The Car Bomb (The detroit im dying Trilogy, Book 1)

by T. V. LoCicero

  Sitting again, Frank nodded at a young man glowering at them from a nearby table. “And Larry is your boyfriend sitting over there looking green?”

  Patty stared at Frank for a second, her mouth open slightly. “You are so perceptive. He’s so jealous it drives me crazy sometimes.”

  Frank said, “Jealousy can be a terrible thing, Patty.”

  “Oh, damn! He’s coming over here.” She closed her eyes for a moment. As if none of this would happen if she didn’t watch. “Now there’s going to be trouble.”

  Larry was stocky, maybe a one-time high school linebacker now sprawling into his mid-twenties. As he approached, Frank gave him a big smile and offered his hand.

  “Hey, Larry, how you doin’? Patty here’s been telling us all about you.”

  Larry ignored Frank’s hand. “I’ll bet. Com’on, Patty, we’re getting out of here.”

  Frank shook a weary head at the judge, disappointed with the young guy. “Now, Larry, have some manners. Patty just wants an autograph, and I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  Larry said, “Look, slimeball, you may impress some people, but not me. So just stuff it. Patty, I said com’on.”

  Frank got up to let Patty out of the booth. “Hey, Larry, nobody wants any trouble here. Patty’s free to leave any time she wants.”

  Hoping promptness would save the moment, Patty slid quickly over the smooth brown leather of the booth. Larry extended an arm to move Frank back, and Frank shoved it away. Larry threw a wild right. Frank ducked and chopped a short powerful blow to the solar plexus. Larry sat on the floor.

  Patty screamed, and conversation in the room stopped for a few seconds, then resumed much louder. Two young men in bussing uniforms appeared quickly, pulled Larry to his feet, his face beet red. As they ushered him out, Patty began to follow, then quickly moved back to the table and placed the slip of paper and the pen in front of Frank.

  “I’m so sorry, Frank.”

  “No problem.” He scribbled: “To Patty, with affection. Frank DeFauw.”

  “Thanks so much, Frank.” Patty hesitated, wanting this moment to last.

  “Don’t mention it. Now you better go take care of your guy.” Frank nodded at the glowering young man standing with Rosie in the foyer.

  Patty smiled sadly and walked away. Frank turned to the patrons at a nearby table. “Sorry, folks, just one of my overzealous fans.”

  He got nervous laughter and scattered applause.

  Chapter 5

  In a small edit room in the news department at WTEM-TV, Dennis Clark, a 26-year-old producer in a shirt and tie, sat with an editor named Eddie. With 10 years and about 75 pounds on Dennis and much less hair, Eddie wore a green plaid shirt and thick glasses. They were both glued to a monitor as Eddie played and replayed some grainy home video of a car exploding.

  Dennis said, “Oh, Christ, this is hard to watch.”

  Eddie’s opinion was, “Awesome, man.” After running the tape back at triple speed, he played it forward in slow motion. “See, they musta put it next to the gas tank. The back end goes first.”

  Distracted, Dennis said, “Yeah, I wonder how much of this we should use.”

  Eddie had no doubts. “All of it, man. This is the hottest shit I’ve seen in a long time.”

  “Yeah, but Christ, watching a mother and her two kids get blown up and burned alive.”

  Eddie dealt easily with sensitive issues. “So you do a warning—whatta you call those things? A disclaimer. You know, ‘This may be too much for the kids, so maybe you should send them out of the room.’ That always gets more people to watch.”

  Dennis sounded dubious. “Yeah, right.”

  At the edit room door Frank appeared, his hair disheveled, face haggard, tie askew, French cuffed sleeves rolled up on powerful forearms and the odor of alcohol and cigarette smoke already filling the closet-sized room.

  Knowing Frank’s scent at this hour, Eddie did not look up. “Hey, Frank, look at this.”

  “Eddie, I hear you got something hot.”

  “The hottest, man. Watch this.”

  On the monitor the car exploded one more time. Frank was stunned. “Good god!”

  Finally, Dennis had an idea on how to do this. “Run it back, Ed, to where the little kid is trying to stand on his head. I think we’ll take it from there.”

  Frank: “Where’d we get this?”

  Dennis: “The guy called us. He’s shooting his daughter and her prom date, and it all happens right in front of him.”

  “We got it exclusive?”

  “Yep, even the cops didn’t have it until we made this dub and gave them the original. The guy wants to be on with you, Frank, live from his living room.”

  Eddie: “Everybody wants to bask in the glory of the Sun King.”

  Frank, leaving: “Cut it out, Eddie, you’ll give me a big head. Give me your notes, Denny, and I’ll write the lead.”

  “Right, Frank.”

  “The Sun King reeks tonight,” said Eddie.

  “He reeks almost every night,” said Dennis.

  “Yeah, but sometimes I think the guy’s better when he’s tanked.”

  “Well, you never know what he’s gonna do. And that’s probably why half the audience tunes in.”

  Chapter 6

  The large room was filled with desks and partitions for reporters, and in a C-shaped area known as the pit, several writers, producers and directors sat staring at terminals. Unnoticed, Frank walked by and announced on the move, “Gant, the Wayne County prosecutor. Someone call and ask why he’s resigning.”

  The pink, earnest face of a red-haired, pony-tailed young woman lifted quickly from her screen. “I’m on it, Frank.”

  He stopped and looked her over. “And you are who?”

  “Francine Rickey.” With a head bob. “New writer/p.a. Just started tonight.” She tried to smile but did not pull it off.

  He was moving again. “Well, Francine, welcome aboard. Somebody around here must have Gant’s home number. When you reach him, just say, ‘Frank DeFauw wants to know why you’re resigning.’”

  “You’ve got it.” This time, with Frank no longer staring at her, she managed the smile.

  With his usual self-mocking, dramatic flare, he paused before heading into the hallway that would take him to the men’s room. “Honey, I know I’ve got it. Now we’ll find out what you’ve got.”

  A moment later, pushing through the swinging door, he checked out the room’s two empty stalls, then moved to a make-up mirror lined with lights. He looked at himself intently and spoke softly with quiet disgust: “What a piece of work, Frank. You look like shit warmed over.”

  From a pants pocket he pulled a small vial and popped its last red pill. Tucking a paper towel into his light blue shirt collar, he proceeded to apply make-up from items in his leather kit. First some liquid eraser on the deep lines under his eyes and then some pancake over his face and neck. A few strokes with a brush put his hair back in place. Finally, he removed the paper towel, firmed up his tie and told himself, “Frank, you still look like shit.”

  Chapter 7

  In another bathroom across the old city and a mile into a northern suburb called Southfield, cool blue eyes opened in the attractive face of 30-year-old Sherie Sloan. She was lounging in a bathtub and watching a portable TV on a counter close by. On screen Arnold Russo sat on a couch in his living room. In a corner of the screen was a “Live 5” logo.

  Arnold was saying, “Well, Frank, the thing of it is, he’s the quiet type, you know, keeps to himself. Friendly enough, I mean, but like the other day I seen him out there cuttin’ his lawn, and I wave and he waves, and I say, ‘Hey, Anthony, how you doin’?’ And he says, ‘Fine.’ And that’s it, you know. Quiet.”

  On the small screen Sherie watched Frank sitting on the Channel 5 news set. “Well, Mr. Russo, to your knowledge...”

  Mary Scott, a handsome, slow-burning black woman sat next to Frank in the WTEM news studio, drummed her fingers lightly on the
faux marble anchor desk and stared up at the lights. A stagehand got ready to help reposition one of the cameras for the break, and the floor manager spun a hand at Frank to wrap.

  Talking to a monitor with the live shot of Arnold Russo, Frank sailed on: “...was there any hint of trouble between Juanita Peoples and her husband?”

  Arnold, enjoying his moment: “No, Frank, didn’t see that. ‘Course you never know…”

  Frank cut him off. “Thanks, Mr. Russo, you’ve been a big help.”

  “No problem, Frank. Any time. Like I said, I just kept rollin’, and...”

  Frank turned back to the center camera. “Thanks again, Mr. Russo. As you heard earlier, police do not think that Anthony Peoples was home at the time of the explosion. And they have not been able to establish his current whereabouts. Of course our Channel 5 news team will continue to be on top of this story for any breaking developments. Mary?”

  Without a glance at the object of her loathing, the woman smiled at the camera lens. “There is other news tonight, and when we come back, we’ll have the latest poll results on the presidential race. Guess who’s giving both President Bush and Governor Clinton a run for their money? Stay with us.”

  As she shuffled her script, Frank leaned back, folded his arms over his chest with a quick grimace. The floor manager finally dropped her raised hand and said, “We’re gone.”

  From the side of her mouth Mary Scott said, “Christ, Frank, eight minutes with that asshole and his camcorder. Why didn’t you ask about his hemorrhoids? Twelve minutes in and I’ve barely said hello.”

  Frank sent her a bland stare. “It’s a big story, Mare. Maybe someday when you grow up, you’ll have a chance at a big story like that.”

  Mary, with a full turn to him: “Fuck you, Frank.”

  Now the portable TV sat on a dresser in Sherie Sloan’s bedroom, on screen was the burley sportscaster Steve Madden. Walking in naked, she moved to profile herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. The breasts still looked reasonably good, high and firm, but was the middle getting a little thick? Cocking her head, she could almost hear her best friend Anita saying, “You’re absolutely throwing yourself away with this man.”

  Looking back at her well-turned bottom, the part she had always liked the best, she told herself what she usually told Anita, that it was probably true, but it was her own choice. At the dresser she slipped on a short, nearly transparent negligee. She was not interested in what Madden was saying: “After two rounds at the Byron Nelson Classic in Irving, Texas, Billy Ray Brown leads with a ten-under-par 132. Frank?”

  Now she turned to the screen as Frank said, “Stevie, who in the world is Billy Ray Brown, and what are the odds this guy will even be on the leader board come Sunday afternoon?”

  On set Madden sat directly on the upholstered seat of his chair. Frank sat on one pillow, Mary Scott on two. On the studio monitor Frank appeared slightly taller than the other two.

  Madden: “No doubt about it, Frank, he’s an unknown, and they usually wither under the pressure. But it looks like they’re in for some bad weather down in Texas, and there’s no tellin’ what can happen.”

  Frank: “Well, speaking of the weather, Larry is in here next with the word on whether one of those storms they’ve been having out west…” He paused. “…is coming our way. We’ll be right back.”

  In the control room next to the studio, seated in front of a large bank of monitors, the director was saying, “And go.” A phone buzzed in front of Dennis Clark, who picked it up and stared at a monitor that showed Frank with a phone to his ear.

  “Yes, Frank.” (pause) “Ah, Francine wrote the tease.” (pause) “Right away.”

  In the studio Frank sorted his script, pulled out a page and scrawled two circles on it. Dennis’ voice filled the room: “She’s on her way, Frank. Also, we just got a call from a woman who says she can tell your back is bad again, and she’s gonna start a novena for you. I told her you’ve just got gas.”

  Everyone in the studio laughed except Frank, who glanced up only when a worried Francine entered.

  “Frank, you wanted to see me?”

  “Francine, you wrote this weather tease?” He held up the script page with his circles.

  “Which tease? Oh, yes, I did.”

  “This tease, with the basic grammatical error. ‘One of those storms is coming,’ Francine, not ‘are coming.’ Singular subject, singular verb. Pretty fucking basic, Francine.”

  The girl was mortified. “I’m so sorry, Frank. I changed ‘those storms’ to ‘one of those storms’ and forgot to change the verb. I’m really sorry.”

  The floor manager raised her hand. “Ten seconds.”

  That was more than enough time for Frank. “You’re sorry, but it’s my ass hanging out there in front of a million people. If I don’t correct it in mid-sentence, I look like an ignorant jerk.”

  Just as Frank finished, the floor manager pointed at him, and Frank’s vexed face instantly glowed with a warm smile.

  “A pleasant week-end on tap, Lawrenzo?”

  In Sherie’s living room, light came only from a large screen TV and two long-stemmed candles on a glass-top cocktail table. As she entered in her wispy gown and carrying a bottle of wine, Larry Adair spoke in front of a weather map. She sat on a couch and filled one of the two wine glasses on the table as Larry was saying, “Maybe a little rain toward the end of the day on Sunday, but most of us should be able to play outside.”

  Frank said, “Two more like today, Larry, and we give you a gold star.”

  Chapter 8

  The bar turned out to be little more than a dive in one of those close-to-the-bone, next-to-hopeless Detroit neighborhoods on the near westside. A red neon sign blinked “Bar” in a small window. Above, with almost half its lights burned out, a larger sign tried to say “Marvin’s.”

  Inside, the long, gritty room featured a scarred old bar on one side and tables and booths on the other. A jukebox filled the smoky haze with the Stones’ Rock and a Hard Place. Playing pool in the back were two unhappy-looking guys, one white, one black. At the bar near the pool table sat a scrawny, sour-faced fellow in a dirty sweatshirt cut off at the shoulders to reveal the full length of his skinny white arms. He and the large black bartender were the first to see Frank walk in.

  Still dapper in his navy suit, he gave the place a quick glance-around, then sat at the near end of the bar. With a languid look, the bartender took his time to saunter up and say, “Hey, how you doin’?”

  “I’m doin’ good,” said Frank. “And you?”

  “Same here. It’s Frank, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. And yours?”

  “Mine’s Jackson.”

  “Well, Jackson, how about a Bud Lite?”

  “Comin’ up.” While Jackson wiped and popped the bottle, the scrawny guy in the sweatshirt never took his eyes off Frank. Now he was moving with his drink from his end of the bar to a stool not far from where Jackson placed the beer on a paper napkin in front of Frank.

  “On the house, Frank. You wanna glass?”

  “No, thanks. Hey, I appreciate that.”

  “Man, we always got you tuned in.” He nodded toward a TV set hung above the bar. On screen was a “Cheers” re-run. “Dial don’t never get turned off from 5.”

  Frank gave him the smile that launched a thousand Nielson wins. “That’s great to hear.”

  “Everybody just like your style, Frank. Just figure it ain’t the news less you give it.”

  Frank took a sip. “I appreciate that, Jackson. Were you watching tonight when that car blew up?”

  “Oh, I seen it all right. Jesus, that poor woman and her kids.”

  “Yeah, you think you’ve seen everything in this town, and then there’s this.”

  The bartender nodded. “You know the guy they lookin’ for, the one that own the car? He come into the bar.”

  Frank put the beer down. “Tonight?”

  “No, not tonight. I mean
he been in here maybe five-six times.”

  The man with the skinny arms obviously wanted into this conversation and finally made his move. “I seen that bomb go too, Frank. Seen one go up in person down in Florida one time. Fuckin’ awesome, man.”

  Unhappy with the interruption, Frank gave the man only a glance. “I’ll bet.” He asked Jackson, “So when was this guy in here last?”

  Skinny Arms jumped in again. “You fuckin’ bet. So, Frank, what’s that Mary Scott bitch like? You ever lay the old sausage on her?”

  Frank stared at the man: the eyes red-rimmed, the nose bent, the black hair thinning badly, the pallor distinctly unhealthy. The phrase “under a rock” came to mind. “Mary’s a nice girl, and I’m happily married.”

  “Hey, what I hear, Frank, you fuck anything walks upright.”

  Frank smiled at the man, whose nose needed wiping. With a reasonably adept impersonation, he said: “Yeah, fuckin’ awesome, man.” Then he turned away. “So, Jackson, this Anthony Peoples who owned the car, when was he in here last?”

  “Don’t know, maybe two month ago. I only know him cause his cousin use to come in here all the time.”

  “Who’s his cousin?”

  “Guy named Richard Mahone. ‘Pretty Rick’ they called him. Also called him ‘Maserati Rick’ cause he like them Eye-talian cars. Say he was a roller. Big time.”

  “The same ‘Maserati Rick’ we did a story on recently?"

  “Yeah, when they murdered his ass. Back a month or two, I guess.”

  “And he was buried in a coffin made out of parts from his favorite vehicle. So who’s ‘they,’ Jackson?”

  “They?”

  “Yeah, who murdered his ass?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Probably friends in the dope business?”

  Jackson got busy wiping the bar and cocked his head. “Could be.”