Bill Morris - Motor City Burning

“You say another fucking word and I’m gonna come across this desk and ring your neck, you ruthless black bastard.”

After putting the tomatoes on his desk, Doyle said, “So what’d you guys find out?”

“Tell him what we found out, Sid.”

“We matched the thirty-cal bullet that came out of Helen Hull with one of the guns from the Riopelle raid.”

Doyle couldn’t speak at first. Then he was babbling. “Jimmy! — Sid! — that’s the best fucking! — that’s! — we’ve! — this is the one we been waiting for!”

“Calm down,” Jimmy said. “Turns out they were half a dozen Winchester Model 70 target rifles in that warehouse. One of ’em had a very nice Starlight scope on it. Infra-red. The kind preferred by snipers in Namland after the sun goes down. That was the one the slug matched.”

“God damn, Jimmy! We got our murder weapon!”

Between Doyle’s delight and Sid’s misery, Jimmy was having himself a time. “Man, you wouldn’t believe some a the shit come out that warehouse. Am I right, Sid?”

“You’re always right, Jimmy. Your ass is the blackest.”

“Automatics, assault rifles, M-1s and M-14s, Remington M-700s, grenades, claymore mines, thousands a rounds a ammo. Man, them niggers was fixin to make some noise . No wonder Mr. Viet Cong’s kickin so much ass — the shit that’s suppose to be killin him’s on the wrong side a the Pacific Ocean.”

Jimmy could see that Doyle wasn’t thinking about Vietnam. He was thinking about the gun. He’d spent the day chasing his tail all over metropolitan Detroit and had come up with nothing they could use in court — while Jimmy walked up one flight of stairs and came back down with the single most crucial piece of the whole puzzle. Now Doyle said what Jimmy expected him to say: “You able to get any prints off the gun?”

“Got a few decent latents,” Sid said. “Nothing we’ve been able to match so far. Records is still running the prints, said it might take ’em a couple days.”

“They make any arrests when they raided the warehouse?” Doyle said.

“Just one,” Jimmy said, standing up and stretching. “Gentleman name of Alvin Hairston. Apparently it was his job to make sure nobody broke into the armory. I’m afraid he’s not the talkative type.”

“Alvin Hairston,” Doyle said. “Why’s that name familiar?”

“Probably cause he’s a wild-eyed nigger likes to see his name in the newspaper. He come here from New York a couple years back with that group called itself the Northern Student Movement. All they are’s unemployed niggers. He set up a bunch a Black Power rallies, called Detroit ‘Upper Mississippi,’ shit like that.”

“Right. You find Alvin’s prints on any of the guns?”

“Not a one,” Sid said. “I don’t even think he knows how to use the damn things. Kid looks like a fag you ask me.”

“Where is he?”

“Got him housed on the seventh floor,” Jimmy said. “He pulled Judge Columbo at his hearing. I do believe Hizzoner’s still pissed off about last summer. Hank the Deuce couldn’ta covered Alvin’s bail.”

“He ask for a lawyer?”

“Nah, he ain’t that smart. He’s asleep.”

“I give up,” Sid said, brushing the pieces off the checkerboard and standing up. He reached for his sportcoat, a nice plaid polyester number. “Can I buy you boys a drink?”

“You certainly may,” Jimmy said. “To the victor go the spoils — and the Chivas Regal.”

“But Jimmy,” Doyle said, “what about Alvin?”

“What about him? He ain’t goin nowhere. Come on, let’s go have a few pops, celebrate a little. Sid’s buyin. We can start beatin on Alvin in the mornin.”

It was Frank’s turn to make the call on where they went, so Sid and Jimmy followed his ratty old Bonneville out East Jefferson to the Riverboat. Jimmy had only been in the place a couple of times. It had brass rails and a lot of mirrors and a nice view across the river, a mixed-race clientele of salesmen and car guys and secretaries. More of a pickup place than a cop kind of place. Jimmy figured Frank had a reason for bringing them there.

He saw the reason standing behind the bar, flipping cardboard coasters like a blackjack dealer. She was tall with some serious curves, and she was looking at Doyle in a way that made it hard to tell if she wanted to kiss him or slap him.

“Well hello there, stranger,” she said with a crooked smile.

“Hello, Cecelia,” Doyle said. “Brought you two of the worst reprobates in the city. This is my partner, Jimmy Robuck. And this is Sid Wolff, from ballistics. Cecelia Cronin, gentlemen. She’s in grad school at Wayne State.”

They shook her hand and said their hellos. Then she was back on Doyle, still smiling but a little sharper now. “Your phone broken?”

“Um, no. . listen, Cecelia, I’ve been meaning. . we been busier’n hell for—”

“The past three weeks ?”

Jimmy took pity on him. “He ain’t lyin, Cecelia. They been workin us like dogs the past month. It’s been Murder City out there. Ain’t that right, Sid?”

“That’s right, Jimmy. Murder City.”

“So what’ll it be, gentlemen?” she said, still looking at Frank, her smile not quite so crooked.

“Chivas on the rocks,” Jimmy said. “Better make it a double.”

“I’ll have a Stroh’s,” Doyle said.

“Just a Coke for me, thanks,” Sid said.

They were sitting at the curved part of the U-shaped bar and they all watched her walk to the far end to fix the drinks. Her green skirt was cut tight and didn’t try too hard to hide her legs.

“That,” Jimmy said, “is some serious boo-tay.”

“Since when you start effin college girls, Frank?” Sid said.

“Fuck the both of you,” Doyle said. “She’s in grad school. She’s a year older than me.”

“If I ever forgot to call Flo for three weeks like that. .” Jimmy shook his head. He didn’t even want to think about it.

“You and Flo’ve been married for twenty-five years, Jimmy. I’ve been out with Cecelia twice.”

“Still and all. . ”

“Legs like that,” Sid said, “I’ll bet she’s a real tiger in the sack, eh Frank?”

Doyle told them to fuck off again but Jimmy could tell that for once he wasn’t bothered by the teasing. When the drinks came they talked a little shop, they talked about the Tigers, they talked about their gardens. Doyle wasn’t all the way there. He had one eye on Cecelia as she moved back and forth behind the bar, but Jimmy knew him well enough to know that mostly he was thinking about the good news they’d gotten today and how he was going to play it with Alvin Hairston in the morning.

After their second round, Jimmy said he had to be getting home, had a date with a pot of ratatouille. When Sid asked for the check, Frank said he was going to stay and have one for the road. Jimmy reminded him to go easy. They had a big day tomorrow.

Just before he and Sid left the room, Jimmy turned to wave goodbye. Cecelia had her elbows on the bar, her face inches from Doyle’s. There wasn’t anything crooked about her smile now. Jimmy had a hunch his partner was going to show up late for work tomorrow morning. If he showed up at all.

Didn’t matter one way or the other to Jimmy. Like he’d said, Alvin Hairston wasn’t goin nowhere.

AFTER HE TRADED HIS ’54 BUICK FOR THE DEUCE AND A QUARTER, Willie made a point of swinging by Murphy Buick at least once every day. He wouldn’t be able to quit worrying until the old Century disappeared. Every day, to his horror, it was right there in the front row on the Mack Avenue side of the lot, the chrome teeth of its front bumper winking in the sunshine, a pink helium balloon bobbing from its antenna, and CHERRY ’54!!! written in big red block letters on its wraparound windshield. The car sat there for an agonizing week, just begging the cops to come in and ask all the wrong kinds of questions.