Bill Morris - Motor City Burning

“Nothing.”

“No footsteps? No voices?”

“Not a thing.”

“No one left the building?”

“Not that I could see or hear.”

“About how much longer did you sit by the window?”

“Not long, maybe fifteen minutes. I saw another po-lice pass by real slow with its lights off, but that was all I saw. Then I went on to bed.”

“Did you report this to the police?”

“I tried, but the lines were always busy. I couldn’t get through.”

Frank and Jimmy helped themselves to a second piece of crumb cake while Charlotte Armstrong went into the kitchen to write down her landlord’s name, address and phone number on a slip of pink paper.

When they got back to 1300 Beaubien, Doyle started typing up his notes while Jimmy looked over his shoulder, occasionally making a suggestion. Doyle was a much faster typist, used all his fingers and didn’t even have to look at the keys.

They knew there had been at least two shooters on the roof of the Larrow Arms and one of them lived on the building’s upper floors. The timing matched the time of Helen Hull’s death. The rooftop afforded a clear shot at the Harlan House. They had a rough description of a car. Jimmy reminded Doyle to type in that the fat man had a limp, that there may have been a third man on the roof, that one or more of the men might have been drunk. The top floor was locked, so they needed to find out who had the key. “And don’t forget the landlord,” Jimmy said.

“I haven’t forgetten the landlord.” Doyle removed the neatly folded pink paper from his shirt pocket. It was the last thing he typed into the file: Bob Brewer. 3417 Normandy. GArfield 4-6743. “I’m going out to see him tomorrow, soon as I do a little research.”

“All by your lonesome?”

“If I have to. Of course I’d love for you to come along.”

“Course you would. But I got to be in court all day to testify in that double at Duke’s Playhouse.”

“Then I’ll go alone. I don’t want to let this thing cool off again. I can feel it, Jimmy. This could be the one we’ve been waiting for.” He smacked his forehead. “Damn!”

“Whatsamatter?” Jimmy said.

“I got so wound up I forgot to ask Mizz Armstrong for her crumb cake recipe.”

WILLIE WAS DRESSED HALF AN HOUR BEFORE HIS UNCLE BOB WAS due to pick him up for work. Pacing his living room, he decided there was no sense putting it off any longer. He dialed his parents’ telephone number in Andalusia. It was his second long-distance call of the morning, and he was dreading this one even more than the first. With luck he would catch his mother at home alone, keep his father out of this. She picked up after the third ring.

“Bledsoe residence.”

“Hey, Ma, it’s me.”

“William! What a pleasant surprise. How are you?”

“Fine, Ma. Everything’s cool.”

“You still working?”

“Afraid so. Got the lunch shift today.”

“You putting some money away?”

“Trying.”

“Your Aunt Nezzie’s here. Want to say hello?” There was a muffled sound, voices. His Aunt Nezzie hated telephones, wouldn’t have one in her house. His mother came back on the line. “Well, Nezzie says hello.”

“Tell her I said hey. Got some good news, Ma.”

“Oh?”

“Started back working on my book.”

“That’s wonderful, William.”

“Yeah, been going to the library to read old newspaper articles about the stuff we did. Been remembering a lot of things.”

“Have you started writing again?”

“Not yet. But soon. I can feel it.”

“And how’s brother Bob?”

“Same old. Richer by the day.”

She giggled. “Stop that, you.”

“Ain’t lyin. He just bought a shiny new Buick that’s bigger’n my apartment.”

“I know. He sent us a picture of it parked in front of their new house. It looks like a manor somewhere in England.”

Willie tried for his most casual tone. “Say Ma, I was wondering, you heard from Wes lately by any chance? I just tried calling him at that number in Chicago but they said he left town. Nobody knew where he went off to.”

“As a matter of fact your brother called last week.”

“He did?”

“Yes. Why is that so exciting? To hear him tell it, you two had some big falling out.”

“It wasn’t no big falling out. It was a misunderstanding’s all.”

“Wesley made it sound like you two were at each other’s throats.”

“It wasn’t like that. You know how he exaggerates everything.”

“I see. Well, he’s on his way to Denver.”

“Denver? What’s in Denver?”

“He said he has some friends there. Navy buddies. You know how he’s been since he got out the service. Drifting from here to there, no direction, no ambition.”

“Yeah, I know. He give you a telephone number?”

“No, he said he was calling from a pay phone at a bus station somewhere in the Midwest. St. Louis, I believe it was. But he said he’ll call soon as he makes it to Denver.”

“You think you could do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“When you hear from him, please ask him to call me. It’s important.”

“What’s this all about, William? Is something wrong?”

“No Ma, I swear. I just want to straighten out the misunderstanding we had. Simple as that.”

“Fine. I’ll ask him to call you when I hear from him. Any other news? You find a girl?”

“Nothing serious. I have gone to a few baseball games though.”

“Baseball games?”

“Yeah, the Detroit Tigers. First place in the American League. Made a couple of good friends at the ballpark, two brothers — a dude from Louisiana and a lawyer.”

“Well, that’s. . nice, I suppose.”

“And how’s the Reverend?”

“He’s fine, thank you for asking. He’s down to the church. He and some of the boys from the choir are finally fixing the roof.”

“Still working the Jesus thing, is he?”

“You know he is. He’ll be praising the Lord when he’s inside a pine box.”

Willie heard his Aunt Nezzie laughing in the background. She had nothing but scorn for the Jesus racket, the way her brother-in-law, now that he’d retired from the railroad, spent all of his time at his church, Mount Olive True Holiness Baptist Tabernacle, a little white-washed box sitting up on cinderblocks in a thicket of loblolly pines just south of Andalusia. The faithful sat on folding chairs, waving paper fans from Hargett Funeral Service, worshiping by the light of a single 60-watt bulb that dangled by a wire from the ceiling. They were all ready for the rapture even though the roof leaked. Or maybe they were ready for the rapture because the roof leaked. Willie had to give his father credit for one thing, though. At least he wasn’t one of those preachers who drove a Cadillac and kept a harem of young redbones hand-picked from the church choir. Otis Bledsoe drove an old Ford. He was a true believer, a foot-washing Baptist who dismissed Methodists and Episcopalians and the like as “shallow-water” because they did their baptizing indoors instead of where it was supposed to be done — outdoors in a snake-infested brown river, under the all-seeing eye of God. “Well, give the Reverend my best,” Willie said.

“I’ll do that.”

“I better go, Ma. This is expensive.”

“All right, William. Write me a letter.”

“Will do. And don’t forget to tell Wes to call me.”

“I won’t forget. Bye now.”

As he hung up the phone Willie heard a horn honk and saw his uncle’s Deuce and a Quarter glide up to the curb on Pallister. Willie hurried down the stairs, several dollars poorer but still no closer to knowing what had become of those three guns.