by Bill Morris
After the guests went home, Rod took the girls up to bed and Kat fixed fresh drinks—she always seemed to be fixing fresh drinks—and brought them out to the patio. Fireflies were winking above the back lawn that rolled like a carpet to the edge of the lake. Kat handed Doyle his drink—Jack Daniel’s, a couple of ice cubes—then she sat on the arm of his Adirondack chair. He was instantly uncomfortable. She started in with the music about how Rod was married to his job, not to her. Doyle was thinking she should get together with Vicki Jones and start a sob sisters club. Just then he felt Kat’s fingernails gently raking his right thigh, starting at the knee and heading north. She said, “You know, Frank, sometimes I think I married the wrong brother. I went for the responsible one instead of the cute one. I can’t help but wonder. . . .”
He was rescued by his brother bounding out of the house, chuckling about something the girls had said upstairs. Kat jumped to her feet and strolled back to her chair. They never said another word about it because he never went back to the house. He realized, sitting there in the Plymouth, that of all the things he despised about the woman, the worst was that she’d taken his nieces out of his life on the night of that cookout.
He waited until the lights in two of the upstairs rooms went out. The girls were safe in bed and there was no longer any reason for him to sit there alone in the dark feeling bitter. If he wanted to have the girls back in his life, he realized he would have to figure out a way to get around their mother. It shouldn’t be all that complicated. Like so many things, all you had to do was want it bad enough.
He found a Big Boy on Telegraph and picked at a slice of apple pie and drank half a dozen cups of coffee while reading the Detroit News. He was relieved to see that they’d played Alphonso Johnson’s confession on the metro page instead of the front page, but they ran a long sidebar about the ongoing Helen Hull investigation with a picture of Henry and Helen in their aprons out in front of the old familiar Greenleaf Market, back before this city lost its mind. Doyle left his half-finished pie on the counter and headed back to Oakland Hills.
He found Bob Brewer sitting alone in Dick Kowalski’s office reading Time magazine, his bow tie loose, his waiter’s jacket unbuttoned. Handsome guy, but he looked tired. Brewer stood up when the detective walked in, shook his hand, looked him in the eye. Doyle decided to open the conversation on a genial note. “Dick Kowalski tells me you’re the best waiter he’s got on the staff, Mr. Brewer.”
“He said that for real?”
“Scout’s honor. You sure do put in some long hours.”
“Yeah, these private parties tend to run late. Car guys, you know.”
“Right, car guys. But you work hard even when you’re off the clock.”
“Sir?”
“You’ve managed to put together quite an impressive little real-estate empire.”
Bob Brewer stared at the detective. “I can see you do your homework,” he said, and there was an edge to the compliment. His way of announcing that he didn’t appreciate having a cop snoop around in his private affairs. So much for the genial note.
“Just doing my job,” Doyle said, giving him the bland smile.
“You know, it’s a funny thing,” Bob Brewer said, but he wasn’t smiling. “For once I feel like the world’s playing right into my hands.”
“How’s that, Mr. Brewer?”
“Well, you’ve obviously researched the public records. So you know I bought up most of that real estate in the past three years—and a bunch of it since the riot. I’m picking up nice pieces of property at fire-sale prices, so to speak. And you know why?”
“Cause whitey’s heading for the hills?”
The man in the starched jacket smiled for the first time, and Doyle could see that he had beautiful teeth. Black people had the best teeth and the prettiest babies. “That’s exactly right,” Bob Brewer said, chuckling at the irony of Detroit’s panicked real-estate market and at the detective’s candor about such a delicate racial topic. “Cause whitey’s heading for the hills. You happen to notice all those For Sale signs on my block?”
Doyle filed this away. If the man knew he’d already been to Normandy Street, then the wife had obviously called to alert him. Wise, wary people. Doyle respected that. “As a matter of fact I did notice the signs, Mr. Brewer.”
“They’re not my fault.”
“Your fault? I don’t follow you.”
“You see, I’m no pioneer. I wasn’t the first black man to buy a house on Normandy Street. I was the third. I waited and went in six months after the riot. Bought that big Tudor for a song. Like I say, the world’s playing right into my hands.”
“That’s great, Mr. Brewer.” Doyle could tell the small talk was loosening him up, so he decided to keep the ball rolling. “Were you born here in Detroit?”
“No, I’m from Alabama originally. Little town called Andalusia.”
“Andalusia? Never heard of it.”
“Nobody has. It’s a little dot on the map bout halfway between Tuskegee and Mobile. Came up here when I was nineteen and never went back. Feels like I been here my whole life.”
Enough small talk. Doyle cleared his throat. “Mr. Brewer, I need to ask you a few questions about your rental property at the corner of Pallister and Hamilton, the Larrow Arms.” And with that, the oxygen in the room changed, went from cool geniality to deep frost. “One of your tenants, Mrs. Charlotte Armstrong, tells me something happened in the building on the morning of July 26th last year. That was a Wednesday, during the riot.”
“You spoke with Mizz Charlotte?”
“Yes.”
“She’s a great lady, my dream tenant. But she’s getting on in years—”
“She may be getting on in years, Mr. Brewer, but she’s not blind and she’s not deaf. She saw two black men get out of an older model car beside the building sometime after midnight that night. One was fat, the other was tall and thin. She heard them enter the building and climb the stairs to an upper floor. Then she heard voices coming from the rooftop. Then she heard gunshots. Nine of them.”
Doyle waited for this to sink in, watching Bob Brewer’s expression. So far, nothing. Doyle pushed on. “You know of any tenants from last summer who might’ve had an older model car? One with a red-and-black interior? Lots of chrome?”
Bob Brewer ran his fingertips along his jaw. His fingernails were shiny. Doyle supposed he was lining up his lies, for the First Commandment of homicide work is that everyone, absolutely everyone, lies. There were glints in Bob Brewer’s close-cropped Afro, probably from one of those sprays the brothers use. Finally he said, “No sir, I’m trying but I can’t recall anyone in that building last summer who drove an older model car. I’m sorry.”
“Do you have a list of your tenants from last July?”
“Aw shit, Detective, people come and go so fast in that part of town. . . .”
“But you strike me as the kind of guy who keeps pretty good records. Cancelled checks, things like that.”
“Oh sure. But a lot of people pay their rent with money orders, even cash. Some have leases, some don’t. Some sub-let, some let friends stay. I’ve got too many tenants to know exactly who was where and when they were there.”
It was time to shift gears. “Mrs. Armstrong tells me the fifth floor is kept locked, that tenants store things up there.”
“That’s right.”
“And I assume you get to the roof from the fifth floor.”
“That’s right. There’s two doors that open onto the roof.”
“Any idea who has a key to the fifth floor?”
“I got one somewhere.”
“Anybody else?”
“The super’s got one.”
“And what’s his name?”
“Thompson. Anthony Thompson.”
Doyle took out his notebook and wrote the name down, nice and slow. “Anthony live in the building?”
“Ground floor, right side.”
“He a good man?”
; “So-so. He drinks. Sells a little burial insurance on the side. I hear he did a little time once, but he seems to’ve straightened out.”
“You know what he did time for?”
“Can’t say as I do. But I spect you could find out.”
“Was Anthony in the building early in the morning last July 26th?”
“I got no idea. You’ll have to ask him.”
Like pulling fucking hen’s teeth, Doyle thought again, and it struck him as a shame that this city’s—this country’s—bad history was coming between Bob Brewer and himself, two men who, despite their many differences, wanted many of the same things. But Doyle had lived through enough to know that this country’s history would always tell the same story. It would always tell the black man that the policeman was the enemy, and it would always tell the policeman to suspect the black man without giving him the slightest benefit of the doubt. Honkies versus niggers, till death do us part. Two armed camps, Doyle thought sadly, with the arsenals growing bigger, the distrust growing deeper, the future growing dimmer by the day.
“Mr. Brewer, you’ve been a tremendous help. One last question.”
“Sure thing.”
It was a longshot, but it was something Doyle and Jimmy had been toying with for weeks, and Charlotte Armstrong’s story about the duffel bag made Doyle think they might be on to something. “Did one of your tenants at the Larrow Arms last summer serve in Vietnam, by any chance?”
At last Doyle saw it: the slight widening of the eyes, the flinch. He’d finally hit a nerve, and the longer it took for the answer to come back the more certain he was that it was going to be a lie. After a long while Bob Brewer said, “I’m trying to think . . . I can’t . . . I can’t think of anyone in that building who’s ever been in the service. No sir, I’m sorry.” Then the clincher: “Why do you ask?”
“No special reason.” And now Doyle was doing the lying, and he knew Bob Brewer knew it. It was no secret that many of the guns used in the riots in Detroit and dozens of other American cities had once been used against the Viet Cong in Southeast Asia, then smuggled stateside and sold on the black market. For now, Doyle was satisfied that he’d caught Bob Brewer in a lie. He was convinced Helen Hull was killed by a Vietnam veteran who lived at the Larrow Arms and knew how to shoot guns accurately from great distances. Now all Doyle and Jimmy had to do was find the guy.
Half an hour later Doyle was lost in thought as he sailed past Northland shopping center on the deserted Lodge Freeway, headed back downtown. He did his best thinking alone in a car late at night. The light rain helped, the monotonous slap of the windshield wipers mesmerizing him just like the metronome used to mesmerize him during his boyhood piano lessons. Four years of that torture established that he had no musical talent, but it gave him enough of an ear to recognize and appreciate genius, from Chopin to Fats Waller, Brubeck and Brahms. Thinking of Chopin reminded him he needed to get back in touch with Cecelia Cronin.
Whap, whap, whap went the wipers, lulling Doyle, urging him to make a “pickup,” something that would link two seemingly unrelated fragments of the Helen Hull story. It didn’t help that he was still unsure exactly what this story was about, but at least his conversations with Charlotte Armstrong and Bob Brewer had convinced him there were pickups out there, waiting to be made.
He glanced at the vast empty Northland parking lot as he passed. Northland always made Doyle think of his old patrol partner, Jerry Czapski, who’d started moonlighting as a security guard at Northland a couple of years ago and made the front page of the papers when he broke up an armed robbery by firing a single bullet into the perp’s brain as the guy was exiting Kay Jewelers with a sawed-off shotgun in one hand and a gym bag full of swag in the other. Czapski, known in-house as the worst shot on the Detroit police force, was famous for a whole day. Of course it went straight to his head.
And now, as Doyle splashed toward downtown, he couldn’t get Jerry Czapski out of his head. Doyle spent his last two years in a uniform stuck in a radio car with the guy. Zap branded Doyle a nigger-lover the day he broke up an armed robbery in a party store without drawing his gun. Doyle talked the perp, a black hoops prospect from Pershing High School named Reggie Boyd, into laying down his shitty little pawnshop piece. “Only a nigger-lover would do a thing like that instead of shooting the little scrote,” Zap said afterwards. Hell, Doyle didn’t even carry a drop piece, which was more or less standard equipment among Detroit cops at the time, a spare weapon that could be planted on a dead or wounded man to make a bad shooting look good.
Those two years riding with Jerry Czapski felt like twenty. Every day he seemed to come up with a new ethnic slur. He started with the obvious ones—nigs, jigs, smokes, spooks, spades, darkies, coons. Then he went for the slightly more exotic—spics, yids, dagos, kikes, chinks, A-rabs, wetbacks, towel-heads, camel jockeys, micks, guineas. Whites from the rural South were hillbillies, rednecks, crackers, yokels, dirt-eaters, hicks and trash. He didn’t shy away from his own kind, either—polacks, bohunks, no-necks. One day he wanted to pull over a car because it had Ontario plates. When Doyle pointed out that the driver hadn’t done anything wrong, Zap said, “Yeah, but he’s from Canada. What the fuck’s he doing over here?” Looking back, Doyle realized Zap was an equal-opportunity racist. He hated the human race.
He told Doyle at least once a day that his dream assignment was pulling wheel duty on a Big Four, the scourge of the Detroit ghetto, a squad car with a uniform at the wheel and three plainclothes cops packing shotguns, tear gas and a ton of bad attitude. “Ain’t nobody gives any shit to a Big Four,” Zap said dreamily.
As Doyle passed the West Grand Boulevard turnoff, the one he’d taken to get to the Larrow Arms, his thoughts drifted back to his last night as Zap’s partner. His promotion to Homicide had come through and he was counting off his last hours in a uniform, praying for a quiet shift. They were cruising west on Davison in a radio car, Czapski at the wheel. It was muggy for a spring evening, a lot of people out. Czapski turned left on Wildemere, taking it slow, drinking in every movement on the street the way he always did, hoping something would catch his eye.
“My, my, my, what have we here?” he’d said, letting off the gas so the car was barely crawling. A young Negro male had come hurrying out of an apartment building and climbed into a car and pulled away from the curb.
“What is it, Zap?”
“That nigger.”
“What about him?”
“He’s got out-of-state plates.”
“So?”
“So how you suppose some jig from Alabama paid for that nice cherry Buick? Chopping cotton?”
“I wouldn’t know, Zap, but something tells me you’re going to find out.”
“Damn straight I am.” He turned on the roof flasher and pulled the Buick over.
Doyle stayed in the radio car listening to the murmur of call-out codes while Czapski went to question the driver. It was only after he heard Czapski berating the guy that Doyle got out of the car and stood with his hands resting on the roof. People were coming out of buildings, standing on porches, waiting. This had become a major Motor City spectator sport—watching The Man hassle the brothers. Doyle wished Czapski would hurry up. A woman on one of the porches shouted, “What the fuck he do wrong? Leave him be!” Doyle heard a bottle break. From where he was standing he could see the driver’s right arm, long and brown, resting across the top of the Buick’s front seat.
And now, sailing down the deserted Lodge Freeway in the rain, Doyle saw it, the memory as vivid as a snapshot: the tops of the seats in that old Buick were red.
When he got back to headquarters he went straight to the musty records cage on the second floor and woke up the night clerk and got him to dig out the run sheets from the first week of May, 1967. Run sheets recorded every move every cop made in the course of every shift. They were not always complete or in chronological order, and Doyle couldn’t remember the exact date of his last shift. But he was convinced there was a pickup
waiting for him in that stack of paper.
Three hours later he found it: At 6:43 P.M. on May 4, 1967, Patrolmen G.L. Czapski and F.A. Doyle, in Car 77, made a routine traffic stop of a 1954 two-door Buick Century at the corner of Wildemere and Tuxedo. After questioning by Patrolman Czapski, according to the run sheet, motorist was allowed to go on his way. No summons was issued. The driver’s name was William Brewer Bledsoe. His local address in Detroit was the Algiers Motel. His home address was 2412 Greenwood Dr. in Tuskegee, Alabama.
Doyle made a photocopy of the run sheet and circled the driver’s middle name and his hometown. He could hear Bob Brewer describing Andalusia, Alabama: It’s a little dot on the map bout halfway between Tuskegee and Mobile.
It was too good to be a coincidence. It was a pickup to end all pickups, and Doyle was so excited he went up to the fifth floor and started dialing Jimmy Robuck’s home number. But he caught himself before the connection went through. It was after three o’clock in the morning and he’d just worked an eighteen-hour day. The pickup would still be there tomorrow.
By the time Doyle got home the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. He went into the back yard to check on his garden and was surprised to find that the tomato plants already came up to his waist and the corn was knee-high. Even in the weak moonlight he could see that the garden was in bad need of weeding. The breeze brought a whispered reproach from his mother.
He poured a snifter of cognac and lit a cigar and went out onto the front porch to watch the moon and listen to the dripping night. He could see the lights of huge freighters sliding past on the river, on their way to feed the beast that never sleeps. Doyle’s father, fuzzy around the edges and a little milky, was sitting in the butterscotch La-Z-Boy recliner, his old TV chair. Before Doyle could say a word, his old man said, How come you haven’t brought Vicki around lately?