“Somebody’s pretending to be one of the Sultans? But why? Even in their heyday they were strictly small change.”
“It can’t be for money,” I said. “He’s already paid me more than he’s likely to get from any royalties. So what does he want?”
“You got any idea who this guy is?”
“All I know is that it has to be somebody from the old days who knew the Sultans. I’m guessing he found out Sol was looking for Varnell from Horace DeWitt, so his name could be Robinson, or maybe Jaquette.”
“Jaquette?” Cal said, blinking. “First name?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because I know a few Jaquettes, but only one who would’ve known the Sultans,” Cal said, taking the program from me and flipping through it. “Could this be your guy? The one in the middle?”
“Yes,” I said slowly, “this is him. Or it was thirty years ago. But this pic isn’t of the Sultans.”
“Nope, it’s the Jacks, Millie Jump’s old group. Dexter Jaquette was their lead singer. And Millie’s husband. She dumped him after he got busted.”
“Busted for what?”
“A nickel-dime dope thing, couple of marijuana cigarettes. It’d be nothing now, but it was a hard fall back then. I think he did five years.”
“All that was a lifetime ago. What could he possibly want now?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”
“Maybe I will,” I said slowly, still staring at the smiling photo of Dexter Jaquette. “Can I take this with me?”
“Absolutely,” Cal said. “That’ll be twenty-four bucks plus tax, an extra ten for opening late, call it thirty-five even.”
I raised an eyebrow, but paid without carping. He’d been a huge help and we both knew it.
I left the program open on the seat as I drove back to my apartment, and my eye kept straying to it. It was a jolting contrast, the faded photo of Dexter Jaquette the singer, and the broken man who’d hired me. My God, he was so young then. Younger than I am now. But there was more to it than that. Something about that picture that I was missing.
Pictures. The guy with the videocam. What was that all about? The only thing I was sure of was that Jaquette had gone to a lot of trouble to set this up. If I confronted him, he’d probably just back off and try again later. Assuming he lived long enough.
Should I warn Sol? A double conundrum. Sol wasn’t my client, Dexter was. And if I warned Sol, he’d sic Roddy Rothstein on Jaquette. The fact that he was a cripple wouldn’t bother Roddy. He’d rough him up, run him off, or worse, and I’d still never know what I’d bought into.
Unless I played it out. Seemed to me this show had been in rehearsal for thirty years. It would be a shame to close it before the last act.
The Cadillac rolled up in front of Papa Henry’s a little after nine. I climbed out of my Buick and trotted over just as Mack’s chauffeur opened the back door.
“There’s been a change in plans,” I said. “We’ll take my car. Give your man the night off.”
Mack/Jaquette eyed me a moment, then shrugged. “My car, your car, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“Good. And Mr. Mack, I mean give him the night off. I don’t want to see him in my rearview mirror, or the meet’s canceled. Understood?”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling faintly. “I think I understand.” He spoke briefly to the chauffeur, who started to argue, then gave it up. He looked me over slowly, memorizing my features, then helped Jaquette out of the car, and drove off.
Jaquette made his way slowly to my car. He’d changed into a tux, with a gleaming ebony cane to match. The suit was an immaculate fit, and broken and bent as he was, he looked elegant. Dressed to kill.
After he’d eased into my car, I leaned in and snapped his seat belt, fussing over his suit to make sure the belt didn’t muss it. And gave him a none-too-subtle frisk at the same time. I expected him to object, but he didn’t. He seemed amused, energized. Wired up and ready.
Costa Del Sol is one of the hottest discotheques in Detroit. Tucked away on the fifteenth floor of the Renaissance Center, it’s trendy, expensive, and very exclusive, with memberships available only to the very chic, and the very rich. I’d been there a few times as Desirée ’s bodyguard, but the bouncers working the front door still wouldn’t admit us until Roddy Rothstein bopped out to okay it.
The Costa is on two levels, a huge, lighted dance floor below, a Plexiglas-shielded balcony above, with a deejay suspended in a pod between them, cranking out power jams loud enough to give the Statue of Liberty an earache. A state-of-the-art laser system plays on the dance floor, psychedelic starbursts competing with the camera flashes of the paparazzi shooting the celebrities at play from the press section of the balcony.
We followed Roddy up the escalator to the second floor, the dining, observing, deal-making area. Shielded from the blare of the sound-system, the music from below is reduced to a pulse up here, a thump you feel through your soles like a heartbeat.
Roddy threaded his way slowly through the tables, adjusting his pace to Jaquette’s limp, leading us to the head table, where Sol and Millie were chatting up the entertainment editor of the Detroit Free Press. Sol had changed jackets, black, with a black shirt, to highlight a heavy gold Jerusalem cross. Millie was dazzling in a white sequined jumpsuit, a spray of diamonds in her hair. Desi was her usual fashionably frumpy self, street-person chic. In the bustle, nobody noticed us, until Jaquette spoke.
“Hello, Sol,” he said quietly. “How’s the leech business?”
Sol glanced up, annoyed, and the color bled from his face. “My God. Dexter.” He glanced quickly around, but Roddy had already moved off into the crowd. “What do you want?”
“To settle up. To close out my account.”
“There’s nothing to close out,” Millie said, glaring furiously at me. “It was all settled a long time ago.”
“Maybe not,” Jaquette said, glancing at Desi. “What do you think, girl? You know who I am?”
“You’re nobody,” Sol snapped. “History.”
“Maybe it’s history to you,” Jaquette said. “It’s not for me. You got any idea what it’s like to see a girl’s face on a billboard, have it nag at you? Knowin’ there’s somethin’ familiar about her? Bugged me so much I went to a shop to buy her album, and as soon as I saw her picture up close I knew. I mean I knew. It was like bein’ struck by lightning. She looks like you, Millie, even sounds like you. But she looks like me, too. And like my mama. The record jacket said she was only twenty-five, but I knew it was a damn lie. She’s mine. You were pregnant when you quit me, hid it from me so you could cop yourself a honky meal ticket.”
“That’s enough,” Sol snapped. “I don’t know what you think you got comin’, Dex, but if it’s trouble, you’re at the right place. Roddy!” Rothstein hurried toward us, bulling his way through the crowd, signaling to another security type standing near the balcony rail. Beyond him, I glimpsed a familiar silhouette, the man I’d seen on the rooftop that afternoon. He was in the press gallery now, with a camera, or a weapon, I couldn’t be sure.
“Too late, Sol,” Jaquette said, reaching under his coat. “You took everything, the music, my woman, even my child. It’s time to pay up.”
“Roddy!” Sol screamed, backing away, stumbling over his chair. Rothstein broke through the crowd and jerked his piece from under his coat, aiming at Dexter’s belly, two-hand hold.
“No!” I yelled, stepping between them. “Don’t. It’s what he wants!”
“Kill him!” Katz shouted. “Do it! Axton, get out of the way!”
“For godsake Sol, he’s unarmed! He didn’t come here to kill you, he came here to die! To take you with him! He’s got a guy in the balcony filming the whole thing!” Nobody was listening. Rothstein was circling to get a clear shot, and he was going to do it, I could read it in his eyes. Dammit!