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

by T. V. LoCicero

  “Anyway, the next day, Smear Monday, as was the custom, all the men gather at the Belgian Club in an old saloon to play lots of cards and drink lots of beer. After a while, and probably way too much beer, he’s still day-dreaming about this girl and not paying attention to his cards, and his partner gets so pissed that he starts a fight with him. It quickly turns into a free-for-all, Marcel ends up getting blind-sided by a guy whacking him over the head with a chair. He’s out like a light and they have to take him to the little hospital in town.

  “When he finally wakes up, he thinks he’s dead because this angel in white is standing there, looking just like the gal he’d been staring at in church. So, of course, the nurse is Margaret. She’s 16, one of ten kids, most of them born here to this Flemish couple from a little coastal town in the old country. Marcel’s got a nasty gash in his forehead and a concussion, and she nurses him back to health. He’s so shy that when she has to give him a bath in bed, he keeps his eyes closed the whole time. Within eight months they’re married.

  “They end up having five kids and when the mine slows down and he loses his job, he moves the whole family down here where the plants are hiring. Four of the five kids are college graduates and the fifth takes his father’s job in the plant. Margaret told me their story a few months back and said six years ago, after 62 years of marriage, Marcel died in her arms while they were...you know.”

  “My god, and he was what, in his eighties?”

  “Yep. You know what they say about us Flemish guys.”

  “Yeah, well, wow, what a great story.”

  Frank saw her gaze move from him to something over his left shoulder, and now from behind came an uncomfortably familiar voice.

  “So this must be where you take all your mistresses.”

  He turned to find Sherie looking radiantly angry in a devastating red dress.

  “Hey, Frank. Fancy meeting you here, the place we first met. Remember, Frank, right over there at the bar where you picked me up? And surely you recall our favorite booth over there to the left, where we’d always sit, back when you still had the time and interest to take me out to dinner. We haven’t been here in so long that I had to come and remind myself why I loved it so much. And what do I find, but my Frankie boy with his latest bimbette.”

  She had’t taken her eyes off him but turned now to give her full attention to Jennie.

  “Sweetie, you look a little young even for this self-enchanted prick. So let me tell you where all this is heading, and then you can decide whether you really want to go there. Right now, I’m sure, though self-obsessed, he’s totally charming. He’s attentive, sensitive to your every little need, and, it goes without saying, a dynamite lover. Today you’re enthralled with his stories, but I can tell you they’ll get old. For a while you’ll feel like the most important thing in his universe, and then one day it’ll seem like he’s moved on to another galaxy. And the only time he’ll show his face is in that box sitting on your TV stand. So, honey, do yourself a favor. Turn him off and pull the plug.”

  She turned back with a pissed-off smile to see how he was taking this. Quietly he said, “Sherie Sloan meet my daughter Jennifer.”

  The smile melted badly as she glanced back at Jennie. Then not quite looking him in the eye, she said softly, “Sorry, Frank.”

  As she walked away, he watched her gorgeous ass moving exactly as it did the first time he saw her, heading from the bar to the ladies room that night two years ago.

  Turning back to Jennie, he found her with a placid look. “Daddy, can you even imagine being married to the same person for 62 years?”

  There had been many times since that stunning moment he had first seen her, a lovely, wrinkled infant just out of Marci’s body, that he had felt hopelessly in love with his daughter.

  Never, he thought, had he ever loved her quite as much as he did right now.

  Chapter 54

  “Hey, Fay, got a sec?”

  On her way to Frank’s office, she looked up to find Mary Scott, holding a sheet of paper next to that push-button smile of hers.

  “Hi, Mary. Sure, what’s up?”

  Just about everything about this woman drove her nuts, her name, her clothes, her church, everything. And yet they were both single black women in their early 30s, both attractive, neat, efficient. So was this some kind of projected self-hatred? She really didn’t think so.

  Mary handed her the sheet of paper. “I just pulled this off the wire. The Supreme Court has upheld parts of a Pennsylvania law imposing some limits on a woman’s ability to obtain an abortion. President Bush, of course, has issued a statement saying again he opposes abortion in all cases except rape or incest or where the life of the mother is at stake. Clinton, of course, is singing his same old tired song about Roe v. Wade.”

  Fay said, “Of course,” but thought, “As usual, bitch, you feel the need to demonstrate your full grasp of the story even with me here in a back hallway.” Depending on her mood, Mary treated her as either a victim or a traitor. A victim to be pitied for working with the Enemy. Or a traitor to her race and gender to be scorned and despised for working with the Enemy.

  Mary said, “Well, I just really want to read this story tonight. I think I should read this story tonight. I mean, a woman should read this story.”

  “Why are you saying this to me?”

  “Why? Because this is a woman’s story. With a powerful impact on women’s lives.”

  “No, I mean why aren’t you talking about this with Dennis? He’s the show producer.”

  “Oh, I will. But Dennis doesn’t matter.” A dismissive flip of her hand. “He’ll say yes, and then Frank will raise his little finger, and Dennis will cave. It always happens.”

  “So you want me to say something to Frank.”

  “Would you? Oh, thank you so much, Fay. This means a lot to me.”

  “No problem. I’ll talk to him right now.”

  Fay handed back the sheet and walked away, thinking, “Okay, Fatima.”

  She was the only one at the station who knew the woman’s real name: Fatima Rolling. Info picked up on a flight to D.C. last year from a seatmate who went to grade school with little Fatima back in Gary. So obviously the woman had chosen the whitest name she could think of. Dressed like the prissiest white girl, always buttoned up, always with those slacks or a pants suit. And she knew why Fatima really wanted to read that story. Because it would please all those good Christian folks at her church, that mostly white World of Faith crowd, where wealth and success are the surest signs of God’s favor.

  Fay had never even told Frank about Mary Scott’s real name. Those two already had enough going on without handing him a juicy little item that he could probably not resist using. She knew Frank well, including most of his demons and his frailties. She also liked and admired him. Actually, there was part of her that was almost disappointed he’d never come on to her. Almost.

  The most important thing: he had always treated her with professional respect and a kind of paternal affection. Bottom line, he was not just smart, but clever and intuitive about people, dedicated, caring and, probably more than any white guy she had ever known, color blind.

  In his office, he was lounging at his desk looking at a magazine from Providenciales, that Caribbean island where he owned a home. She asked, “So when do you leave?”

  “Sunday morning.”

  “You fly to Miami and then...?”

  “Just an hour and a quarter. It’s one of the reasons we built down there.”

  “I just ran into Queen of.” Their pet name for her, as in Mary, Queen of Scots.

  “Yeah.” He was not interested.

  “She wants to read the story on the Supremes and abortion.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not worth going into. Just say yes.”

  “It’s not my call.”

  “She thinks it is.”

  “Okay then, yes.”

  Chapter 55

  Sprawled, spent, his bod
y still tingling, he finally turned in the bed and gently turned her with him until their bodies were spooning, his arm around her, his hand curled gently around her warm, moist breast.

  He said softly, “‘Self-enchanted prick,’ I think that was my favorite line.”

  She laughed. “Really? I thought that was pretty good myself.”

  “Oh, yeah, that was good. But I was impressed with the whole damn speech. You were really on your game. Poor Jen will probably never forget that moment, which is actually good because you were saying things that every attractive young woman should probably hear.”

  “Yeah, well, when you told me who she was, I thought, so, okay, I’ll never see him again.”

  “Oh, god, no, I wanted you more than ever after that.”

  He caressed her breast and she turned her head so he could kiss her warm, full lips.

  He couldn’t recall who told him—maybe 30 years ago when he was somewhere in his teens, the advice lodged securely in some corner of his memory ever since—that nurses were typically sensual and good in bed. Certainly this young woman, with an amazingly soft touch and an astonishing ability to stoke and revel in her own pleasure, pleased him sexually, as much or more than anyone ever had. Was it four or five times she came? He couldn’t tell because at one point she had orgasmed for so long he thought she must have stopped for a while and then started again.

  So why had he called her to say, “How about dinner and a movie?” Something he hadn’t done in months. Because he wanted, needed another taste of her reliable rapture? Or because he was worried about what she might do while he was off in the Caribbean with his family? Like talk to Wil Barnes? No doubt both.

  For the first time in months he had pulled the Caddy with the heavily tinted windows out of the garage and left the Viper in its place. And as they had walked to it coming out of her apartment building she had said, “Ah, going incognito tonight.”

  “Yeah, busted. With what’s been in the papers lately and with that little bitch Barnes working with his spies all over town, I thought it was a good idea.”

  Nodding silently, she had slipped into the plush interior with its soft leather seats, no doubt knowing bloody well why he had mentioned Barnes and spies. Still, with him seated behind the wheel, she had reached to caress his face, kissed him on the mouth and said, “I’ve missed you so much, Frank.”

  “I’ve missed you too.” He had said it even though his life had felt way too crazed and complicated to miss anyone.

  On the way to the movie he had asked if she’d mind if they saw “The Player.” No, but what happened to “Batman Returns.” His mood had shifted, he said. He wanted less bombast and more intelligence. He had read great reviews and had loved Altman ever since “McCabe and Mrs. Miller.”

  On their arrival, she had asked if his choice might have anything to do with “The Player” showing at a small, quiet 3-screen theater and Batman playing at a large, bustling multiplex. As they left the Cadillac, he had slipped on a pair of black sunglasses and said, no way. Taking his arm as they walked through the lot, she had hugged it anyway.

  Later on the way to dinner he had pulled another switch. Having mentioned the Roma, he had instead announced a yen for Chinese and would the Green Lantern be okay? A tiny place in an out of the way strip mall. She had said simply that she doubted little Wong Li and his wife were acquainted with Wil Barnes.

  Even though she had called him on every one of his little maneuvers, her warmth and smiles had flowed as they savored the Silver Needle Noodle Chicken and chewed over “The Player.” Finishing the meal, he had told her something new: he, Marci and the kids were leaving tomorrow morning and spending nine days together at their home on Provo.

  She had looked down at her green mint ice cream and still-unopened fortune cookie and said nothing. Then he had said that Marci had told him recently that she was divorcing him.

  Her blue eyes, large and lovely, came up from the ice cream, and after a moment she asked softly, “Is she really going to do that?”

  “I don’t know, but she says she’s already hired the best divorce attorney in town.”

  “Well, how do you feel about that?”

  Saying nothing for a few seconds, he had wanted to be truthful but wanted more to say anything that would encourage her not to talk to the despicable Mr. Barnes. Finally, gazing at the bald little Wong Li behind the cash register, he had said, “I don’t know. I’m kind of numb I guess. I always thought I’d be the instigator, but now it’s kind of out of my hands. I guess I’m worried about the kids.”

  She said gently, “Well, they’re both basically adults, Frank.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. But to me they’re still kids.”

  “They’ll be all right. Kids are a lot stronger than we give them credit for.”

  She had sounded like the divorce was already a sure thing. Best to leave it at that. Picking up his fortune cookie, he had broken it open. “‘You value constancy and a good heart above all.’” He crumpled the little slip of white paper and tossed it on the table. “I hate these non-fortune fortune cookies.”

  “Well, no, that is a fortune, if you believe that character is fate.”

  He had smiled. “Open yours.”

  Cracking the cookie, she had gazed at the little white strip, her beautiful mouth forming a smile. “‘Soon your fondest dream will come true.’”

  “No. You’re making that up.”

  “I’m not. Look for yourself.” She had handed it to him.

  “Well, I’ll be. ‘Soon your fondest dream will come true.’ Okay, what’s your fondest dream?”

  She had looked at him directly and said, “I’m not telling.”

  Now in her bed she turned her body to him with such a sexy twist that he felt himself getting hard again. She said, “So if she’s getting a divorce, why is she going away with you for 10 days?”

  “Nine days. I don’t know. She says it’s for the kids.”

  Sherie stared at him, and he already knew what was coming. “Frank, you’re such a bullshitter.”

  Chapter 56

  At Jimmy’s on the Beach on Grace Bay, a rustic old bar carved out of the remains of an abandoned motel and restaurant, they clinked their Coronas with the slice of lime still protruding from each rim. “To a great day on the links. May we enjoy another very soon.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Bobby, squeezing and pushing the lime wedge into his bottle.

  Frank raised his bottle again. “And to a great senior year comin’ up, with lots of success and good times ahead.”

  Bobby stared at his bottle. “I don’t know if I’m drinking to that.”

  “Why not?” said Frank, looking away at the powdery white sand and the brilliant, surreal greens and blues stretching to the horizon, interrupted only by a line of white caps caused by the huge unspoiled reef a mile out, a view that never failed to lift his mood. “How can you not drink to good times?”

  “Yeah, good times are cool. But I’m not sure I want a successful senior year, at least in terms of how the good fathers see it.”

  “What’s wrong with how they see it?” Frank stared back at his son, who in turn gazed at the sea and took a swig.

  “For them success is all about grades and the right extra-curriculars, to get you a slot at the right college, that’ll insure the right career path, that’ll lead to the right retirement package, that’ll tide you over until you slide into the right afterlife community.”

  When Bobby glanced at him to see how that little gambit had gone over, Frank nodded. “‘The right afterlife community.’ I kind of like that.”

  “It’s yours, no charge.”

  “Hey, thanks, kiddo.” Frank saw Bobby’s mild smile turn almost imperceptibly to a faint frown and realized he hadn’t called this son kiddo in years. Kiddo had always been Tommy, and on the rare occasion when he’d used it for Bobby, it had felt almost like a slip.

  Rare occasions. Surely this day was one. It had started with the two of
them having breakfast on the deck at the back of the house, sitting high on a bluff looking out at the open Caribbean to the south.

  As usual, he had seen little of his family in these first few days on Provo, with Marci sticking close to home, working on her decorating projects, the kids spending most of their time on the water, using the skiff to meet up with friends to fish and snorkel. His own routine was to hit the links on the island’s lone golf course in the morning, then tinker around the house or drive over to Long Bay Beach and walk naked in the brilliant sun.

  Bobby was perfectly capable these days of sitting alone with his father for a half-hour and, except for a “Hi” and a “See ya,” never utter a word. This morning, though, his son had caught him gazing mindlessly across the bay at Dick Clark’s big house and asked, “Did you ever meet him.”

  Frank had been startled by his son’s voice. “Meet who?”

  “Clark. You were staring at his house.”

  “Oh, was I? Yeah, once. Last year at the Caicos Café. He was with Washington Misick, the chief minister, who apparently told him something about me, because Clark came over and introduced himself and said welcome to the island, I hear we’re neighbors, that kind of thing.”

  “So what was he like?”

  “He was very nice, down to earth, just seemed like a regular guy.”

  “So just like he is on New Year’s Rockin’ Eve.”

  “Yeah, pretty much. He seemed more interested in me than I was in him.”

  “Maybe he’s gay.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I know. I was just pulling your chain.”

  Frank had nodded and then figured nothing ventured, nothing gained: “So how about a round with me this morning?”

  Bobby had waited for a couple of seconds, then said lightly, “Okay. But no betting. I just want to play.”

  “Great.”

  “And I want to beat your ass.”

  “Well, okay then. Let’s get it on.”

  At the course they had played together for the first time in over a year, since before Tommy’s death. Just the two of them, except for the last two holes on the front nine when they had overtaken a couple of old codgers playing for heavy stakes and cheating whenever possible. With one look at Bobby, tall, lots of sandy hair, a trim, athletic physique, they had started gushing. The kid had “one helluva sweet swing.” And could be “turnin’ pro tomorrow if you want it.”