Motor City Burning

by Bill Morris

  “He ever get into any serious trouble?”

  “Not here. I heard tell he was on that bus got fire-bombed outside Anniston. Too bad they didn’t cook his ass. Happiest day of my life was when him and that worthless brother a his packed up and left for D-troit. They had a big send-off party night before they left.”

  “He has a brother?”

  “Better believe it. Ornery sumbitch, name of Wes. He was with the Navy in Vee-yet-nam and something musta happened to him over there. That boy ain’t right.”

  Doyle was scribbling in his notebook, trying to keep up. Again he said, “How do you mean?”

  “Well, he just ain’t right. Lazy as the day is long. Just pure-T worthless. All he ever done round here, so far’s I can tell, was watch TV, drink beer and shoot guns.”

  “Guns?”

  “Yeah. Way I heard it, him and his brother used to go out into the woods for a little target practice.”

  “What kind of guns they have?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Any idea how many? Or where they got them?”

  “Nosir.”

  “Weren’t you curious?”

  “Nosir. Most folks round here’s got guns.”

  “Do you know where Wes is now?”

  “Can’t say as I do. All I know is that I haven’t seen his black face in this town in over a year—and that suits me just fine. Wes Bledsoe’s the kind that’ll explode on you. Believe me, I seen it happen more’n once.”

  “How about Willie?”

  “Ain’t seen him neither. He could still be in D-troit for all I know. The folks at Tuskegee Institute—that’s the Nigra college here in town—they could probably help you find his homeplace. Like I say, it’s one a them little piss-ant towns down south somewheres.”

  Doyle wrote down the phone number for Tuskegee Institute, then thanked the chief and hung up.

  Caldwell Petty’s mention of guns reminded Doyle of the coroner’s words about the fatal bullet—the possibility of comparison if the gun it was fired from was located. Doyle knew that the likelihood of finding that gun, almost a year after the murder, was slim to nil. Yet he was encouraged. The pieces were beginning to fit. Suddenly he had an angry young man and an unhinged Vietnam veteran. They were both able to put their hands on guns. And, best of all, they both knew how to use them.

  Doyle crossed Tuskegee Police off the list on the yellow legal pad and added U.S. Navy. Then he reached for the telephone and placed a call to Tuskegee Institute. Five minutes later he was dialing another long-distance number, this one at the home of the Rev. Otis R. Bledsoe in the little piss-ant town of Andalusia, Alabama.

  After going back to the kitchen three times to fetch a fresh beer, Doyle put four cans in a sack and took it out to the front porch and set it down next to the half-empty fifth of Jameson’s. He didn’t want to waste any more time walking back and forth to the kitchen. He wanted to finish getting drunk and telling his father about his day.

  Where was I? Doyle said, re-lighting his cigar and cracking open a beer.

  That Bledsoe woman, his father said. The one in Alabama.

  Right. So it’s obvious she isn’t thrilled to hear from me.

  How could you tell?

  Because no black person in this country welcomes a call from the police. Who can blame them? There’s only one kind of news it can be.

  So what’d you say to her?

  Small talk, at first. Asked her what she did for a living and she gave me a long speech about teaching history at Washington High School—which was not named after our slave-owning first president but after Booker T. Washington, I’ll have you know—and how the school was much better before integration, when it was all black. She said as far as she’s concerned, N.A.A.C.P. stands for the National Association for the Advancement of Certain People.

  That’s a good one, the old man said. Never heard that one before.

  Me neither. Once I had her softened up, I started with the lies. I told her we were investigating a car-theft ring. Then after a lot of bullshit I got her to tell me that William Brewer Bledsoe is her son and that he drove his pink-and-black Buick to Detroit in the spring of last year with his brother Wes, who was a Navy SEAL in Vietnam.

  I thought you already got all that stuff from the police chief.

  Yeah, but I needed to confirm it. Then I got her to tell me that Bob Brewer is her brother, and that Willie works with him at Oakland Hills, which was news to me, and that her son Wes was living in brother Bob’s Larrow Arms building last summer on the night Helen Hull died. Which was also news to me. Very good news.

  You guys are sure the killer fired from that roof?

  We’re ninety-nine percent sure. Having a murder weapon would be nice. But. So I asked Mrs. Bledsoe where William bought his Buick and she said it was a gift from a friend of his brother’s, a Navy buddy, a white guy who owed Wes some kind of favor. She said the buddy and his wife drove up to Willie’s place in Tuskegee one day and just handed over the keys and title, free and clear. She said she’d never heard tell of such a thing—that white people in that part of the world aren’t in the habit of giving cars to Negroes. I told her they aren’t in the habit of doing it in this part of the world either.

  Got that right.

  She actually laughed. That’s when I decided to go for broke—asked her if her sons owned any guns. The frost that came out of the receiver damn near froze my ear off. ‘For your information,’ she told me, ‘my son William has been afraid of guns since he was a boy.’ So I asked if she knew if Wes had brought any guns back from Vietnam. That did it. She told me, in case I didn’t already know it, that men in the U.S. military are required to surrender their weapons when they’re discharged from the service and that she raised her sons to obey the law and furthermore she resented the implication that one of her sons, a decorated war veteran, a hero, would even consider doing something so flagrantly illegal. She said she had to cut the call short. She had a meeting to attend. Which was even lamer than the bullshit I’d been feeding her.

  Can you blame her?

  Hell no. That’s the whole point, Pop. I hate myself for what I’m about to do to that woman. She’s obviously decent—articulate, educated, hard-working. And I’m getting ready to stick it to her—or to her sons, which is the same thing. I felt the same way after I talked to her brother Bob.

  Frank, quit beating yourself up. You were doing your job. Don’t forget what happened to Helen Hull.

  Yeah, but like you and Mom were always saying, two wrongs don’t make a right. Lying to a decent woman like that is flat wrong.

  Screw that. You made a promise to your mother and me—and to yourself. You promised to find Helen’s killer if it’s the last thing you do.

  And I’m going to do it.

  No matter what?

  No matter what.

  Good boy.

  They were quiet for a long time, Doyle puffing his cigar, chasing whiskey with beer. When the beer was gone, Doyle put the cork back in the whiskey bottle and stood up. He said, I gotta run.

  Run? It’s almost midnight—and you’re half in the bag.

  Yeah, but there’s somebody I need to talk to.

  Well, be careful. This is no time get popped for drunk driving.

  I’m not going far—and I’ll be careful.

  You better be. You still got a killer to catch.

  15

  THE DINNER RUSH AT OAKLAND HILLS THAT SATURDAY NIGHT was one for the ages. As soon as the busboys got a table cleared, a fresh party sat down, wave after wave. Willie worked in a daze, like a robot on bennies.

  At the peak of the rush, while he was shoveling dirty dishes and glasses from his tray onto the dishwasher’s conveyor, Willie felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “Got some news for you, Cuz.” It was Uncle Bob.

  “Can it wait? I got four dirty tables to bus and Kowalski’s been on my ass all night.”

  “Fuck Simon Legree. This is important. I stopped by this morning and had a chat
with Mizz Armstrong—you know, the widow lady lives in the building where your brother use to stay? The one I told you talked to the po-lice?”

  “Yeah? And? Make it quick.”

  “Turns out I was right about that detective.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s smart, all right. He didn’t tell me everything he knew. I found out from Mizz Armstrong why he was so curious about an older model car with a red-and-black interior and lots of chrome.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Cause she not only saw the car pull up under her window one night during the riot—she saw two men take a duffel bag out the trunk. That detective didn’t say nothing to me about no duffel bag. Then Mizz Armstrong told me she saw the two men come into the building, heard them walk upstairs, then she heard voices coming from the roof. And gunshots. This is what she already told the police, Cuz.”

  Willie didn’t say anything.

  Bob leaned in closer. “What was in that bag you took out the trunk?

  Willie thought of his Aunt Nezzie. He knew he had to choose his next words with great care and remember them. “I didn’t take nothing out the trunk, Uncle Bob, and that’s God’s honest truth.” And indeed it was, technically.

  “I sure as hell hope so. For your sake.” Bob gave him a look that was hard to read—part accusation, part fear. As Willie turned to go, Bob said, “Your momma called me yesterday.”

  “How’s Ma BeBe?”

  “Not good. That cop called her too.”

  “In Alabama? Damn.”

  “Fed her some jive about investigating a car-theft ring—then asked her if you or Wes ever had any guns—”

  Just then Dick Kowalski burst into the kitchen and barked at Willie to get back out on the floor and bus those dirty tables. The Murphy party was waiting.

  Willie spent the rest of the night in a fog, replaying his conversation with his uncle over and over. At the end of the night, he made a point of bumping into Chick Murphy as he headed for the men’s room. They made an appointment for Willie to visit the dealership on Monday morning.

  As the Murphy party was leaving the dining room, Blythe Murphy, her eyelids at half-mast, slipped a piece of paper into Willie’s jacket pocket. He went into the kitchen to read it in private. It was a phone number and the command CALL ME!!! As Willie tore the note into tiny pieces and let them float like confetti into the trash, he saw that his hands were trembling.

  President Johnson declared Sunday a national day of mourning for Bobby Kennedy, and there was a minute of silence before the first pitch of that afternoon’s game between the Tigers and the Cleveland Indians.

  Standing in the centerfield bleachers, dressed in his T-shirt, denim overalls and brogans, Willie bowed his head along with Louis Dumars and Clyde Holland and more than 31,000 other fans. As the seconds ticked by, Willie heard the white man in front of him mutter to his wife, “Ain’t this some shit. Martin Luther Coon gets killed and they postpone the season opener two whole fucking days. Bobby Kennedy gets killed and he gets one lousy minute of silence. You mind explaining that to me?”

  His wife hissed, “Shut up, Roland.”

  “I mean, they arrested a white guy in London yesterday for killing King, didn’t they? What more do these people want?”

  She turned her head enough to see the three large black men standing behind her. “Shut up, Roland! You’re gonna get us both killed!”

  Though the game was a thing of beauty that featured crisp pitching, a pair of Norm Cash home runs, close plays at the plate, even a rhubarb that got the Tigers’ testy manager, Mayo Smith, ejected, Willie couldn’t concentrate on any of it. He lost track of who was batting, the ball-and-strike counts, the score. He didn’t even hear much of the banter between Louis and Clyde, who were in unusually high spirits today. Willie was too busy retracing his steps, going all the way back to his first days in Detroit. He needed to remember everything and start lining up his lies, get himself ready for the inevitable.

  “. . . I ain’t sayin she ain’t a fox!” Louis Dumars was practically shouting. Willie realized his friends had been drinking two beers to his one and they were beginning to get right.

  “Course she’s a fox,” Clyde said. “All my clients is foxes.”

  Willie finished his lukewarm beer and crushed the empty cup. He motioned for a beer vendor and bought a fresh round. “What’re you two bellerin about?”

  “A client a mine,” Clyde said.

  “What about her?”

  “What about her? Where you been, Alabama?”

  “Sorry . . . been watching the game.”

  Suddenly everyone was rising in unison. It was the bottom of the ninth inning, two outs. The Tigers were trailing the Indians, 4-3, but they had runners on first and second as Mickey Stanley stepped to the plate. He swung at the first pitch, and it was a full second before Willie heard the crack of the bat and picked up the ball, a little white bullet coming straight at him. His voice joined the rising roar.

  The roar grew hoarser, wilder, louder as the ball kept coming. The Cleveland centerfielder, Jose Cardenal, was sprinting toward the wall but Willie could see that he would never catch up with the ball. The runners were white blurs wheeling around the bases and then the ball disappeared from Willie’s field of vision and there was a moment when the roaring seemed to stop. After a long silence the ball sailed back toward the infield like a wounded bird. Mickey Stanley was already standing on second base. Two runs had scored and the Tigers had won their fourth game in a row, 5-4, winning it on their last at-bat, which was becoming this implausible team’s implausible trademark.

  Louis and Clyde were so elated by the Tigers’ dramatic comeback—and by the half dozen beers they’d each consumed—that they insisted on taking Willie out for a celebratory nightcap. They had a place in mind up on Woodward. Clyde rolled back his Deuce’s convertible top and got WJLB on the radio. Sprawled on the Buick’s back seat, drinking in the music and the balmy afternoon, Willie watched the trees flash overhead and tried to forget his worries. They were on a street that looked vaguely familiar. At the next corner he checked the sign—they were on Dexter—and after a couple more blocks he saw it coming up on his right, the Dexter Bookstore. A big poster of Malcolm X filled the front window, but Willie didn’t see Edgar Vaughan or any signs of life inside the store.

  Edgar Vaughan was the Bledsoe brothers’ second-to-last customer on their gun-selling spree when they first hit Detroit last spring. They did business in apartments, bars, stores, garages, barbershops and car lots, even in a couple of mosques and churches. Their customers wore berets, dashikis, smocks, box-back suits, greasy overalls, sharkskin, military camouflage and olive drab. They sold everything from books to burial insurance to used cars to Jesus. They ran numbers and they ran dope. They ranged from menacing to pathetic, from street toughs to dime-store Marxists, but they all had one thing in common: They all yearned to shoot white people, preferably cops.

  Edgar Vaughan had led Wes and Willie into his cramped office at the back of the bookshop, where he served them coffee and half an hour’s worth of quotations from Lenin and Chairman Mao and Malcolm X. Vaughan wore an Afro that had never been touched by a pick. He had a could-be-twenty, could-be-forty face, and when he ran out of rhetoric he asked Wes and Willie if they’d caught Rap Brown’s speech at the Black Arts Conference. The brothers shook their heads. They’d been too busy selling guns.

  “The cat was very right-on,” Vaughan said. “Got up there on the stage and said, ‘Motown, if you don’t come around, we gonna burn you down!’ Place went crazy. I’m tellin you, my brothers, this city’s a tinderbox—and all it’s waitin for’s a match.”

  “A tinderbox,” Wes said, shooting Willie an amused look. “And who got the match?”

  “I believe you got the match right there, my brother.” Vaughan motioned at the duffel bag on the floor between Wes’s feet.

  “Ahh, of course,” Wes said, unzipping the bag and removing the pieces of a Winchester Model 70 rifle
and laying them on the desk.

  “That a sniper’s rifle?” Vaughan said.

  “Thas right. For brothers who don’t like to be in the same zip code as the honky they fixin to shoot.”

  Willie watched Vaughan’s eyes get big as dinner plates while Wes snapped the gun together with crisp, expert movements. Willie guessed Vaughan had never held anything more dangerous than a copy of Mao’s little red book.

  “You want a scope too?” Wes asked, laying the assembled rifle on the desk.

  Vaughan was staring at the gun like it was a poisonous snake. “How much?”

  “Six for the gun, two for the scope. Them’s fire-sale prices.”

  “What kind of scope goes with it?”

  “All I got left’s a Unertl.”

  “It any good?”

  “The best. Good up to a thousand yards. Had a tendency to fog up in the jungle in Nam, but it shouldn’t give you no trouble if you plan to use it in D-troit.”

  “I plans to use it in D-troit.”

  “Then you all set. That’ll be eight hundred.”

  Driving away from the bookstore after making the sale, Wes pounded the Buick’s dashboard and roared, “Could you believe that nigger? All that shit about revolution and tinderboxes? I swear, they got more groups with more initials up here than a can a motherfuckin Campbell’s alphabet soup—RAM, DRUM, UHURU, all this Marxist back-to-Africa, Swahili shit.”

  “Yeah,” Willie said, “they actually believe buyin a mess a guns is gonna get whitey off their backs.”

  “Fuck ’em. Long as they pays cash, I don’t give a fuck what they believe.”

  Their next and last customer was a slack-jawed blue gum who went by the name Kindu and lived on Wildemere in a filthy hole with cats and brimming garbage cans and a dank diaper smell to it. The two incense sticks burning on the kitchen table weren’t doing a thing about that smell. Or the cockroaches.