We caught an early morning full flight to Detroit, via Atlanta. Jay joined us for the first leg of the journey as she wanted to visit her sister in New York. Events were getting too animated for her.
‘I’ve got you at last where you can’t escape, Milo,’ she said as we wedged ourselves in three airline seats with just enough leg and hip room for a travelling band of anorexic Bambuti pygmies without their spears. Jay sat in the middle and I squeezed next to the window. Jonah assumed flight attendant duty on the aisle.
In Atlanta we had adjoining gates in the huge impersonal concourse, like the waiting room for delayed flights to Hades.
Jay touched my arm. ‘So what are you really up to in Detroit, Milo?’
‘See a man about some T-Bone,’ said Jonah, with an effectively resonant ‘T’, a hard thing to achieve outside of New Jersey.
She tried to mimic Jonah’s clipped resonance. ‘What’s this T-Bone?’ She sounded like Julie Andrews on speed.
‘Herbal Viagra,’ I said.
Jonah said, ‘Herbal Viagra.’
‘You sound like a parrot,’ she said.
‘An African Grey.’
Jay looked at her watch. ‘The sun must be over the yardarm somewhere in the world. I’m getting us some drinks.’
She returned with three small bottles of sparkling wine.
She saw my look. ‘California’s finest. It’s all they had.’
I opened the screw-capped bottles and poured them into opaque plastic glasses. They fizzed like liver salts.
We raised our plastic containers and drank. It tasted like liver salts.
‘Now, Jonah. You just bring back that charming Milo gentleman in good working order, you hear. And the only T-Bone I want you boys trying while ya’ll away is in a restaurant. Well done at that.’
‘That all, Scarlet?’ I said.
‘Now that you ask, no. You take good care of each other. I’m going to miss you both.’
We heard the final call for her flight. She hugged Jonah and then me.
I took her to her gate.
I said, ‘See you in a couple of days. Call me when you’ve arrived safely at your sister’s.’
God, I hate it when women cry.
18
The flight from Atlanta had been full of laptop-toting executives looking busy and self-important. My recollection of corporate life was that you always tried to look busy, as if you were on some vital mission, no matter what you were actually doing. The self-importance was harder to portray but it certainly came naturally to many people including most of those on the plane. They strode purposefully from the airport departure gate, authoritarians all, in earnest conversation on cell phones glued to their ears, not wishing to give the impression of wasting a minute of their business day as they arranged their day’s business. Plus the evening’s adulterous assignations at The RenCen during their literal layovers.
Detroit Metro Airport is west of the city. We hired an off-white Chevy compact, standard rental issue, then headed out on the I-94 East.
‘Got your camera, Milo?’ I nodded. ‘Then let’s take a little detour downtown. There’s something I’ve always wanted to do.’
‘You know downtown Motown?’ I said. Another piece of the labyrinth puzzle of Jonah’s life.
‘I’ve trained at the Kronk. The gym where a shy boy like me got to mix it with badass De-troit homeys.’ Detroit he pronounced as ‘De-twa’.
‘This was once called the arsenal of democracy,’ I said. ‘Henry Ford’s production line principles applied to the matériel of war.’
‘I got some bro’s call it the asshole of degeneracy. Seventy-five percent of Detroit is black and the rest is mostly ethnic poor, just like the bros. The palefaces all live further up. Birmingham, Bloomfield Hills, those sort of places. Lots of money there but no black faces. ‘Cept to scrub the blanco’s floors.’
I’d spent a little time in Detroit in the 1980s about the time I was also doing stints in Lebanon. I felt safer in the Middle East because I knew what the rules were. In the forgotten ruins of Detroit’s urban wastelands there were no rules, with an annual murder rate higher than war-torn Beirut at the time. The city had seemed hell bent on bypassing the Rust Belt in its rush to join the third world.
We headed south on I-75. Soon the tall inelegant tower of the Renaissance Center appeared on our right in abject relief against the sky. It had been built as a sop to the city after the bloody 1967 riots. We pulled into one of its gloomy concrete bunkers which turned out to be an inhospitable car park, where muggers feared for their own safety. I took my camera from my overnight bag in the trunk.
‘This where you had your first Tamla Motownette?’ I said. ‘Want me to record the spot?’
He motioned. ‘Just follow.’
We walked through Hart Plaza to Jefferson Avenue near the end of Woodward. I looked around. Once the world’s largest department store, Hudson’s, an architectural gem, had been demolished since my last visit. Anonymous and impersonal concrete structures and cold and uninviting streets had survived. We approached the huge bronze of Joe Louis’ clenched fist and arm suspended alongside the street. Although born in Lafayette, Alabama, The Brown Bomber was claimed as a great son of Detroit, where he’d begun his boxing career. The motor industry apart, Detroit had little else to boast of, and it seemed a fairly fitting symbol for this town in its stark simplicity, although a gunmetal statue of a semi-automatic would be a representation of actual life here.
‘It wasn’t cool to do this when I was here,’ Jonah said. ‘Sides I never had a master cameraman with me. Now I’ll have something to show the bro’s back at the gym.’
He walked to the statue. I took several shots of him and The Fist. He flexed his arm in mock salute.
‘Now it’s your turn. I’m making you honorary brother for the day.’
This wasn’t a place where other tourists or pedestrians lingered or even walked, so no one was bothered with us. We were just another black and his mad honky mate on Detroit’s uncongenial streets.
We headed north on I-75 again after a brief drive through the immediate suburbs and their fortified liquor and food stores in streets unfortified against gloom and despondency. The houses not burned down by the tenants after they’d stripped the plumbing had been torched by the landlords, if their insurance premiums were current.
MCP Incorporated had a Troy address. I stopped and looked at my map. Tomas’ handwritten notes showed the street as Sixteen Mile Road but the map showed the same road with different names at different places: Quarton, Big Beaver and Metropolitan Parkway. We passed Twelve Mile Road and took Exit 69 to Big Beaver Road.
We drove west, past the K Mart world headquarters towards Bloomfield Hills until we were in a residential district of ostentatious homes with five-car garages the size of warehouses. There were no commercial buildings in sight so we then headed back east onto Big Beaver and its mix of offices, restaurants, hotels and smart shops until we hit a series of strip shopping malls. Jonah was following the numbering sequence, and the building we were looking for was in the next block.
We went through the intersection and turned left, behind a gas station. I parked among the American cars, hardly an import in sight. This was the environs of Motor City, with no crapping on the doorsteps of the companies that generate the income.
At the rear of the park was a supermarket, a liquor store, a florist, a hardware store and a couple of building fronts without signage. We walked to them first. The first was a computer repair and software design store with a half dozen guys who looked like they were younger than their shoe sizes. They all looked busy without any self-importance at all.
At the end of the strip was a storefront in darkness. There was a PREMISES FOR RENT sign in the window, with a realtor’s telephone details.
In one corner, propped against the front window, was a sign that listed several company names. MCP was one of them. I made a note of the others, and looked through the window.
The fron
t of the premises was a showroom area with threadbare charcoal carpet underlay on its floor. On the wall were a couple of wall chart year planners, the sort used by people who only have a piss when it’s in the daily schedule. The walls needed a lick of paint. At the rear were jerry-built offices. I could see a couple of computers and filing cabinets behind glass walls.
I called the real estate company from the pay-phone at the gas station as I didn’t want the call traced back to my cell number. A spent office voice which would rather be elsewhere answered on the tenth ring.
I said, ‘I’m interested in the shop and office you have on 5560 Sixteen Mile Road, East of Troy.’
‘I’ll get the details for you. Wait a minute, please.’
I waited.
‘I’ve got the particulars here. But first, can you give me your details. I need your name, address and contact telephone number.’
‘I just need to know the rent and a couple of details so we don’t waste each other’s time,’ I said.
‘You are Mr -?’
‘Joe Columbo.’ I gave her a false number.
She gave me rent details and her name, Michele. She had a nasal Midwest accent, the monotone that US television news readers seem to cultivate for reasons best known to themselves.
‘What do you want to lease the premises for?’
‘Aromatherapy. Shop, office and distribution.’
Rustle of papers. ‘I think that the previous tenant had some aromatherapy business.’
‘Who was that?’
‘I’ll have a look. Here it is. MCP Incorporated. When would you like to see the premises?’
‘Maybe tomorrow. I’m busy for what’s left of today.’
I asked a couple of other questions about the rental and lease terms.
‘I’ve looked through the window. It seems to need some repair. A touch of paint. Carpet and stuff.’
‘I’m sure that the owner will consider helping on that once terms are agreed.’
‘I’m also very careful about security. Does it have an alarm?’
‘Just a minute.’
The turning of pages and then the tapping of computer keyboard keys.
‘The system was disconnected when the premises went up for lease. But I’m sure it could be reinstalled for you.’
‘Thanks. I’ll be in touch tomorrow, Michele.’
Wearily, ‘We look forward to hearing from you, Mr – Columbo. Have a nice day.’ She was on cruise control.
We drove around the back of the shops where there were a row of rubbish dumpsters behind the buildings. I pulled up briefly beside the MCP door at the rear. It was secured by a mortise lock with a deadbolt. A cheap tubular lock in a doorknob was underneath, the sort that can be forced if you glare at it long enough. We went to a nearby strip mall and made a visit to a hardware store where we bought the necessary gear for our planned late night bit of larceny, paying cash.
We headed west and booked a couple of rooms at the Troy Marriott, just off the I-75. It was getting late in the afternoon and my stomach had Alzheimer’s and my throat was in need of lubrication.
Across the road from the hotel was Joe Patti’s, a sports bar and restaurant. We walked over. It had an open decor with dark cherry wood trim and big screen TVs throughout, so the sports mad Detroiters could watch the Pistons, the Red Wings, the Tigers and the Lions lose in comfort. There was an island bar just past the entrance, dining room seating further in, and one of those trendy open kitchens where you can keep an eye on the chefs to make sure they’re not urinating in your consommé.
We sat at the bar and ordered Jack Daniels and Coke and bar snacks. The suburban professionals were starting to come in. They drank their beers from the neck as they made calls on their cells in their expensive outfits purchased from the boutiques and outfitters in the nearby Somerset Collection, pretentiously renamed from The Somerset Mall.
We were on our second Jack Daniels, debating whether to go for three of a kind when a couple of intelligently-eyed girls with a late-thirty-something executive ambience came in and sat near us at the bar.
‘Hard day at the coalface?’ said Jonah to the tall slender one with boyishly cropped hair.
She nodded and Jonah said, ‘My friend would like to buy you a drink.’
She looked at me and back at Jonah. ‘What you having?’
I said, ‘We’re playing bar poker.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You can go for a flush with Canadian Clubs. Or four jacks of the Daniels sort will beat that. Or all black with Johnny Blacks. A seven and seven for a pair, etcetera.’
Her friend said, ‘Some strange English game?’
Since she’d sat down she’d removed her glasses and loosened her dark hair so it rested on her shoulders. She’d also played mouth hockey with her lipstick.
‘No. That’s cricket,’ I said.
‘I’ve always wanted to know about cricket. You’ll have to explain it to me.’
‘Like chess on tranquilizers.’
‘Sounds like my speed,’ she said.
‘An enigma to most people, even its players.’
‘Don’t games take all day to play? And don’t you play for someone’s ashes?’
‘Some take five days. And even then they can end in a draw. Cricket’s a bit like eating Marmite. You’ve got to be weaned on it otherwise it’s a difficult taste to acquire,’ I thought the Ashes a bit too complicated to explain.
‘Tell me about Marmite then.’
‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’
We decided to go south of the border with our drinks and settled for Margaritas, straight up with salted rims. We introduced ourselves.
‘Milo, Jonah,’ I said, as we pointed at each other.
‘Anne with an e, and Ann without,’ said the short-haired blonde. ‘I’m without.’
‘Ours are with an ‘O’ and an ‘H’,’ said Jonah. ‘He’s without as well.’
We toasted each other. Margarita is as exotic a drink as I can take. It’s best served out of a jug poolside at Las Brisas with congenial company just as the sun is setting. But, hell, I’m not complaining here.
‘What brings you guys to this part of the world?’ said Ann.
Jonah said, ‘I’m here to keep an eye on him.’
‘And I’m here to keep an eye on him,’ I said.
Anne chuckled. ‘So who keeps an eye on both of you?’
‘Why don’t we meet back here later and we could discuss it. We’ve got some business to take care of in the meantime,’ I said.
They traded glances. I said, ‘Ten then.’ They shrugged and smiled. I took that to be a maybe.
I paid the tab and Jonah and I went back to the hotel. Jay had called from New York to say she’d arrived safely. I returned her call and left a message. There was also a message from Dooley saying that Sayers had asked me to contact him at The Delano.
I’d taken the telephone numbers of the other businesses in the mall where MCP had its office. I called them all and found that the latest to close was the liquor store which closed in ten minutes, at 9.30. The gas station would be open until midnight.
I packed our recent purchases of a small flashlight, a compact crowbar, a chisel, an engineer’s hammer, a metal paint scraper, duct tape, a screwdriver and two pairs of latex gloves, the cash purchase of which hadn’t raised an eyebrow of the sales assistant in the Detroit environs. These were just essential tools for a bit of irregular late night shopping, though it might have been cheaper and quicker to buy their basic B&E package special.
We drove back down Big Beaver and pulled into the gas station, filling in time checking the tyres and oil on the rental. The liquor store was closing. We waited until the manager had locked the door and driven off. The other shop fronts looked deserted. It was 9.25.
We doubled back on Big Beaver and pulled in at the end of the car park and drove to the rear of the building. I parked the car behind the row of dumpsters and left my bag of tools in one of them,
while we checked again at the front of the premises to make sure we hadn’t been followed.
The area behind the stores was brighter than the Great White Way under a bank of light from tall lampposts, so there was no way for us to be unobtrusive. I gambled there was no CCTV in operation, like there would be in the UK.
I retrieved my tool bag and jiggled my set of picks on the mortise lock for a couple of minutes without success, while Jonah stood guard at the edge of the building. I was a little rusty and so was the lock, and I was getting nowhere.
I decided to get this job finished rather than worry about the niceties of concealing our burglary. The extremes of the Michigan weather had warped the door frame sufficiently to leave a gap between it and the door. I put on latex gloves and turned the door knob with my left hand while I applied pressure with my left shoulder. With my right hand I tried to wedge the heavy paint scraper between the door and the frame to spring the bolt of the mortise lock. It didn’t work as there was not quite enough room to manoeuvre the blade. So I decided to be the Mike Tyson of lock pickers and took the hammer and knocked the knob off the tubular lock with one blow, then I chiselled to knock the rest of the lock through the door.
I used the long lever end of the crowbar to apply pressure to the mortise lock against the face plate, until the lock gave way. There was an almighty crack, followed by the sharp rattle of breaking metal parts as it surrendered. I waited a short while to check with Jonah that no one was coming to investigate, then I pushed open the door and more lock debris fell to the floor with a clatter. Wedging the door closed, I went in to the office area at the rear of the building.
There was a stack of newly assembled cardboard cartons on the floor as if someone was about to move. A passageway led to the front showroom area, and on each side of the passage towards the rear were glassed-walled offices. The two in the front contained desks and disconnected computer systems with their peripheral cords and leads neatly coiled. I checked the filing cabinets in these offices – they were empty.
One rear office had a floor neatly stacked with papers in some apparent order. There were pharmaceutical periodicals, pay records, technical correspondence which made no sense to me and copies of letters, faxes and e-mails which seemed to be unconnected with T-Bone and J P Malcolm, but maybe belonged to a legit business.
Kill City USA Page 18