Department of First Stories

The Death Of Iggy In The Key Of G
by Richard Drummer

The lid was sealed on Iggy Steinhart’s dark mahogany coffin. I let out the breath I’d been holding since walking into Salon C of the funeral home, grateful to whoever had talked his brother out of an open casket. I’d seen the bullet hole through his cheek the night he was shot and prayed some overambitious, spackle-happy mortician hadn’t promised him No one will ever notice. Yes, they would.

I rested my hand on the wooden box, studying an old eight-by-ten photo of Iggy, shredding out a riff on his Gold Top Les Paul in our first band, and said farewell.

“Do you think he would have approved?”

I turned to see Iggy’s brother, Gregory, and shook his outstretched hand. “The choice of coffin?” I asked. “Doubtful. Thin veneer on a poplar box? He would have been more comfortable leaving this world in something with a guitar finish. Say, bird’s-eye maple.”

“You’re the one who found him, right?”

I nodded. “We were loading up our gear after a gig in Mount Clemens. I came back out with a load of drum cases and found him slumped against his van.” What I didn’t mention was the hole in his face and brains sprayed across the side of his truck.

“Did you see the guy?”

“Just an old minivan squealing out of the parking lot and heading south on Groesbeck.”

“You recognize it?”

“Too dark, happened too fast. The license-plate light was out. The cops said it wasn’t enough to go on. They don’t know what they’re looking for.”

Gregory’s eyes narrowed. “Did you take his guitar?”

I took a step back. “Look, I realize you’re an attorney, and asking shitty questions is what you do. But never ask me that again.”

He stuffed a business card in my pocket. “I had to ask.”

“No, you didn’t.” I turned and headed toward some friendlier faces.

 

*   *   *

Iggy’s missing Gibson Les Paul was a piece of Kalamazoo art. But then, his entire guitar and amp collection was amazing, and he would surprise me and Bobby, the bassist, with some of the others he brought to the gig. Iggy played most nights on a ’61 Stratocaster, then would strap on a Les Paul, an occasional Thunderbird, or a 335 on the more rocking songs. That night, he had brought along a 1959 Red Sunburst Paul, his favorite. That’s the one his killer took, along with his ’65 Fender Twin Reverb amp.

I seethed even more at Iggy’s brother for asking such a thoughtless question. But Gregory didn’t know me well, and a member of his family had just been murdered. A detective had asked me the same question, though he’d been less direct and prickly. I had to cut Gregory some slack. He wanted answers. That, and he was trained to be an asshole.

To his credit, Iggy brought in a crowd, even to his last appearance at a funeral home. A hundred of Detroit’s best musicians filed past their fallen comrade. Every one of them had a story of their experience with Iggy. Some good, some not so much. He could be a dick, especially when buying or selling equipment. Iggy was the king of lowballers and knew what your guitar was worth and every component that went into its creation down to the number of copper-wire windings around each pickup coil. I once watched him ruin a business partnership with his former best friend over a rare Martin Acoustic. When it came to money or vintage guitars, keeping friends came in a distant third.

I wondered for a moment if his killer was here, mingling about, rubbing elbows with Detroit’s musical elite. The thought stuck, and I watched for mannerisms and clues.

Bobby nodded from across the room as he worked to line up his next gig. Bob needed the money. Playing was all he did, and despite the leader of his band being murdered, he still had a family to feed. I stopped chasing that pie in the sky years ago, and my income came from the dreaded “day job.” I still played, though, because I couldn’t imagine life without performing great music with great players.

Two members of Mitch Ryder’s band walked past, and behind them stood a guy who didn’t belong: Lenny Ballantyne. He and Iggy hated each other since the bad business deal between them, and I imagined him pulling the trigger and making off with the equipment. I started toward him, but he caught sight of me and turned toward the door. I followed anyway, out the front door to an old beat-up minivan. He scrambled in, but I blocked him from closing the door.

“What’s the rush?” I asked.

“I just remembered I hated that guy.”

He twisted the key, and the engine just barely turned over before starting. The battery was on its last legs. The mess inside the van told me this was probably his current residence. Was he even working or playing these days?

“You know anything about his missing gear?”

He glared at me. “Eat shit. You think I had anything to do with that?”

“I don’t know, Lenny. You had more motive than anyone I can think of. You guys didn’t part on the best of terms.”

“That’s because he screwed me over, and you know it. We had a deal to share in everything we bought and sold. Then, the minute a kid walks in with his grandfather’s acoustic without a clue what it’s worth, Iggy breaks our deal.” He lowered his head. “I don’t even know why I came here. Maybe I was looking for closure. I don’t want to hate him anymore. It makes me sick carrying around all this anger.”

 

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