by P J Parrish
“I just left Mrs. Prince. I’ll report in after I see Bushman,” Louis told Camille and signed off.
He headed the Explorer east on I-96, breaking the speed limit to stay ahead of a bank of roiling, black storm clouds. The storm followed him past the flat, fallow fields below Lansing, through the gentle hills of Huron Recreation Area, and into the amorphous western suburbs around Detroit. It was raining by the time he reached the city limits.
He slowed, checking the directions Camille had given him. He hadn’t been back to Detroit in years, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had actually set foot in downtown. He had heard a lot about the attempts to bring the city back from the brink, big talk about redevelopment and E-Zone grants that had pumped millions into the city.
But except for a few rehabbed Victorians and an old factory with a sign touting LOFTS FOR SALE, the outer-ring neighborhoods looked much as he remembered—block after block of weedy empty lots, collapsed caverns of abandoned boarding houses, wild pheasants roosting in the rafters of burned-out mansions, and bullet-ridden stop signs standing sentry on corners where nobody came anymore.
He headed into the gray canyon of the downtown core. The radio station was housed in the Guardian Building on Griswold, not far from the Detroit River. He parked the Explorer in a lot, and sat there for a moment, looking up at the Guardian Building.
Thirty-some stories of rust-red brick and limestone, with a couple of Aztec—no, Indian figures—carved into the stone façade. Way up top, he could make out a needle-like spire and an American flag that was big enough to be seen from Canada. He looked around at the other nearby buildings. He’d forgotten how rich Detroit was in Gothic and Renaissance architecture, how distinctively jagged the city’s skyline was. Each building had its own character—intricate marble work, swanky gilded entrances, gargoyles and stone lion heads. Blight had eaten the fringe neighborhoods to the point that they resembled an apocalyptic movie set. But downtown, here amid these beautiful old buildings, Detroit was still breathing. Gasping maybe, but breathing.
Louis entered the Guardian Building’s lobby. A soaring, domed ceiling of orange and brown mosaic tile gave the place the feeling of a Spanish cathedral, but the paint scaffolds and a large OFFICES FOR LEASE sign near the security desk told Louis the building was in bad need of tenants. There was a large banner hanging from a balcony railing touting the downtown revival from a civic group called Motor City on The Move. The slogan was big and bold: DETROIT IS ALIVE!
Louis found Bushman’s name on the wall directory and rode the creaky elevator to the twentieth floor.
Unlike the lobby, Bushman’s office was utilitarian, done in cheap paneling and faux-suede chairs. The brass letters WROR hung on the wall with the slogan underneath: The Station that Roars.
The receptionist gave him a bored look-over when he showed his badge, then she picked up the phone. “There’s a cop here to see you, Walt.” She hung up and pointed her pen left. “Third door back.”
The door was ajar and Louis went inside. It was a corner office with big windows that didn’t offer much of a view given the downpour. The office smelled of cigarette smoke, despite the hum of an air purifier next to the hulking old wooden desk. The desk was heaped with papers, magazines, and newspapers, except for one clear area in the middle that held an overflowing ash tray, a plate of bare rib bones, and an empty Labatt bottle.
At first, Louis thought no one was in the office, but then the huge black leather chair turned and there he was—a walrus of a man with unruly brown hair and a fleshy, gray face that poured like wet concrete into the collar of a black T-shirt emblazoned with Albert Einstein’s face.
“You got a badge?” Walter Bushman said.
Louis flipped open his wallet to let Bushman see his badge. Bushman’s eyes flicked from the badge back to Louis’s face.
“Never had a statie in my office before,” Bushman said. “This must actually be important. Did you guys finally figure out who’s sending me death threats?”
Louis wasn’t surprised the man got threats. “Sorry, that’s not my case.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Where were you last night between six p.m. and midnight or so?”
“You need someone to write you better dialogue.”
“Just answer the question, please.”
Bushman stared hard at him. Then he made himself busy moving his rib plate and beer bottle aside, clearing a small spot on the desk so he could fold his hands.
“Is this about that woman at the Stonehouse bar?”
Louis also wasn’t surprised the man had a problem at a bar. “No,” he said. “It’s about Jonas Prince.”
Bushman arched an eyebrow. “That old fart? Why are you asking me about him?”
Maybe the news had trickled out back in Grand Rapids but it hadn’t made it to Detroit yet. Still, Bushman would probably hear it himself within the hour.
“He’s dead,” Louis said. “Murdered in his church.”
Bushman’s eyes narrowed. He picked up a pack of Kools, shook out a cigarette and lit it. He took three long pulls, letting each out in a slow stream of smoke. Finally, he smiled.
Louis couldn’t resist. “Why the smile?”
“Just picturing old Jonas wandering around out there in the dark, waiting for his God to welcome him to the ever-after.”
“Where were you last night?” Louis asked.
“I’m a suspect?”
“You and a few others. Where were you?”
“I was on the air.”
“No you weren’t. The station played a tape.”
Bushman grunted. “Right, you would’ve checked.” He took another draw on the cigarette.
“One last time, Mr. Bushman. Where—”
“I wasn’t feeling so hot. I have bad asthma. It gets worse when it rains. I was home in bed.”
“You want to take another minute to think about that?”
Bushman started to say something then shut his mouth, just staring hard at Louis. Then he smiled again. Not the smile of pleasure that had been triggered by the news of Jonas Prince’s death, but the dry smile of a man who knows he’s about to be checkmated if he takes his hand off his knight.
“Right. That isn’t a very good alibi, is it,” he said. “I was with two women. All night. I suppose you need their names so you can invade their privacy, too?”
“You know I do.”
Bushman opened a drawer and started rummaging around. He gave up, slammed it shut and opened another, cursing under his breath. It gave Louis time to look around the office.
The rain had stopped and the big windows now offered a view. To the left, Louis had a glimpse of the gray-green ribbon of the Detroit River. To the right, the beacon atop the radio tower of the beautiful old Penobscot Building pulsed red like a slow beating heart in the gray sky.
Louis went to the opposite wall. It was dominated by a poster of Bushman below the lettering: TEN YEARS OF FREE-THINKING FREE RADIO! Next to it hung a large calendar with the month’s daily programming topics marked in color-coded pen, from blue for Monday’s “Where Did Cain Get His Wife?” through orange for Wednesday’s “Reasoning With the Religious” to flame-red for Friday’s “The End Is Near!” There were also a couple of tin-hat conspiracy topics: “The GOP’s Secret Plan to Destroy Detroit!” And “Was Hinckley a CIA Mind-Control Plant?”
Another wall held a collection of haphazardly hung pictures of Bushman posing with people Louis didn’t recognize. In the center of the portraits was a large gold-plated emblem—an atomic swirl with an A in the center. Under it were the words American Atheists.
“Here.”
Louis looked back at Bushman. The man was holding out a business card. Louis came forward and took it. Bushman’s information was on the front with the atheist symbol. On the back he had scribbled a phone number.
“It’s an escort service,” Bushman said. “I don’t suppose there is any hope you’ll be discreet.”
“If
you’re telling me the truth, no one will ever hear their names.”
“I appreciate that. Can you tell me exactly what happened to Jonas?” Bushman asked.
“Sorry, no.”
“Well, then we’re done here, aren’t we? Goodbye, detective.”
Louis tucked the card in his binder. He would call the escorts, but he already suspected Bushman’s alibi would hold up. The radio jock was far from charming, but he didn’t come off as violent. And with his weight and apparent bad health, he probably couldn’t move fast enough to take down Jonas Prince let alone carry or drag him out to the altar. And Bushman was lazy, too lazy to throw his ribs away or empty his ashtray. Lazy men didn’t use strangulation as a way to kill. It was too much work.
But there was something to be gained here, Louis knew. Background information on Jonas Prince and the other players in his life. Often, the stories and gossip from friends and enemies got filed away deep into the murder book and were never needed again to make the case. But once in a while, somebody would drop a crumb of information that later would break the case wide open.
“I understand you and Jonas Prince had a pretty public feud going on a few months ago.”
Bushman leaned forward to snuff out his cigarette then melted back into the leather chair. “Who called it a feud? That malingering son of his?”
Louis nodded.
“I’ll say this,” Bushman said. “Jonas was a salesman peddling salvation, but at least he believed in his product. Anthony Prince is a huckster. Elmer Gantry without the great hair, a TV snake oil salesman. Lose twenty pounds while sitting on your ass eating Cheetos, just send twenty-nine-ninety-five for the Fat-Zapper. Extend your penis five inches in five easy payments with the Bone-a-Meter. Send a hundred bucks to the Beacon Light Cathedral and God himself will be at the door in a gold-braid uniform to show you inside.”
“So why wage a war with Jonas then?” Louis asked.
“Challenging Jonas was better publicity for my movement,” Bushman said. “He was the face of the church. Nobody cares if you kill the lieutenant. They do take note when you kill the king.”
“Not a smart metaphor, Mr. Bushman.”
Bushman waved a hand. “You know what I mean. Anyway, all I wanted was a debate, an intelligent discussion in a public forum.”
“Anthony Prince said you harassed his father.”
“I issued a challenge,” Bushman said. “It only got ugly after Anthony hired someone to follow my daughter and get photos of her with her partner. She’s a lesbian. I guess he thought my followers would actually care about something like that. They don’t, but I did.”
“What did you do?” Louis asked.
“I hired someone to follow Anthony,” Bushman said.
Now this could be one of those crumbs.
“When was this?”
“A couple months ago. It was only for one week and I didn’t get much for my money, except to find out the man likes his gin. I went to Anthony’s father and told him I would use the drinking to knock his son off the morals train if he didn’t rein Anthony in. We agreed to a truce.”
“What about the blistering sermon Jonas gave about you?”
“It got me almost sixty grand in donations. I loved it.”
Louis thought about the PI Bushman hired to shadow Anthony. He himself was only a few months past scratching out a living doing the same thing. As a PI, he had tried to keep himself above following adulterers and disability scammers. But the truth was, he had sat in the dark outside a few restaurants himself, waiting for the right moment to snap some incriminating photos. Right now, the badge clipped to his belt felt damn good.
“I’d like to see the file your investigator put together,” Louis said.
“I told you, there’s nothing in it. Anthony’s as regular as a German cuckoo clock. After reading the first couple of daily reports, I told the guy to finish out the week and that was it. I didn’t see any point of paying for more than one week.”
“I’d still like a look at it.”
Bushman shrugged. “I got it at home somewhere. I’ll try to dig it out for you.”
Louis pulled out a business card and laid it on the desk. “Call me as soon as you find it.”
Bushman picked up the card, gave it a quick look, then put it in his shirt pocket. “Can I ask you a question, detective?”
“Sure.”
“Why are you a cop?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why would a black man choose to be part of the oppression that goes on every day? Do you know how many citizens of color are beaten every day by the police? How many black men die in custody?”
“Save it for your broadcast, Mr. Bushman.”
“Oh, I see. You’re one of them—an assimilator. A minority who adopts the ways of the majority in order to survive. Tell me, do you also believe in God?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I will assume you do, because how could you not? It’s in your blood, a remnant of slavery where the only hope of salvation came from the belief that the next life would be better than the one we have now.”
Louis knew Bushman was baiting him and he knew he should just leave, but he didn’t. He was remembering a book he had, still packed up in his boxes back at his new apartment. It was a paperback collection of poems by Langston Hughes, purchased for a sophomore lit class, but he had carried it around with him since college, cracking it open to random pages on the nights when TV or a drink wasn’t distraction enough. There was a poem in it—was it was called “Goodbye Jesus”?—but he couldn’t remember any of the lines right now.
“No comeback, detective?” Bushman asked.
“What’s wrong with believing that something better is to come?” Louis asked.
“The problem is not believing something better’s coming. It’s believing that it will come by way of some all-powerful entity who will float down from the sky.”
Bushman shook his head slowly. “Let me tell you something,” he said. “There is no one out there who can save us from anything. No God, no Allah, no Buddha, no George Burns. When you pray, you’re just talking to the wind.”
Louis rose. “Goodbye, Mr. Bushman.”
He left the office and took the elevator back to the lobby. A security guard was at the front desk now, head bent over a newspaper. Louis looked at the sign over his head.
DETROIT IS ALIVE!
Maybe Detroit was alive, Louis thought, but on the twentieth floor of this building, God—and any kind of positive human spirit—was certainly dead.
Suddenly, the lines from the Hughes poem were there in his head, something about the Bible being a good ghosted-up story in its day . . . but it’s dead now. The popes and the preachers’ve made too much money from it.
Louis pushed out the door and stepped into a gray mist. He felt lightheaded and drew in a deep breath of air, glad for something fresh after the fusty smell of Bushman’s office. His stomach rumbled and he looked around for somewhere to grab a sandwich. There was a little café, tucked between two office buildings, its front windows foggy with steam.
He started toward it, hungry enough to settle for whatever the dive was offering. But before he even stepped off the curb, he was struck with a memory of sitting next to his foster father, Phillip, at a counter, commiserating over the Tigers’ loss of an opening-day game. Suddenly he knew exactly what he was hungry for.
The place was somewhere close by, he knew. Working on instinct, he started up Griswold, looking for the triangle-shaped intersection and that old newsstand where Phillip got his magazines, his nose alert for the smell of frying beef.
Then there it was, as big and gaudy as a huge American flag—the red white and blue façade of American Coney Island. He hurried to it, but when he reached the door, he was stopped cold by a voice in his head.
We are Lafayette people, Louis. It’s in the blood.
Louis’s eyes swung right to the drab gray and burgundy sign of the restaurant next door—La
fayette Coney Island. Through the steamed windows he could see men in stained white aprons manning the pots of chili and hot dog grills. He went to the second restaurant and stepped inside.
The warmth hit his face and, for a moment, he stood stock-still, because although he hadn’t been in the place since he was a kid, everything was exactly as he remembered it. A long narrow diner with tiles the color of nicotine-stained teeth. Buzzing fluorescent lights that bounced off stainless steel coffee urns the size of small missile silos. And that smell—frying meat, onions, grease and warmth, warmth, so much warmth.
Louis slid onto a red vinyl stool at the Formica counter next to a thin old guy in a Tigers ball cap. His mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe it was because he was so tired, or maybe it was just being in this place again. Whatever the reason, the old man—with his concave cheeks, hooked nose, and cigarette smell—reminded him so very much of Phillip.
“Whatcha have?”
Louis looked up at the counter man. There was only one answer. “Two Coneys, extra onions and an order of cheese fries, please.”
“You got it.”
Less than a minute later, the counter man deposited the Coneys and fries in front of Louis and, for a moment, all he could do was stare. There was no food like it on the planet—hot dogs swathed in steam-limp buns, drowned in a brown morass of meat and chili sauce, topped with chopped onions and neon-yellow mustard.
Coneys. That’s what Detroiters called them. Not Coney Dogs or Coney Islands or hot dogs or Saugies. And never “Michigans,” the dumb name New Yorkers and Canadians hung on them. Just Coneys.
Louis wolfed the first one down, then ate the second more slowly, his thoughts drifting away from Walter Bushman, Jonas Prince and this case, and back to Phillip.
He hadn’t called his foster parents since returning to Michigan. There had been no time, he had told himself, but that was just an excuse. How hard was it to pick up the damn phone? Phillip would never bust his chops over it because he understood the way Louis was, that reaching out to anyone was hard and had gotten less hard only in the last year or so when Joe and Lily had come into his life, unclenching his heart. He had reconnected with his lover and his daughter. Why was he waiting to do the same with the man who had raised him?
