Bill Morris - Motor City Burning

“G.M.A. what?”

“It’s how us General Motors dealers finance car sales. You understand how that works, don’t you?”

“Not really. Like I said, that Buick of mine was a gift. It’s the only car I’ve ever owned, so I don’t really understand fi—”

“Ah, screw it. I’ll swap you straight up. That sound like a deal?”

It damn sure did, and by the time Willie brought the Deuce to a stop outside the showroom, the trade was complete. Chick’s largess was explained by two things: his genuine fondness for Willie, and the fact that the ragtop had had its frame bent when it got rear-ended by a gravel truck in Inkster. The boys in the Fountain of Youth worked on it for a solid week, and they were able to fix the bumper and trunk lid good as new, but they said the frame would never be straight. Chick wanted to get the thing off the lot. He figured he could get at least a grand for Willie’s ’54 Century from one of the downriver motorheads who dropped by all the time looking for something to soup up. Maybe even twelve hundred. It would be a loss, but getting rid of that damaged Deuce was worth it.

“A pleasure doing business with you,” Chick told Willie when he emerged from the sales office with his paperwork in hand. “Drive carefully now — and give some more thought to that job we talked about.”

“I will. Thanks for everything, Mr. Murphy.” Willie shook the offered hand and guided the Bahama-blue Deuce and a Quarter south toward the city, joining the legion of satisfied customers who’d stayed on the right track to 9 Mile and Mack and didn’t even realize they’d gotten bushwhacked by Chick Murphy’s murderous mood.

DOYLE AND JIMMY ROBUCK TOOK A RARE TUESDAY AFTERNOON off to watch the Tigers play the Yankees on Bat Day. It was one of the scariest things the detectives had ever seen—51,000 Detroiters buzzed on fire-brewed Stroh’s and armed with giveaway Louisville Sluggers. Miraculously, no one’s brains got bashed in. The Tigers lost that day but then won ten of their next eleven, putting the rest of the American League in their rearview mirror.

Doyle and Jimmy barely noticed. A heat wave in late June did what heat waves have always done in Detroit — it inspired a burst of violence that sent a dozen citizens to the morgue and sent every homicide detective into maximum overdrive. To make matters worse, as July wore on and the Tigers kept tearing up the American League, there was talk on the street that Armageddon II was going to erupt on the 23rd, the first anniversary of the outbreak of the riot. Word was that some of the Motor City’s better-equipped bad-asses were declaring July 23 open season on anyone with white skin, especially if he or she happened to be employed by the Detroit Police Department.

Nerves, understandably, were fraying at 1300 Beaubien, and the Helen Hull investigation went back onto the back burner. But then on the eve of Armageddon II, Doyle and Jimmy worked all night to get a signed confession from a shitball named Rayfield Gaudet in the Jeffries Homes shooting during the summer’s first heat wave. It was their last open case. The next morning, after a two-hour nap on the sofa in Sgt. Schroeder’s office, Doyle pulled the Helen Hull file back out. An hour later, as he was reviewing his notes from his conversations with Caldwell Petty and Beulah Bledsoe, his telephone rang.

“Homicide, Doyle.”

“Got some great news, Frankie!” came Henry Hull’s familiar squawk.

“Glad to hear it, Mr. Hull,” Doyle said. He needed to sleep for a week.

“Did you happen to see the eleven o’clock news last night?”

“No sir, I was busy.”

Henry told him what he’d missed. Detroit police, acting on an anonymous tip, had raided a warehouse on Riopelle and seized a small arsenal of rifles, handguns, ammunition, even a few boxes of hand grenades. This was indeed good news. The raid surely had put a large dent in the bad guys’ plans for Armageddon II. A lot of Detroiters, black and white, in and out of uniform, could breathe easier this morning.

“That’s terrific, Mr. Hull.”

“Hold on, I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet. While I was watching the news I recognized one of the officers involved in the raid. It was Charlie Dixon.”

The uniform who was in the crime scene photo the night Helen Hull died. “I thought Charlie was assigned to the Third Precinct,” Doyle said. “What’s he doing raiding a warehouse down on Riopelle?”

Riopelle dead-ended into the Detroit River a few hundred yards from where Doyle was sitting. It was where bootleggers used to unload their boatloads of Canadian whiskey during Prohibition, and it was nearly four miles south of the Harlan House Motel.

“I wondered what Charlie was doing on Riopelle myself,” Henry said, “so I picked up the phone and called him first thing this morning. Come to find out he’s been reassigned to the First Precinct. He just happened to be the guy who picked up the phone when the tip came in about the warehouse full of guns. That’s how he got his face on TV.”

“Go on.”

“He didn’t have much time to talk, but I did get him to tell me a little about the stuff they seized. And guess what. There were some.30-caliber rifles with scopes on them. He said it’s going to take a while to catalog everything, there’s so much of it. How do you like them apples, Frankie?”

Doyle liked them just fine, but he didn’t let on. He thanked Henry for the information and promised to be in touch. Then he scribbled a note for Jimmy to call Charlie Dixon and check the seized weapons for a possible match with the bullet that killed Helen Hull.

Feeling proud of himself — this could be the break they’d been dreaming of, and he was acting like it was just another routine lead — Doyle rode the elevator down to the stinking basement garage. All the prowl cars were signed out, so he climbed into his Bonneville and headed north.

In the front lobby of the Oakland Hills clubhouse Dick Kowalski greeted Doyle like a long-lost brother. He led the way into his office, pushed a pile of papers off a green leather chair and motioned for Doyle to have a seat. He went to a metal urn in the corner and filled two mugs with molten tar. The guy drinks this swill by the gallon, Doyle thought, just like a cop. Kowalski looked even wearier than before, the sockets of his eyes a little ashier, the slump of his shoulders a bit more pronounced. He swung his wingtips onto the desk. There was a hole in the sole of his right shoe. It looked to Doyle like babysitting rich white people and keeping tabs on their black retainers was a lot of work.

“So,” Kowalski said, “what can I do for you today? You need to talk to Bob Brewer again?”

“Actually, I’m looking for his nephew.”

“Willie? Don’t tell me he’s in trouble.”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“He’s one of the best I’ve got — him and his uncle both. Well-spoken, courteous, always shows up on time and works hard. I don’t even think he plays cards or shoots dice with the other guys.”

“You said on the phone he’s working tonight?”

“Yeah.” Kowalski craned his neck to read a schedule taped to the wall behind him. “He’s due in at four to set up for a private party for — oh, shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The party’s being thrown by Chick Murphy, world’s biggest Buick dealer and second biggest blowhard. Word around the clubhouse is he thinks I’m screwing his wife.”

“Are you?”

Kowalski laughed. “That old lush? I wouldn’t fuck her with somebody else’s dick.”

“Why don’t you tell that to this big Buick dealer?”