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Because he'd never heard it.
Fishing his cell phone out of his jacket, Ax rang up Sharron Wilhite.
“Hey, it's your long-lost bouncer. We need to talk.”
* * *
Grosse Pointe, a posh Motown suburb named by French voyagers who'd be arrested for vagrancy if they set foot in the place today. Magnificent mini-mansions with multiplex garages and lawns long enough for polo, guarded by steel fences and a private army of rent-a-cops.
The Dodge auto heirs live here, a few of the Fords, Arab oil sheiks, a dozen dot-com millionaires, and even a televangelist or two.
Plus at least one anonymous union bookkeeper.
The Wilhite home was a gray Gothic Revival box, three stories with a full-width porch, a long brick driveway, and a gorgeous view of Lake St. Clair.
Parking in front, Ax trotted up the steps. The ornately carved front door opened before he could ring the bell. But it wasn't Sharron. A big guy, tan trench coat, bleached brush-cut, ice-blue eyes. And a polar smile. Roddy Rothstein. Rented muscle, the absolute top of the line. Damn.
“Hey, Ax, how you been?”
“Ducky. Until now. What are you doing here?”
Roddy didn't bother to answer. Didn't have to. They were in the same business, but Roddy worked a tougher side of the street. Ax opened his coat to show he was unarmed but Roddy didn't buy it. He frisked him anyway, found the hideaway Glock 9 Ax carried in the small of his back.
“Is that the whole show?”
“A blade in my boot.”
“I spotted it.” Roddy smiled. “Man, you're such a Neanderthal. I'd cap you five times before you could pull that pig sticker. Wanna try for it?”
“No bet.”
“Maybe another time. Let's go.”
Roddy led him up the carpeted staircase to a second-floor bedroom, pushed him in. A bear of a man lay in the bed, propped up by a wall of pillows, with an oxygen cannula attached to his nasal septum to help him breathe. Ashen, balding, he looked half dead. Until you met his eyes. Gray as granite and just as hard.
A second man was seated against the wall. Rangy, with dark hair, deep tan, turquoise sport coat, deck shoes, no socks. Looked streetwise, but Ax didn't recognize him.
Roddy ushered Ax to the bedside. “This is Axton, Mr. Wilhite. Ax. If he's got a first name, I never heard it.”
“R.B. Initials only,” Wilhite said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “A Southern quirk, initials. I'm not a well man, Mr. Axton. I don't have much time, and none at all to waste on you. I won't ask you anything twice. Do we understand each other?”
Ax nodded.
“When a man like you visits my son, I want to know why. Who are you working for?”
“Your wife. Sharron's been getting some crank calls, supposedly from an old boyfriend. She asked me to look into it.”
“And if you find the boyfriend? Are you supposed to run him off? Or fix them up?”
“You'll have to ask Sharron about that.”
“I'm asking you. Or would you rather have Roddy ask you? As many times as it takes?”
Ax considered trying to dummy up. Decided against it. Roddy could beat him half to death without breaking a sweat. And Wilhite's eyes said it all. The man in the bed had nothing to lose.
“The ex-boyfriend is supposed to be dead. Sharron wants the phone calls cleared up, one way or the other. That's it.”
