitantly. “I need to think.”

“I doubt he’ll give you much time.”

“I expect I’ve got at least a few days, and if Cherry’s right, maybe a lot more than that. I can’t just hand over my place to some thug. Ax.”

“Then you’d better talk to the police. And soon. And no matter what, if Chen contacts you again, don’t meet him alone, okay? You get hold of me.”

“Okay,” Danny said simply. “Whatever you say. But I wish you’d try to get along with Cheryl. She’s young, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders, and she’s got a world of talent.”

“I’ll just bet she has,” I said.

“No, man, it’s not like that at all,” Danny said, smiling. “Even if she was my type, I wouldn’t be hers, and neither would you. She’s gay, man. Got a steady girlfriend mean enough to whip Godzilla. But I’m dead serious about her talent. Maybe it isn’t shining through yet, but it will. She’s gonna be a keeper someday. You mark my words. So cut her some slack, okay? I like my friends to get along.”

“Well. I’ll admit she could be right on one small point,” I said. “Your daytime trade might improve if you lightened up on the music. Maybe bag Blind Lemon and play something newer.”

“I’d rather listen to the real thing, thanks.”

“It’s your place,” I grumbled. “At least for now.”

My ankle turned out to be severely sprained. I stopped at a doc-in-the-box infirmary on Jefferson, and a medic taped me into a plastic walking cast, which meant I was temporarily unemployable as a bouncer, bill collector, or anything else I knew how to do. Terrific.

I decided to call it a day, pick up some barbecued ribs on my way home, and fort up for the evening.

Papa Henry’s Hickory Hut serves the best barbecued ribs in the city of Detroit. Bar none. The rotisserie in the storefront window revolves slowly, cradling racks of ribs and chicken flame-kissed by the fire below. The aroma alone could turn Gandhi into a carnivore.

I was in a back booth finishing off an order of spiced slaw when I caught a name on the TV newscast from the set above the counter. I turned slowly to face the screen. The volume on the set was low. I couldn’t catch it all.

“Alleged mob figure Eladio Delagarza... luxurious Eastpointe home... explosion.” The flames blazing on the screen were nearly as bright as the barbecue pit, greedily licking the skeleton of what had once been a mansion. “Victims’ names are being withheld pending notification of next of kin...”

Coincidence. That’s all it was. Just a freaking coincidence. Delagarza was in trouble with the law, maybe one of his rivals... Besides, I was lame and my rack of short ribs wouldn’t be ready for another ten minutes. Best barbecue in the city of Detroit.

Damn.

I dropped a twenty on the table and gimped out to my rusty Buick.

I parked on McNichols, around the corner from the club. Dusk in Detroit. The street was deserted. A wino crouched in the entryway of the vacant barbershop next door. A chill wind nipped at my jacket as I limped cautiously into Yo Mama’s Blues.

The place was empty. No surprise. Blind Lemon Jefferson’s moaning on the sound system would have driven off any customers who weren’t deaf or too drunk to stagger out. Damn Danny anyway. A bar’s supposed to be a business, not a freaking history of music seminar.

I stumped quickly across the dance floor to the office. And stopped in the doorway. Danny was slumped in his chair. A slather of crimson was leaking down his cheek. He’d been shot. Once. In the eye. Through the right lens of his glasses.

Triad. I’d read somewhere it was their trademark. A way to tell their killings from the two dozen others in a Motown month.

Stepping into that room was maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I managed, somehow. I touched Danny’s throat, just to be certain. His skin was already cooling.

Sweet Jesus. Nine-one-one. Call 911. I reached for the phone but hesitated, not wanting to smear any fingerprints. The thundering blues tape was so loud I couldn’t think...

There was a clatter from the other room, and I froze. Then I took a deep breath and edged silently to the open door. I peered around the corner of the jamb. The bar still looked empty, but someone was out there, I knew it at the core of my soul. As I’d known about Danny somehow, the moment I saw those flames on the TV screen. I glanced back into the office, desperately scanning the room for some kind of a weapon. Damn it, with my ankle in a cast I couldn’t even run for it...

“Danny?” Cheryl Vanetti called from the shadows near the bar.

“No, it’s me, Axton,” I said, stepping out where she could see me. “Danny’s... had it.”

“What do you mean, had it?” she said, stalking angrily toward me. “You’re lying.”

“No,” I said, grabbing her arm, trying to keep her away from the office. She stared into my face for a moment, then shrugged off my grip and moved to the office doorway. And looked inside.

“Oh.” She said it so softly I barely heard. I gave her a moment, then touched her arm. She drew away.

“We have to get out of here,” I said.

“But... what about the police?”

“We’ll call ’em,” I said, “from somewhere on the road.”

“What are you talking about? Chen—”

“Didn’t do this,” I said.

“What?”

“He didn’t do this,” I repeated. “Not personally, anyway. He knows we can tie him to it, so he’ll have an alibi that will hold up long enough for his people to take us out. This isn’t just a murder, it’s first blood in a gang war. They hit Delagarza’s house an hour ago, and if they’re up for that, they can swat us like flies whenever they want. We’ve got to get out of here, now.”

“But what about my band? I can’t just leave.”

“You have to, and right now. My car’s outside. Let’s go.”

“But—”

“Dammit, girl, we’ve both made enough mistakes for one day. If you don’t think so, ask Danny. Now move it, or I’ll by God leave you here.”

She looked up at me, blinking as though I’d slapped her. Then her eyes cleared, the anguish in them erased by anger. “You bastard,” she said. “This is your fault.”

“You’re half right,” I admitted. “Which is the only reason I’m willing to lake you along. Are you coming or not?”

“Just a minute.” She disappeared into Danny’s office and came out carrying his old Martin guitar. I just stared. “It’s a good guitar and he loved it,” she said defiantly. “It shouldn’t go to strangers. Besides, he never could play it worth a damn anyway.”

I started to say something, but her eyes stopped me. They were brimming, and the hurt in them was deep. She was only a word away from falling apart. So I turned away and went out to my car. She followed, carefully stowed the guitar in the back seat, and climbed in.

We drove all night, south mostly. And neither of us said a solitary word to the other. Not one.

I dropped her at a truck stop in Tennessee. She said she could make a few calls, find a friend to stay with. Under the circumstances it would be best if I didn’t know where she was going. Danny was right, she had a good head on her shoulders.