“Who’s asking?” one of the men shouted down the line.
“The man with the bottle, that’s who’s asking,” Gil said with bravado.
Gil’s remark got some laughter egged on by Betti, and since the bottle was still making its way hand to hand, one of the men spoke up.
“Come to think of it, the last time I saw him was standing over Carla’s body.”
“That’s some shit right there,” another man said. “This burning shit has got to stop.”
Betti grew impatient with the lack of attention and crossed the street to be closer to the Temple Bar entrance. As each male customer exited, she approached. Charlie thought her gestures and seductive walk were even more suggestive than she’d seen before. Perhaps Betti was performing for Gil, who watched with an impassive look.
“Betti knows she’s still on the clock with us, right?” Charlie said to Gil.
“Yeah. She knows. She mostly stayed with me this evening be-cause she didn’t want Monty to find her. He called her four times.”
“What does he want?”
“She let me hear his messages. He said he needed to get with her,” Gil said, making quotation marks. “By the last message, he was threatening her.”
“Damn. There’s something crazy about a man thinking you would be turned on by being thrown across a room.”
Betti performed a half-twirl, arms extended, then made her way back to her audience on the curb. She knew all eyes were on her, floating on tiptoe as if the two-lane Cass Avenue was the stage of the American Ballet Theatre. Out of nowhere, the blue Corvette rolled up to Betti and stopped. The tinted window dipped. Charlie felt Gil’s body tense at her elbow, and she warned him with a hand on his knee.
“Get over here, bitch,” a deep voice called from the Vette, loud enough for those on the curb to hear.
Betti spun and froze. She looked back at Gil and then slowly, as if reeled in by a long rope, moved toward the car. The driver’s arm dangled from the window and when Betti drew nearer, the man grabbed her by her belt and yanked her to the car. Gil began to stand, and Charlie stopped him by putting pressure on his arm.
“Wait. You don’t want to blow your cover.”
They couldn’t make out the conversation between Betti and the driver, but the angry tones were very clear. When Betti tried to pull away, she and the driver wrestled back and forth until the man finally released her, and she fell onto the pavement. She immediately leapt to her feet, screaming, “I don’t want to see Monty. Tell him to leave me alone.” She turned and ran on tiptoes to Gil and buried her head in his arm, crying.
The Vette driver stared in their direction, straining to see. The streetlight picked up the pale tone of his face, and the tattoos emblazoning his arm, which still dangled from the window. He flashed a middle finger in Gil’s direction, then switched the gesture to a raised thumb, which he dramatically flipped to a thumbs down. The arm retracted and before the window glided up, a fiery salsa song blared from the car’s speakers. The powerful engine revved several times, filling the night with a furious noise, and then the Vette moved up the street with the blue wheel lights pulsating to the beat of the music.
Betti, whimpering and shaking, sat in the protection of Gil’s arm.
“What did he say, Betti?” Charlie asked, touching her shoulder. When Betti lifted her face, tears streamed down her cheeks. She looked like a scared little girl afraid of the monsters under her bed.
“He said he would tell Monty he saw me, and I better get my ass over to the house as soon as possible.”
“Who is that guy?” Gil wanted to know.
“They call him MJ. He’s one of Monty’s boys,” Betti said between tears.
“You ever notice one of Monty’s gang with an upside-down cross tattoo?” Charlie asked.
Betti lifted her head from Gil’s shoulder to think. She stared into space, searching her memory. She no longer looked like a frightened child, but an intelligent woman. She turned toward Charlie.
“All of them have tats,” Betti began. “Some of them are covered from head to toe in tattoos. But the only one I can think of with an upside-down cross that’s visible is Monty. He has one right here,” Betti said, pointing to a place high on her cheek bone just below the left eye.
Charlie and Gil shared a knowing look, which wasn’t missed by Betti. “Why? What does a tattoo mean?”
“We don’t know yet,” Charlie said.
Suddenly Betti stopped crying and stood. “Monty is going to be gunning for Gil,” she said without equivocation.
“What?” Charlie said.
“Did you see the way MJ looked at Gil, and then gave the thumbs down sign? I’ve seen the L2Ds use that sign before with another gang squad, and those boys they warned didn’t live long. Gil needs to get out of the Corridor, and right away.”
One of the men down the line passed a joint to Charlie, who refused the hit, but passed it on to Gil and Betti who both took long drags. Then the joint, almost burned down, went back down the line. Drugs, even something as socially accepted as marijuana, were not Charlie’s vice. Her late uncle had been an alcoholic, and her mother had drummed a very negative view of drunks into her as early as she could remember. As an adult she took a more sympathetic stance toward alcoholism, and regularly enjoyed a good wine and an occasional glass of a good Scotch, but rarely drank around her mother, and stayed away from illicit drugs.
“We probably shouldn’t stay here,” Charlie said.
“I’m not running,” Gil stated.
“Who said anything about running. Look, it’s 2 a.m. I’m back at the bakery at four. Let’s walk over to McDonald’s, get warmed up, and make a plan.”
“I could use a coffee,” Gil said.
Charlie moved ahead of Gil and Betti, pulling her cart and trudging east to Woodward and the Mickey D’s. Charlie used her payment from the bakery work to buy burgers and coffee. They huddled together at a table near the bathroom with a view of the front door and the drive-through line.
“Here’s an idea,” Charlie said after two sips of coffee. “Maybe we use Gil to get Monty to come to us.”
“I don’t mind drawing the bastard out of hiding,” Gil said angrily.
“Monty won’t come for you. He don’t never do his own dirty work,” Betti said. “He’ll send one of his boys.”
“Maybe we won’t wait for that,” Charlie said. “Betti, are there usually two guys in the cars when they’re dealing?”
“Usually. But there are other dudes who drive around alone checking on the boys who are working. They’re the ones who are always trying to get me to give them a freebie, but I don’t do too many freebies. Everybody has to pay.”
Betti was a businesswoman describing the operational vagaries of her profession. She did so without shame or awareness of the discomfort it might cause others. Charlie pondered this as she took a sizable bite of burger, followed by hot coffee.
“If you don’t go to Monty’s house, will he send someone to find you?” Gil asked.
“Maybe.”
“I see where Charlie is going—taking the offense. Maybe I can give one of Monty’s drivers a message to take back to him. Something to draw him out.”
“We may not have long to wait,” Charlie said nodding toward the window. “There’s the orange Camaro.”
Gil and Betti looked over their shoulders as the car pulled slowly into the McDonald’s driveway. It came to a stop at the window closest to the trio. They all stared at the car. The tinted windows didn’t allow them to see any occupants, but Charlie’s skin prickled from their stares. Everyone—those in the car and the trio inside—waited, not moving. Then the car continued toward the rear parking lot.
“I think that’s Carlos. He drives that car, and he probably has another guy with him,” Betti said.
“Well, I think he’s seen us,” Charlie said.
“Yep. What’s the plan?” Gil asked.
“Grab your coffees. Let’s see what happens when we leave.
”
They exited the restaurant through the door closest to the drive-through lane. Three a.m. on a Tuesday meant no pedestrian or car traffic, and the only light came from storefronts or one of the few still-functional streetlights. They walked north on Woodward a block before turning to enter the darker side streets of the Corridor. After walking another block, they still hadn’t seen the Camaro and headed south. Betti bounced along on her toes, looking back frequently and holding on to Gil’s coat sleeve. She was an anomaly. A street-smart operator who sold her body for a living, a shrewd observer, an attention-grabbing diva, and an insecure human being with an inner child desperate for love and acceptance. Complicated, Charlie thought.
As they crossed to the west side of Cass Avenue, Charlie looked ahead and saw the Camaro coming in their direction. It doused its lights before turning the corner. Charlie gave a low whistle and moved back to join Betti as Gil sidled into a doorway. When the Camaro reached their position on the street, it stopped and the driver’s window rolled down.
“Monty wants you,” a menacing voice growled at Betti.
Charlie grabbed Betti’s shoulder and pushed her ahead, away from the car. The Camaro lurched backward, following, then stopped abruptly and the passenger door opened. A tall, skinny kid wearing a baseball cap, baggy pants, and a white T-shirt leapt out, charging, but Gil intercepted him. He put the gang member in a choke hold, and the boy’s struggling was no match for Gil’s military training. He passed out.
The Camaro’s driver opened the door and stepped out, arm extended. He fired a handgun in Gil’s direction, which ricocheted against the pavement. As Gil scrambled out of the way, Charlie simultaneously pushed Betti to the sidewalk and reached for the gun in her sock. Before she could take aim, Gil fired a shot, hitting the driver in the arm and spinning him, then rushed in to knock him to the ground.
“Is he alive?” a breathless Charlie shouted, joining Gil.
“Yes. Get the drugs in the other guy’s pocket.”
Charlie rifled through the unconscious boy’s jacket and pants pockets, pulling out two dozen small bags of pills, weed, and what looked like crack cocaine. She shoved the bags into the interior pocket of her jacket, returning to the middle of the street, where Gil had the injured shooter pinned to the ground next to his car. He waved two wads of cash in rubber bands.
“Tell Monty if he wants his money and his drugs back, he should come looking for me. My name is Gil. You got that?”
The driver didn’t respond, so Gil leaned his full weight onto his bloody shoulder wound.
“I got it,” the man screamed.
“And also tell him he’d better leave Betti the fuck alone.”
The Camaro driver grunted in pain when Gil lifted himself from the man’s torso. Now fully in soldier mode, Gil grabbed Charlie’s elbow and directed her toward the sidewalk where Betti still cowered behind a bench. He reached for Betti, bringing her to her feet, and the three of them, crouching, ran toward Second Avenue. Charlie heard a noise, and signaled for Gil to stop. The Camaro, both doors open, still idled in the middle of Cass, but the mysterious dark Ford sedan had pulled up and stopped behind.
“Come on, let’s go,” Charlie said urgently.
The three moved in a huddle for several more blocks until they reached the Avalon Bakery. Charlie led the way down the alley, searching for a place to hide, when the building’s motion lights turned on. Within seconds, a door flung open, spilling additional light into the alley as someone holding a gun emerged.
“Don’t shoot!” Charlie yelled loudly, moving with hands raised toward the figure at the door.
“Oh, it’s you,” the manager said, staring into Charlie’s panicked face, and holding what was actually a dough-caked hand mixer.
Chapter 9
“So, let me get this straight,” the bakery manager said, staring at the motley crew and then at Charlie’s card. “You’re a private investigator and a woman?”
Charlie pulled off her cap and faced the manager squarely. “Yes. Sorry. I’m working undercover. This is my partner, Gil Acosta, and Betti, uh Bettina Waller.”
The manager acknowledged the two with a nod. “I’ve seen Ms. Waller before.”
Betti came to life at the attention and pushed up to the balls of her feet. She extended her hand in greeting. “Pleased to meet you.”
The manager still held the mixer in her right hand and Charlie’s card in the other, so Betti lowered her hand, stepping back. The kitchen was in full swing for the morning’s opening, and a few workers paused to give the group curious looks. The manager nodded to a room near the pantry door. “Let’s go in there.”
The makeshift office had a small desk with a laptop, two six-foot file cabinets, and a small corner table loaded with catalogs, old menus, and a Farmers’ Almanac. On the wall behind the desk were several framed documents, but Charlie was too far away to make them out. She did recognize the seal of the Detroit City Council on one of the certificates. On the opposite side of the office was a futon piled with blankets and a pillow, a small TV on a cart, a filtered-water dispenser, and a stack of metal chairs. A door in the corner was stenciled with the figure in a dress symbolic of a ladies’ restroom. Since the manager seemed to be at the bakery day and night, Charlie imagined this back office was a home away from home.
“What are you investigating?” she asked Charlie.
“The burning deaths that have occurred in the Corridor.”
“I’ve heard about those. Some in the business community aren’t too keen for that news to get out.”
“Nor are the police,” Charlie replied.
“What brought you and your friends here tonight?”
“We had an altercation with a couple of young men on Cass Avenue.”
“They try to mug you?”
“Well, no. Gil sort of mugged them. He was trying to protect Betti.”
“The guys in the fancy cars?” the manager asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Gil answered. “We just need to keep Betti out of sight for a couple of hours.”
“You do anything illegal?” The manager again turned to Charlie.
Charlie looked at Gil, measuring the words she was going to say, but before she could speak, the manager tried again.
“Let me put it this way. Did the three of you do anything tonight that will get me in trouble with the police?”
“I don’t believe so. I won’t let that happen,” Charlie added.
“Okay. She can stay here until you finish this morning’s work,” the manager said. “You are still working for me today?”
“You bet,” Charlie said, putting on her cap.
“What about you?” the bakery manager eyed Gil. “You want to work too?”
“No, ma’am. I already have a job to do.”
# # #
At 6 a.m., Charlie retrieved Betti from the back room. She accepted two cups of coffee from the Avalon manager, but not the money.
“I don’t know what you’ve got yourself into, Ms. Mack, but this Monty guy isn’t someone you want to piss off.”
“You know Monty?”
“Who doesn’t know him? He owns a couple of businesses in the area.”
“He may be using those places to launder money.”
“Who knows.”
“Why did you decide to invest in the Corridor?”
“It’s not easy doing business here. It’s been a neglected area for a long time. But those of us who want to make a difference in Detroit believe that putting a stake in the ground, and putting out a good product, is one way to give back to a city we love, and make her grand again.”
Charlie nodded. “I agree with you and appreciate what you do.”
Charlie walked to the alley entrance, looked both ways, then signaled for Betti to join her. When the gray car pulled to the curb, Charlie hustled Betti into the backseat. “Lie down and stay down,” Charlie ordered.
Gil had freshened up and changed clothes, unrecognizable as the man who had robbed
the L2Ds of a small percentage of their drugs and cash. He put the car in gear and sped away from the bakery and Cass Corridor. He had just turned off the ignition in the underground garage at the Mack office when a man, too far away to see his face, stepped from behind a column. Gil drew his weapon and pointed it through the window.
“Stop!” Gil shouted.
The man halted and raised his arms in an act of surrender. Charlie noticed something in his demeanor and turned to Gil, saying, “It’s okay. That’s Reggie.”
“What are you doing here?” Charlie asked, nudging Reggie to follow Gil and Betti to the garage elevator.
“I heard what happened. I came to warn you that Monty has his guys gearing up for a retaliation.”
# # #
When Don pushed open the door of Mack Private Investigations at 10 a.m., Judy and Ernestine were conferring in hushed voices in the reception area. Both women glared at him, and Judy held a finger up to her lips, signaling quiet. The suite’s fluorescent lights were off, and only natural light streamed in through the edges of the shades. Don peeked into the bull pen and saw Charlie and Gil, heads down at their desks. In the conference room, Reggie was drinking something in a coffee cup, and Don recognized a sleeping Betti.
“Jeez, what are we running here?” Don said shaking his head. “A shelter?”
“I’m supposed to wake everybody up when you get here. Did you speak with your police contact?” Judy inquired.
“Yes,” Don said, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the clothes tree.” I just came from headquarters.”
Ernestine’s eyes grew wide at the sight of Don’s holstered gun, and she shifted her chair closer to Judy’s desk.
“How are you this morning, Ms. Mack?”
“I’m fine,” Ernestine said nervously. “Charlie asked me to come to the office this morning.”
“Why not?” Don said, not hiding his irritation. “Everybody else is here. Let’s rouse the sleeping, shall we?”
# # #
The ragtag group gathered around the table was an odd and colorful sight. Charlie and Reggie had the appearance of homeless people. Gil was freshly showered, wearing a well-fitting, blue mock turtleneck sweater and wool slacks. Betti wore last night’s outfit—a short denim skirt and a satiny, cleavage-revealing yellow top, her hair decorated with two yellow bows. Ernestine wore a conservative pants suit with a beige shell blouse and a gold necklace. Judy, who was helping with packing again today, wore an oversized shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Don wore his usual uniform of short-sleeved cotton shirt and corduroy slacks.
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