Bill Morris - Motor City Burning

While the cop studied the license, Willie noticed he was carrying a long black flashlight even though there was plenty of daylight left. In the rearview mirror he could see that the cop’s partner was still in the squad car, a good sign. The cop bent back down, eyes scouring the interior of the car. “You realize you failed to make a complete stop at the corner of Wildemere and Tuxedo, Mr. Bledsoe?”

“Nosir, I didn’t realize that. I believe I came to a complete—”

“You calling me a liar, boy?”

Here we go, Willie thought, slowly placing both hands on the steering wheel. He heard a dog bark, a child’s laughter, and again he smelled the cop, that oily machine smell. Been in the Promised Land less than a week, he told himself, and here it was again — already, still, forever — the bowel-cramping terror he thought he’d left behind when he left the South. He almost wanted to laugh at his own stupidity.

“Where’s that registration?”

Willie removed his right hand from the steering wheel and reached slowly for the glove box. Just before his thumb pressed the button, his left ear caught fire and stars jumped off the windshield. Stunned, his head ringing, he looked to his left. The cop was grinning. He’d whacked the side of Willie’s head with the flashlight.

“Don’t go pulling no gun on me now, honey,” he said, lips stretching to reveal those yellow teeth.

“Nosir. .” Willie opened the glove box and gave him the registration. While the cop studied it, Willie kept his left hand on the steering wheel, stretched his right arm across the back of the seat, in plain view. He was not going to rub the spot where the flashlight hit, give this pig any satisfaction. He saw that people had come out on their porches to watch the show. Most of them looked bored, a few looked angry. Someone shouted, “What the fuck he do wrong? Leave him be!”

The cop ignored this and studied the registration even longer than he’d studied the license. “Tuskegee, Alabama, eh? You sure are a long ways from home.”

“Yessir.” The ringing in his left ear was so bad it was hard to hear him.

“What brings you to Detroit?”

“I’m here. .” And then the black man’s oldest reflex took over, that ageless survival instinct, the automatic gift to tell the white man the lie he wants to hear. “I’m here for a job interview, sir.”

“Where at?” He was still studying the registration. His lips were moving.

“At. . General Motors.”

“Doing what?”

“They’ve got an opening in the Mail Room.”

The peckerwood nodded at this, and Willie applauded himself for coming up with such a perfect lie, a lie this cop would love because it fit so neatly into his view of the world: black people were put on the planet to work in the Mail Room and the kitchen, to sing and dance, to cut the grass and polish the brass.

The cop started copying the information from the driver’s license into a notebook. Willie assumed he was writing a ticket, but the cop handed back the license and registration, no ticket, and gave the Buick a long, admiring look. “Where’d you pick up a fine ride like this, boy?”

“In Alabama, sir. Restored it myself.” He realized it was the second time he’d told this lie. No sense stopping now. “Picked it up in a junkyard for twenty-five doll—”

“What’re you doing in this neighborhood?” He was still admiring the car. Willie realized he was seeing jealousy on the cop’s face.

“I was on my way back from my job interview, sir.”

“Back to where?”

“My hotel.”

“Which one?”

“The Algiers, over on Woodward.”

“The Algiers ?” The cop gave out a single snort of laughter. “Buncha pimps and dope dealers and queers over there. You a homasexual, honey?”

“Nosir.”

“You like smokin dicks?”

“Nosir.”

“You a pimp? Only pimps drive cars painted like pussy.”

“Nosir, I’m not a pimp.”

“Well, you’ll fit right in at the Algiers anyway. What you got in the trunk?”

“Nothing, sir.” The ringing was dying, but now the side of Willie’s head was beginning to throb. He could see in the rearview mirror that the other cop, another white guy, was out of the squad car now, hands folded on its roof. “I’d be happy to open the trunk for you—”

“What were you doing in that apartment building three blocks back?”

Willie managed to sound calm. “I was. . looking for an apartment, sir. A permanent place to live. They have a vacancy on the third floor.”

“You buy any dope while you was in there?”

“Nosir, I don’t do drugs.”

“Don’t lie to me, boy!”

This was obviously for the benefit of the people who were now crowding the nearby porches. A few had spilled down to the sidewalk, children mostly. So this was a Motown spectator sport. The cop studied his audience, nice and slow, not in any hurry. He was enjoying himself. Willie felt ashamed for allowing this fat white cop to humiliate him in front of these people.

The cop said, “All right, boy, I’m going to do you a big favor and give you a warning this time. But don’t go running any more stop signs.”

“Nosir.”

“And don’t go giving your money to those dope dealers and hookers at the Algiers, you hear me?” He was smiling again, pleased with his wit.

“Yessir, I hear you.”

The smile vanished. “Now gitcher ugly black ass outta my sight.”

By the time he got back to the Algiers Motel, Willie had come to the realization that he was capable of killing that fat white cop. He wanted to kill him. He also realized this was precisely what The Man wanted him to want. He drives you to murder so he can turn around and kill you dead for allowing yourself to be driven.

Now he heard Octavia saying to the cop, “We was just leavin, officer.” She was giving him a big phony smile of her own. “I work for Mr. Gordy.”

“That a fact,” the white cop said. He leaned forward to get a better look at the passenger inside the sports car. Willie stared straight ahead. His heart was going like a jackhammer. The white cop said, “And what all do you do for Mr. Gordy?”

“Answer the phones. Type. Lick envelopes.”

“I bet that ain’t all you lick.”

The black cop said something sharp to his partner. Willie was still staring straight ahead. His heart was going so fast it actually hurt.

Octavia bristled. “What the hell is that suppose to—”

“He didn’t mean nothin, ma’am,” the black cop said. “If you’re leavin, you should go ahead and leave. Right now.”

Willie exhaled as Octavia fired the engine and dropped the car into gear and eased away from the curb. He kept looking over his shoulder until he was satisfied the cops weren’t following. He told Octavia to take a left on Hamilton, the quickest way to his apartment.

“That motherfucker,” she muttered, lighting another cigarette. “That fee-simple honky motherfucker. . ”

They didn’t speak as they passed over the Lodge Freeway, then took a right on Pallister. Willie watched the Larrow Arms slide by, wondered which window belonged to Mizz Armstrong. When Octavia pulled up in front of his place, she left the engine running and glanced up at the building. “So this where you stay?”

“This is it.”

“Ain’t much to look at.”

“No, but it’s clean. And cheap.”

“What happened to that burnt-up place next door?”

“The riot happened.”

“Damn, you was right in the middle of it, wasn’t you?”

“You got no idea.” Now that, he thought, reaching for the door handle, is the truest thing I’ve said all day.

She touched his knee. “You okay, Willie?”