Admission of Guilt (The detroit im dyin Trilogy, Book 2) (The Detroit Im Dying Trilogy)

by T. V. LoCicero

  Frank was in a crisp beige suit, but it was 92 with no breeze and humid, and he had discarded the coat and tie and rolled up the sleeves of his light blue shirt. John was in a plaid short sleeve shirt and well-worn jeans. Four days of black stubble covered his frowning face.

  “So John, we’ve talked about how bad it is on the street, how the lives of the kids you teach are impacted by the drug trade...”

  “Taught.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Taught. I used to teach. I don’t anymore. I was laid off.”

  “Oh, right, I want to talk to you about that in a few minutes. But right now I want to get into what you think needs to be done. What can we do to turn this thing around, to save this whole generation of underclass kids from a terrible fate that seems almost inevitable?”

  “For most them it is inevitable. And it isn’t just the so-called underclass kids. I have kids, well, I used to have kids, who come from what you’d say are decent working class, even middle class families, where both parents are working. And whether they’re too busy, or they just give their kids too much freedom, or whatever, these kids are practically raising themselves, and way too often they’re picking up on the same model for success we were talking about earlier. You know, the down and dirty, quick and easy road to the big bucks, the gold chains and the designer sneakers.”

  “Okay, so what do we do? What’s the answer?”

  “I don’t know that there are any answers.”

  “But, John, there’s got to be answers. Give us your thoughts on what needs to be done.”

  John pouted his mouth and shook his head. “I really don’t know. I’ve heard cops say maybe if they had cracked down 10 years ago, when it was starting to get really bad, maybe they could have put a dent in it then. But the politicians didn’t want to admit there was a problem and soil the city’s image. As if this sad sack city hasn’t been a mess for more than two decades.”

  “What about today, John, what can we do today?”

  “Today? I’d even go for legalization like in Britain. Take the profit out of it. But there’s no way this straight-laced, cash-crazed society would ever go for that. Besides, these are mostly black and Hispanic kids. They’re worthless, they scare us and we’d be better off without ‘em. That’s what too many people think, so the powers-that-be simply don’t give a damn. Let ‘em kill each other off and ruin their lives, the faster the better.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Of course, I really believe that. We won’t even fund education enough to help them get out of this hellhole they’re in. Look, maybe if they really went after the big guys, the importers, the guys who drop tons of this poison on our neighborhoods, maybe if they really started slamming those guys, it could have an impact. But it’s a huge business and the biggest players are just so well protected, and connected. The cops know who they are. They know this mafia guy Steven Monelli is doing it, for example. They just aren’t given what they need to get him.”

  Frank glanced back at Fay. “We should try to interview Monelli.”

  As she nodded and scribbled a note, John actually laughed. “He’ll never talk to you. I mean, why should he? He’ll never do it.”

  Chapter 26

  Still in his shirtsleeves, his coat and tie in the Mercedes' trunk, Frank raced up I-75 and back to the station. Fay was riding with him, air conditioning blowing in her face, her short coral skirt hiked high on her pretty brown thighs. Normally that sight would engender some serious erotic notions, but as usual Frank reminded himself that he’d be proud to call her his daughter. In typical cryptic fashion she said, “Pretty good.”

  “Who, Giordano? No, he was great. We got a ton of great bites there.”

  “He’s a little over the top.”

  “Yeah, a little maybe, but I probably agree with most of what he said.”

  “Well, you’re always over the top.” Used to her banter—she was never afraid to give it to him—he simply smiled and shook his head. She added, “By the way, I already tried Monelli. I talked to a secretary last week. She said they would take our request under consideration and get back to us.”

  “So we’ll never hear from them again.”

  “Probably, but I’ll try him again in a week or two.”

  “It’ll be a total waste of time.”

  “I’m not sure. There’s a big spread on him and his family in the new issue of Metropolitan, with pictures and lots of quotes from him and his wife. So maybe he’s decided to use the media for his own purposes.”

  Chapter 27

  On a steamy evening in front of the Oldies Paradise, a tall, thin, jherri-curled black man named Rico carried a small suitcase across the sidewalk, pried open the door and pimp-walked in.

  The pumped-up sound system inside the smoky old bar offered Aretha Franklin singing “Freeway of Love” while on stage JoJo, a buxom, red-haired, beige-skinned woman, made less-than-energetic moves for a typically sparse weeknight crowd. As Rico searched through the haze, he found three other dancers—Sally, Doris and Tina, a petite brunet—sitting at tables with customers.

  JoJo spotted Rico first. From the stage she called over the music, “Hey, Rico! Baby! Lookie here, ladies, it’s the Bon Bon Man!”

  Rico waved with a gap-toothed smile, and Sally called from a table in the middle of the bar, “Rico, where you been? Long time, no la-dee-da.”

  Bopping slowly toward the back of the bar, Rico spoke with a hint of the islands in his effeminate lisp: “I been off to find the best for you. Come off like a dream, make you feel like dyn-o-mite. Come back, ladies, have a look.”

  “Rico, you talkin’ costumes or candy?” asked black, round-faced Doris.

  Rico kept moving. “Whatever you want, baby. I got all kinda goodies. Make you feel like the sexiest thing on two legs.”

  “Whooee!” Doris popped to her feet. “I’m comin’, honey.”

  Leaving her customer Sally joined Doris to follow Rico to the back of the bar. At a table near the rear, little Tina sat with a young man in a baseball shirt with the sleeves cut off, ragged jeans and dirty old gym shoes. Lots of unkempt black hair and a heavy beard frame intense dark eyes.

  Rico passed their table and paused. “Tina, baby, do I have something special for you! Miss Sweet-and-Petite, you gonna love it.”

  “Oh, I’m comin’, Rico!” Tina quickly got to her feet.

  “What’s he got?” asked the bearded fellow.

  “Costumes, honey. The best.”

  “Costumes for dancing?”

  “Yeah!” Tina was anxious to follow Rico. “And other things make you feel good as you look.” She smiled and winked. “Come on back and tell me what you think.”

  “Yeah,” said Sally, “Com’on, Johnny. Hey, ladies, Johnny G. gonna be our fuckin’ fashion advisor!”

  “All right,” cried Doris, “Johnny Gumba!”

  With the others leaving through a door to a back room, John hesitated at the table. Tina moved back quickly to take his hand and pull him with her.

  The back room served as a lounge and changing room for the dancers, and as Tina and John entered, Rico had already opened his suitcase on a single bed against one wall. On another wall was a full-length mirror along with hooks and hangers for the dancers’ street clothes and costumes. In the room also were a couch, a floor lamp, a chair and a small table stacked high with dog-eared magazines.

  Chattering with excitement, the dancers held up items from Rico’s case, stripped off old costumes and tried on new. Not wanting to stare at the mostly naked women, John moved to the chair in the corner and picked up a magazine from the table. Sally pranced up to preen in a tiny yellow sequined outfit. She kept looking back and forth between John and the mirror.

  “Mr. Gumba,” she cried finally, “How ‘bout it?”

  John looked up. “Very sexy, very pretty. You look great.”

  “Ah, yes! Thank you, Mr. Gumba!” Sally turned from the mirror and moved back to Rico’s treasure trove. “
Okay, Bon Bon Boy, I’m taking this one. What else you got?”

  The black man’s mouth lit up with gold. “Got somethin’ pure as the driven snow!”

  “All right! I’ll take some of that too!”

  Amidst more chatter across the room, cash, costumes, small cellophane packets and tiny manila envelopes were changing hands. Tina came to John holding up to her small, lean, naked body a bright red number with lots of fringe. She was also clutching four tiny envelopes that John figured were filled with heroin.

  “How ‘bout it, baby?” she asked. “Is it me? You like?”

  “I like. Should look great.”

  “If it fits. They never make these things small enough for me.” Tina put her envelopes down on the couch next to John and began to slip into the new red bra and g-string. He glanced down at the magazine in his lap to find a glossy local publication called Metropolitan, its cover featuring a stark black-and-white photo of a calmly smiling Steven Monelli. The heading read, “Crime King or Model Citizen?” He opened the magazine to find the cover story.

  “You read that?” asked Tina.

  “The article on Monelli? No, I don’t normally look at this magazine.”

  Tina was standing in front of him with only the filmy bra in place. “It’s a good story. Got pictures of his house, his family, everything. You want it, keep it.”

  He glanced up for a second to find Tina’ tiny bush right in front of his face. “Thanks. Monelli’s a favorite subject of mine. So what’s in the little envelopes?” He gestured toward the couch.

  “That’s my smack-a-doo. The big H, baby.” Tina was stepping into the new red-fringed g-string.

  “That stuff’ll kill you.”

  “Oh, shit, it’s the best bliss that is. And Rico gets the best of the best. Probably from that guy.” She pointed to the magazine. Adjusting her bra, she posed now for John. “Well, how about it?”

  “Very pretty, Tina. Fits like a glove.”

  “Yeah, it does.” She yelled across the room, “Hey, Rico, I’ll take it. You got another one?”

  Out of the case came another fringe affair, this one in black. “Try this one, baby. Should be the same size.” Rico tossed it across the room, and Tina caught it on the fly. “So,” she said, starting to change again, “what do you do with yourself, Johnny? I mean with school out.”

  “School may be out permanently for me.” He continued to stare at the magazine in his lap.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I was pink-slipped when they laid off all those teachers because the school system’s broke.”

  “But you love teaching, baby. And they need good teachers. You just gotta find another place to teach.” Tina was already half into the black outfit.

  “I’m trying. It’s not that simple.”

  Into the busy room bopped the full-figured JoJo calling, “Hey, who’s up? I’m history. Rico, you sweet thing, what you got for me?”

  Tina hooked her bra. “Oh, that’s me. Gotta work. Good luck, baby.”

  Checking herself briefly in the mirror, Tina grabbed her costumes and her smack, stuffed it all into a canvas bag, and ran out of the room. John continued to sit in the corner, reading the magazine.

  Chapter 28

  On the four corners were an abandoned gas station, an empty field, a boarded-up store and a former flower shop that was now, according to its hand-painted sign, “The African Missionary Evangelical Church of Jesus Christ.”

  In front of the empty gas station Jimmy Long and Mark Simpson worked the corner with business brisk. Mark had his head inside the cab of a Chevy pickup at the curb, while Jimmy stood watch. Another car pulled up, an old, rusted-out black Ford. Through the open passenger-side window, Jimmy failed to recognize the bearded man as his former teacher.

  “Hey, man!” Jimmy eyes danced in a way John hadn’t seen before. “You lookin’ for somethin’ hot? I got the hottest. Like three women doin’ you in the same bed.”

  “How you doin’, Jimmy?”

  “Who’s that?” Jimmy cocked his head, staring at the man in the decrepit car. Finally he asked, “Mr. G?”

  “Yeah, man, how you been?”

  “Mr. G, man, that beard, man. And this here junker.” He stepped back for a moment and looked it over, then leaned back in the window. “What happen to your ride, man?”

  Before he could answer, the pickup in front pulled away from the curb, and counting his cash, Mark walked back to Jimmy.

  “Hey, Simp, look who’s in this here ride. You never guess who’s in this here, man.”

  Mark stared blankly in the window for a moment.

  “Hey, Mark,” said John, “how you doin?”

  A large smile covered the boy’s long face. “Mr. G, what’s happenin’, man? How you doin’?”

  “I’m okay. How you guys doin’?”

  “We’re good,” said Jimmy. “How come you do the beard?”

  “Oh, just letting it grow. Got tired of shaving. But the car I had to sell. You know, I lost my job, and I just couldn’t afford the payments anymore. That’s the way it is. You can’t afford something, you do without, or get something less expensive.”

  “Man,” said Jimmy, “that’s a drag.”

  “It’s all right. Hey, how about you guys take a break? Is there a place around here I can buy you a pop?”

  Jimmy and Mark looked at each other, uncertain, then down the street a half block at what looks like a girl, Hispanic, maybe, or mulatto, standing with a casual slouch but watching traffic closely. “Mickey D’s a couple blocks down,” said Jimmy finally.

  “Well, good. Com’on, hop in. I’ll take you down there, and we’ll get something to drink.”

  Jimmy looked at Mark. “You wanna? Chink be coverin’ for us.”

  “I guess, man, but I got regulars comin’. We can’t be doin’ it long.”

  John asked, “Whose Chink?”

  Jimmy flapped his hand at the girl down the street. “She workin’ with us. For a hot minute or two, she can take care a business.”

  “Well, this won’t take long,” said John. “Your customers can wait a little.”

  Jimmy opened the Ford’s squeaky, rusted-out door. “That’s the thing, man,” he said once they were settled in, “don’t nobody wait for nothin’ these days. We sellin’ crack and smack, and it don’t matter which, they always want it now. If they don’t see you or you ain’t got it, they gone someplace else. Cause it’s all over, man. Crack be the hottest thing that ever was, but smack be comin’ back now too.”

  John moved the noisy Ford away from the curb. “So now we got this god-forsaken town going nuts over both poisons.”

  As they passed the girl, Jimmy gave her a quick hand signal before saying, “Yeah, but crack still be bigger’n smack ever be. Peoples can’t get enough of this crack. Best buzz that was. You ever tried it, Mr. G?”

  “Me? I’d never touch that shit. It’ll kill you.” He turned into the McDonald’s lot.

  “Man, just use the drive-through,” said Mark. “Get back there quick.”

  Jimmy said, “That’s bullshit it’ll kill ya. We smoke it all the time, and it don’t do nothin’ but make you feel wicked awesome.”

  “You smoke it?” John pulled up to the order board.

  “Damn straight, man. Right in this here pretty little pipe.” Jimmy pulled a small glass tube from the pocket of his running suit and held it up for John to admire.

  John shook his head with a frown. “What do you guys want to drink?”

  “Coke,” said Mark.

  “Me too.” Jimmy put the pipe back in his pocket.

  “Three medium Cokes,” John told the order girl and moved the noisy Ford forward.

  “Man, you should try it,” said Jimmy. “You won’t hardly believe what it do to you.”

  John gave the girl at the window four crumpled dollar bills and handed out the cokes. “I know what it does to you. It’ll give you a heart attack, stop you breathing. Don’t you guys read the newspaper or
watch TV, for Chrissake?”

  “Man, that stuff all total bullshit.” said Jimmy. “Even that Zigman Fraud guy smoked crack, man. I know lotsa peoples do it, and none of ‘em have heart attacks, man. Me and Mark smoke it all the time, and it just make you smarter and more awesome. And when that first rush come, man, it be better’n sex.”

  John stared at the boy. “Yeah, you’re gonna feel real awesome on a slab at the morgue some day.”

  “Man, that ain’t gonna happen.”

  Stopping off to the side of the lot, John decided he would not take these delusional boys back to their corner any sooner than he had to. Looking up at the street he saw a smallish figure in a wheelchair moving on the sidewalk near the lot entrance. There was something familiar about the figure wheeling the chair.

  “Hey, man,” piped Jimmy, “there go Ricky.”

  John was jolted with recognition. “Jesus, that is Eric. Let’s go say hi.”

  “No, man.” Jimmy spoke sharply. “He don’t talk to us no more.”

  “What do you mean? You guys were best friends.”

  Mark slouched in the backseat. “No, not now, man. Not since the chair. Say he won’t talk to us no more ‘less we stop dealin’.”

  “Well, good for him.” John caught Mark’s eye in the mirror, and the boy turned away.

  Jimmy with a dismissive wave: “Well, he can’t do nothin’ in that chair, and he gotta be there for the rest of his life, man. He shit outta luck, man. But I’m gonna keep on makin’ the big bucks, man, and if he don’t talk to us, too fuckin’ bad, man.”

  Having rolled past, Eric turned a corner. John put it in gear, and the Ford growled back onto the street.

  “Well, I guess it doesn’t surprise me that you’re still in this asshole racket, Jimmy. But, Mark, what are you doing? I thought you had more sense than this thick-headed friend of yours.”

  Mark’s handsome black face frowned in the mirror. “I need cash, Mr. G.”

  “Cash? Whatta you need with this filthy rotten cash?”

  Mark stared out a side window. “Hey, I’m livin’ on my own now. My mother and me is always fightin’, so I just moved out. I’m livin’ with my cousin over to his place now.”