Citycide

by Gary Hardwick

  “She have a cell phone on her?” asked Danny.

  “No.” said Fiona. “If she did, somebody took it.”

  “The witness ain’t stupid,” said Erik. “He knew that’s how we’d find him.”

  “If he took it,” said Danny. “If the killer took it, then that’s why she was killed, maybe.”

  “Who’d shoot a girl for a cell phone?” asked Erik.

  “For what was in it,” said Fiona exasperated. “Jesus, will you train this man, Cavanaugh?”

  “I knew that,” said Erik. “And I trained him.”

  “When do we get the report?” asked Danny.

  “It’s coming,” said Fiona. She looked at Danny then said, “Ain’t you gonna ask?”

  “About what?” asked Danny.

  “My eyes,” said Fiona. “I don’t have the glasses anymore.”

  “I thought you just got tired of looking like Ray Charles,” said Erik.

  “Gee, never heard that one before,” said Fiona.

  “Contacts,” said Danny after a moment. “You got contacts to shield your eyes.”

  “How come you’re not observant like him?” Fiona said to Erik.

  “I am,” said Erik. “I’m just not a show-off.”

  Danny and Erik said goodbye, then headed out of the lab. They hadn’t learned much and these kinds of cases were usually easy. When a working girl like that got popped, it was often a jealous boyfriend or a rogue client. All they had to do now was find him. If he jumped town, then the case would be dead until they located him.

  But Danny had a feeling that the killer did not run and that their witness was still around, shaking in his boots. And something else, he thought. Why were they on this case anyway? Riddeaux’s “don’t ask don’t tell” explanation was for shit.

  “I’d like to bang Riddeaux,” said Erik. He said it all the time and Danny was starting to think he meant it. “Hell, I ain’t getting none at home. Have you noticed her legs and how tight she wears her skirts?”

  “Yes,” said Danny. “She is fine. And for the record, I think her skirts are tight because she’s just got a big ass.”

  “And what’s bad about that?” Erik laughed. “Not a goddamned thing.”

  “Witnesses only report hearing the one shot,” said Danny. “So, obviously the shooter didn’t want our witness dead.”

  “Or my man was real fast,” said Erik.

  “Don’t think the brother could outrun a bullet,” said Danny.

  “What’re you getting at?”

  “No carjacking. Purse stolen. What kind of thief takes a purse but not a car? She was executed. Why?”

  “So where to now?” asked Erik.

  “Her place. Let’s see what we can find there.”

  Danny and Erik left the lab and headed uptown to the dead girl’s apartment house.

  But when they arrived, they found the street filled with people, police and firemen on the scene and Rashindah Watson’s unit in the building engulfed in flames.

  5

  ZULU

  Detroit Mayor D’Andre Patterson was not about to be dissed again. He sat patiently as the businessmen plead their case to him in his Manoogian Mansion office. He’d been listening to them for over an hour now and he was tired of their shit. There were only two kinds of deals in his city. Those that benefitted him and those that did not. This was definitely the latter.

  They proposed a new retail empowerment zone, which of course, would come at the expense of certain prize real estate and the purging of poor people who resided there. They would bring needed jobs and stimulus along with money from the government. And predictably, they didn’t want to pay any of the taxes and fees that went along with such an ambitious enterprise.

  The Mayor’s office had been redecorated recently and the cost had shocked the public but it had been worth it. Patterson needed a place that inspired him. He’d knocked down a wall and brought in expensive woods and got rid of the old furniture.

  His predecessor, Lester Crawford, had no taste. A mayor had to project an image of power and now, the office did.

  Around the room, various item had the letters DZP on them. As did his shirts and one of his cars. The “Z” was for his middle name, Zulu. He loved that name and sometimes wished it were his first name instead of D’Andre, an almost generic African American moniker these days.

  His mother had named him over his father’s objections. His father was Randolph Patterson Jr., a well-known businessman whose own father had been a notorious criminal from the old days.

  Randolph married a popular minister’s daughter turned lawyer named Theresa Scales, who later objected to the name Zulu for her firstborn.

  It was an epic battle that Randolph lost. It seemed that carrying an eight-pound baby around for nine months gave you naming rights. So his beloved named was pushed behind the more acceptable name D’Andre.

  Randolph was heartbroken. The Zulus were mighty warriors who had defied British rule and brought the wrath of God down upon them. He wanted his son to have a name associated with black power and glory, not some fake French sounding name. In the end, he loved his wife and could not refuse her.

  As D’Andre grew into a young man, he shot up to six foot by the time he was 14. As he grew over six feet, he was heavily recruited for sports. He decided to play basketball and soon dominated the smaller players. Among his friends and teammates his fierce style of play elevated his lost middle name back to prominence and he became the player they called Zulu.

  It was a powerful and sexy nickname that got him props from the men, play from the ladies and ink from the local sports writers.

  His mother hated it but Randolph was vindicated. He especially loved it when they chanted, Zulu, Zulu!

  College ball and the NBA seemed a sure thing for the big kid with the magical name. He was recruited by Michigan State and it looked like destiny.

  Now six foot seven, Zulu walked onto the campus like he owned it. He played ball, screwed willing girls and set himself above the ordinary lives of lesser, shorter human beings.

  But as that first season began, Zulu Patterson discovered that there were many gifted young men in the game and many of these players had talents forged in the fires of street play in neighborhoods where it was do or die.

  By contrast, he had been pampered in private academies, playing against other pampered black kids and white boys. He had done many basketball camps and shoot-arounds, but in the end, nothing could substitute for hardcore urban balling.

  It would have been better for him if he had been injured, forced out by fate and circumstance but in the end, he was just not good enough. He was cut from the team after two years and they blamed it on his failing grades.

  So there would be no college or NBA glory and Zulu went back to D’Andre Patterson, a kid who was just very tall.

  Patterson stayed in college and decided to study politics. There he found his true calling. He was handsome and charming. He was refined but could flip a switch and hang with the brothers in any hood in the city. He was partner to the whites and savior to the blacks. That meant power.

  After graduation, Patterson shunned the family business and became a worker for various community groups. There, he learned the ebb and flow of street politics and became one with the rank and file Detroiters.

  He took a job under the county executive and learned the realities of elected officials. He joined several churches and learned the realities of religious power.

  Detroit was declining during this time. The Bush years had wreaked havoc on the Midwest and Detroit had gotten the worst of it. But Patterson saw a new generation rising and he felt it was his destiny to lead them.

  So when Lester Crawford ran for re-election, D’Andre Patterson had challenged him and he was not yet thirty-five. No one gave the big kid with the brilliant smile a chance but he had been working the street and knew he could take the polished but boring incumbent.

  Patterson went to churches, barbecues and book clubs an
d the ladies ate him up. So many of them had no men in their lives and just the sight of the striking man made their knees weak. And whenever a sister got too friendly, Patterson was quick to remind them that he was married with children, unless of course she was really good-looking.

  Non-black Detroit had been a tougher sell. He turned on the charm and promised to revive the city and end tensions of the past. It was an old promise but his youth and the unending desire to heal old wounds had gotten him much support.

  When the returns were in, Patterson had beaten the old Mayor by less than a thousand votes and Zulu was back.

  When he was inaugurated, Patterson had thrown a big bash at the MGM Casino. He’d invited many black celebrities. It was a great night but the press condemned him for this lavish gesture.

  Patterson didn’t get it. He was young and these were his people. So it was bad that he liked rap? Bad that he liked people his own age? When he pointed out that the Mayor of New York had celebrities at his inauguration, one reporter for The Detroit News had put it best when he stated: “This ain’t New York.”

  Patterson saw this as the first sign of trouble. The media wanted him to look black but act white. They wanted him to be a good boy, like Obama. Well, he was no half-white snob from Harvard. He was all black and this was Detroit. He was going to be who he was and media be damned.

  The men in his office finished their presentation. Patterson stood. He always enjoyed watching other men look up to him. Over the years, he had gained weight and was now fairly intimidating, more power forward than point guard.

  Patterson walked past Don Przybylski, his chief aide and advisor. Przybylski was a slight man in every sense of the word. He was about five six and weighed only a hundred and sixty pounds. His features were bland and he had sandy blonde hair and pale blue eyes that were flat and empty. People would often not even notice him, saying things like “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” or “When did you come in?”

  Przybylski didn’t seem to mind this dubious power. In fact, he was proud of what he called his personal invisibility.

  One thing Patterson knew Przybylski didn’t like was always having to tell people how to pronounce his name. “Sha-bill-ski,” he would say slowly, explaining the Polish sound for “przy” was of Slavic derivation.

  Przybylski stood near a small ledge behind the desk. He might have been a floor lamp or a coat rack for all the attention he drew in his charcoal gray suit.

  Przybylski had met Patterson in school where he’d put together Patterson’s campaign for college President. It was a hard won election helped along by a few clever tricks.

  Patterson passed by Przybylski with an expression on his face like he had just smelled something very bad.

  “Every day, people come here with these shit deals,” said Patterson. “And every day I have to remind them that we’re not the stupid black people they see on reality TV.”

  The businessmen froze. There were six of them and they felt their presentation was fair, honest and good for the city. They were all shocked and several looked like they wanted to leave.

  “You promise me jobs and I give you tax breaks, soft money and everything else you need. And then when the deal is done, you hire your friends and family and give my people jobs mopping floors. Now, I know you’re gonna hire some black people, but in the past, they are the same Ivy League assholes from out of state. Might as well be white people for all I care. Gentlemen, that means nothing to me. I want assurances for black talent that resides in this town.”

  “I’m sure we can work something out,” said Fred Drewson, a well-known local businessman who led the group. Drewson was a young, ambitious man and known to be a good dealmaker. “We’d certainly appreciate your input, Your Honor.”

  “Cool, “ said Patterson. “And I don’t want none of them to be Directors of Urban Affairs and Human Resource jobs. I want black folks in finance, marketing and operations. And I want your Government Liaison to be one of my people and I want a five percent minority stake in the holding company to go to whomever I designate.”

  Patterson could see the reaction in the eyes of the men. They didn’t like this one bit. These were areas in companies that made a difference. It never ceased to amaze him how white folks thought he was dumb. No matter how many diplomas he had on the wall, they never thought they were earned with brainpower. No, he just stepped into the “Free Negro Degree Line” and picked one out.

  Loyal blacks in high paying powerful jobs meant donations to his campaign war chest and that meant him staying in power.

  “I’m sure we can accommodate that,” said Drewson but his voice had little enthusiasm.

  “Then we got a deal for now,” said Patterson. “I’ll have a list for you soon.”

  “Excuse me? said Drewson. “A list?”

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Patterson. “My assistant will show you out.”

  Before the businessmen could react, Przybylski was at the door. No one had noticed him move there and Drewson was just a little startled. He turned to the businessmen and smiled.

  “No problem,” said Drewson. “We appreciate it.” Drewson and his party filed out quickly.

  “Bullshit muthafuckas,” said Patterson as soon as they were gone. “Always trying to get over on a nigga.”

  Przybylski didn’t flinch at the use of the N-word in his presence even though he was white. Patterson said it a lot among friends. For Przybylski, this was just a sign that he was in the Mayor’s most inner circle.

  “They looked scared to me,” said Przybylski, in his soft, almost melodious tenor.

  “Shit, they saw I peeped their shit,” laughed Patterson.

  “Who shall we put on the list?” asked Przybylski.

  “You call it, man,” said Patterson. “Just make sure they take the oath.” Patterson was referring not to a literal oath but an understanding of loyalty.

  Patterson took out an Xbox 360 controller and turned on the console and the big 60” TV across the room sprang to life. Soon, he was playing Call Of Duty.

  Patterson heard Przybylski make a disgusted noise and then he excused himself and stepped out. Przybylski hated it when his boss chose to relax this way.

  And Patterson needed to relax. It was good to be the king but it could be a pain in the ass sometimes. If it wasn’t these arrogant businessmen, it was the attack media or the greedy ministers crying about lost neighborhoods.

  Anyone could see what was going on in Detroit. The damned city was dying and black and white people were killing it. White folks had no respect for black folk in general and his people had no respect for white money.

  And now the damned governor was making noise and threatening the city. Wisconsin and Ohio had both gone nuclear as their governors attacked cities and state workers, which to him was code for black people.

  Patterson wasn’t worried, though. The people and the press wouldn’t stand for something like that. If the activists didn’t stop it, the race card would.

  If only everyone would just listen to him, the city could come back, he thought dully. It wasn’t rocket science. All Detroit needed was more businesses and jobs. Everybody just needed to chill the fuck out and start doing what he told them to do

  In truth, Patterson had no idea how to fix his ailing city. When he’d taken office, he was besieged by experts telling him what was wrong and how deep the problems ran.

  He’d made a lot of campaign promises, but mostly he had smiled, sweet-talked and given fiery, angry speeches in churches and the people had flocked to him.

  Detroit’s Greatest Generation was almost gone and the Baby Boomers had moved away. The new Detroit, the young, angry members of the hip-hop generation, was in control now and they wanted their own champion.

  These people might have been born out of wedlock into single parent families. They had a sense of entitlement and equality. They were raised on rap music, which promoted self-interest, and they weren’t going to settle for the same promises of the past.

/>   Mayor Crawford hadn’t seen this. He was still preaching that old “we shall overcome shit” and no one was listening. The cell phone, satellite and the Internet were the new gods of politics.

  Patterson had gone on Facebook, Twitter, Black Planet and the like. He’d put up You Tube videos and even commissioned a local rap group to do a song about him. “Here Come Da Zulu” had gotten over 500,000 hits in one week.

  And now he had it all. He was young, wealthy and powerful. He had a hot wife and two cute kids, the American Dream. And that was what it was all about for his generation, getting the power and keeping it real.

  His parents were very proud of him. His father had almost cried at the inauguration. His mother had shed a tear but Patterson hadn’t believed it was real. That woman was tougher than them all. She ran their businesses like an iron queen and struck fear into the hearts of everyone who knew her.

  Patterson’s father had opposed him running for office at first, but his mother was in from the start. She had a keen sense of human nature and she kept very close to her poor relations in the neighborhoods. “They might be niggers but they’re my niggers,” she would often say.

  Patterson didn’t like his mother’s relations. They were an embarrassment and some of them had been locked up. Those people scared him.

  With all he had accomplished, Patterson still felt a void. He owned the city, but it brought him no real joy.

  He felt the passion of others in the world. He saw a look of satisfaction on his father’s face when he sold cars growing up and he saw the same on his mother when she closed a deal. He even felt the happiness of assistants and clerical people in their day-to-day lives. But he had nothing in his life that drove him to such delight. He was the envy of all his peers and yet he wore a crown made of paper.

  And so Patterson had taken office and gone from one blunder to the next: political mishaps, media gaffes and out and out scandal. He treated the city coffers like his own private account at times and it only brought anger from the public.