Man with an Axe (4 page)

And about the time you forget what the hell you're there for, along comes ol’ Lonzo, who I thought was back in Detroit. But I guess he jumped in the ol’ Caddy and breezed up to Nigger Heaven to get away from the hot city streets. He rolls in with a couple-three of his stooges and they sprawl all over the place and it seems like we're all just having a gay ol’ time, socking back the Stroh's. Except that I see Lonzo can't tear his eyes away from me and neither can his stooges. Man, they were giving me the heebie-jeebies.

But finally I noticed that the band had quit, some time ago. And just about everybody else except for Lonzo and Co. had split. And about that time I stood up and, I'll be goddamned, the fuckin’ dock started rockin’ and I sat right down, only I missed the fuckin’ lawn chair and I flopped right on my ass and damn near fell into the fuckin’ stinkin’ mud! And ol’ Lonzo, he's laughin’ and tryin’ to get me up and we both fell down, and we're laughin’ like lunatics and I'll be damned if he didn't find a bottle of Jim Beam and him and me and Books decided to walk home.

It was a nice moon, almost full. The wind had come up and a lot of clouds were blowing by. It got quite a bit cooler. We had walked up on the ridge overlooking the settlement, or whatever you want to call it. And we drank the Jim Beam and by golly, Books got me to walk home. Hell of a time.

Whew, man! I had a hangover like, well, you just wish everybody would quit jumping and yelling and carrying on, or hell, why couldn't the world just stop? But a man has got to get up and face it, right? Anyway, the weather helped. It had turned colder than shit and a low deck of gray clouds had blown in. It was okay with me. Fuck a bunch of heat when you're hung over, eh Mul? A nice cold morning helps. I grabbed some coffee and got Books to borrow a sweater from a neighbor. I'd slept on the couch and I was a little achy. I wanted a walk. I strolled up the hill toward Lonzo's. It wasn't really a hill, more of a rise, out on the rim of the basin, which was a depression for the pond. The wind was still tossing the few trees that were around.

I got to Lonzo's, which we hadn't been able to get to the night before, being too damn drunk. I was wondering if me and Books had actually crawled home. I saw I was at Lonzo's, cause his big red Caddy convertible was parked out front. He had one of the few trees, a nice big one, very spreading, like the chestnut under the village smithy, or however the poem goes. I guess it must of been about seven or so. A couple of Lonzo's boys are sacked out in the

Caddy, with their coats pulled over their ears and their feet sticking over the side. It was too early for visiting and I was enjoying the fresh air, so I just walked on by, on out in the country and pretty soon I got up on the ridge where I could see off to the countryside. The Haymish were out working, like they do, haying or something, with tractors and equipment, off in the distance. I started back and I had to just stop and look.

A white woman came out of Lonzo's house, which was a sorta new place, a single-story cabin kind of place, with redwood or something for siding and a big deck, lots of tall windows. It looked like it had maybe three or four bedrooms, which made me wonder why the boys weren't allowed to sleep inside, but maybe they just didn't want to, except it was damn cold for sleeping outside. Course they were as drunk or drunker than we were, so maybe they just didn't make it inside.

Anyway, this white chick is a hell of a babe. Big set of knockers, blond, hell of an ass in tight jeans. She jumps into a VW van that's parked out back and goes tootin’ off down the road and over the hill toward the back gate. I never saw any babe like that with Lonzo. The man would scare any normal woman out of her wits, he's so ugly. For all his money and his muscle, I never saw him with anything but a few scraggly little whores. This babe was a bombshell. And she looked kind of familiar, although I didn't get close enough to really see her face and I'm sure she didn't see me.

Here he runs out of space. He seems surprised. On the inside of the back cover he has scrawled: “See you in book two. Which reminds me: where can you find good Books? In the Library! Ha, ha! G.” (Literally: “C U in book 2. Wich remines me. Wear can U fine good Books? In the Liberry! Haha! G.”)

T
his was the text, but as I say, it wasn't the first segment that came to my attention. I've only put it here because it seemed like the sensible thing to do, to avoid confusion.

2

Blue Girl

A
number of other events occurred at about this time that later I realized were interrelated. This is not coincidence, but it is not necessarily a conspiracy either. At the time, of course, I didn't remark it. Even before Grootka's narrative surfaced, somebody from the police department's Public Relations office called and asked me to entertain a young historian named Agge Allyson: actually, whoever it was said something like “chat her up, the usual.” The idea was that I should consent to be interviewed by Ms. Allyson. So I agreed to go to lunch with her and suggested my favorite place, Pinky's, down on Jefferson.

The meeting went very well—she was on time and nice to look at—but there was an initial moment when it almost went awry. I was sure she was about to say, “I'm something of a detective myself.” It's a line that detectives hear a lot. Often, I can see it coming, and it fills me with a horrible dread. Ms. Allyson was a fine-looking young woman and I didn't want her to say anything so banal, but how can you stop it? I fell back on a heartless remedy: a more deadly preemptive banality.

“You seem very young to be a historian,” I said.

She had expressive brown eyes and I thought they widened in disappointment. We were sitting in the bar at Pinky's, a nice place, old wood and dark leather; the afternoon light from the street gives a very pleasant amber glow.

I tried to soften her dismay with one of my
little
smiles, a slight lift of the lips on the left. I'm aware that my smile can be intimidating, they don't call me Fang for nothing.

She graciously dealt with the banality by explaining that she wasn't a full-fledged historian, yet. She was engaged in a post-doctorate study, part of a general history of Detroit in the second half of the century. “My part, for which a grant has blessedly and unexpectedly materialized but which is not going to be enough money if I spend too long at it, is about the police. The police and the community.”

I nodded, trying to be helpful. “Oh yes? What are some of the other . . . um, parts? Who's doing them? You know, the story of the auto industry, for instance,” I added, when she frowned in puzzlement.

She said she didn't know, but she seemed a little surprised at herself for not having considered that. “I was just so relieved and happy to get a grant, I didn't inquire about the other aspects of the project.”

“Sure,” I said. It was quite understandable. “But didn't they give you any guidelines?”

I could see she felt a little defensive. I suppose she hadn't expected to have her project questioned. “I'm sure the foundation didn't feel that they could be too directive,” she said. “The foundation director, Mr. Toscano, was helpful, but not overbearing. The idea, he said, was to give the grant recipient support, without unduly influencing my research or the report.”

I shrugged, agreeably. “Still,” I said, “'The Police and the Community,’ isn't that a little vague?”

She almost winced. “I hope not. I want to focus on a personality. Mr. Toscano was very supportive of that approach. I prefer
history when it is seen through the eyes of a ‘character'—most people do. You know—someone who has experienced the history. It helps to bring it alive.”

“The police in different voices,” I said, half aloud.

“I'm sorry?”

“It's a line from a novel,” I said. “'He do the police in different voices.’” That wasn't cool, I realized. It sounded like a parody of black speech. “A Charles Dickens novel,” I hastened to explain. “Joe the crossing sweeper, he reads the police reports in the paper in different voices, kind of a performance art.”

“Oh?” she said, her face a study in neutrality. But then she smiled sweetly and said, “I think you'll find that it was
Our Mutual Friend,
not
Bleak House,
and it's Betty Higden who says it. As I recall, she's referring proudly to her teenaged foster child, Sloppy, who reads well. The novel has a subtheme of literacy.”

“Does it?” I said. “I must have missed that. I'll check it out.” I was sure that the novel was
Bleak House,
and the character Joe, but there was something about her self-assurance that undermined my own. At any rate, I was grateful that she had so skillfully finessed my near-gaffe. She was very sharp. And attractive—in fact, stunning. She reminded me a little of the great Detroit jazz pianist Geri Allen. The same bright look, the vitality and obvious intelligence. Sometimes you look at a young woman like this and you think: maybe they
can
save the city . . . the country . . . hell, the species. This one had left enough buttons undone on her blouse that I could see cleavage forever, right down to the brassiere clasp. Now, why would a woman do that, I wonder?

A more relevant question was why this dishy young historian wanted to talk to me. I'd been around the department for quite a while, but I couldn't pretend to be a “character,” someone likely to make a historical narrative come alive. It was a mystery. But Public Relations has their hands full. . . you try to help, if it isn't too much bother. I asked her straight out how I could help.

“Well, everybody kept mentioning a Mr. Grootka,” she said.

“Everybody? Grootka has been dead for—good Lord, going on five years! People are still talking about him?”

“Well, not everybody, maybe,” she conceded, “but his name did come up more than anybody's. As soon as people caught on to what I was looking for it seems like they'd say, ‘Aha! You ought to check out Grootka, if you want a character.’ Grootka seemed to find me.”

“I like that, ‘He found you.’ Even dead, Grootka is a better detective than any of us. I have to admit, he was a character. What can I tell you about Grootka?”

“What was Grootka's first name?” She had an ingratiating smile; I gave her the little smile in return.

“Grootka didn't have a first name, as far as I know.”

“Everybody has a first name.”

“What's yours?”

“Agge. As if it were
i-e,
but there's no
i
.”

“Aggie? Would that be short for Agatha?”

“Just Agge. Now, don't make a face. What's wrong with Agge?”

“Nothing. Agge's fine. In fact, I've never liked Agatha. It always reminds me of what's-her-name, who invented all those dippy detectives.” I felt stupid. Time to change the subject. “You're the second person to mention Grootka to me today.”

“Really? Well, you see? The same people who mentioned Grootka to me also said the guy to talk to was Mulheisen, that you used to work with him . . . you were his best friend.”

“Grootka didn't exactly have best friends,” I said, “but I was probably as close to him as anybody. I can tell you about Grootka, but. . . . What's the interest in Grootka? I mean for a historian? Grootka wasn't a particularly historic guy. Historically, I suppose you'd want to talk to some of those guys who were involved in . . . oh, I don't know . . . the Algiers Motel thing. You know, during the riots, in sixty-seven.”

Before she could inquire, I hastened to say, “I wasn't on the force then. I was in school.”

“Public school?”

“How kind of you,” I said, almost retaliating with a Fang smile. “No, law school. I didn't like it. I went a couple of years. The most intensely boring two years of my life. I thought of going back, but now . . . it's too late. Grootka was on the force, sure, but what he did during the riots I don't know.”

Good Lord, why was I babbling on? I shut up and tried to look indifferent. Maybe it was the unbuttoned shirt. It is very hard not to stare into an unbuttoned shirt when it is so well filled. Impossible, perhaps.

“If Grootka was your partner, surely you talked about the riots?”

I thought about it. I sipped at my coffee and discovered that it was cold. I signaled the bartender for another cup and gestured at the history girl. She looked puzzled. “Would you like more coffee?” I asked. “A drink? A beer? A little cognac?”

She settled for coffee, and I felt composed enough to tell her a quick little tale about Grootka.

“Grootka told me a lot about his life, his career,” I said. “Mostly about the forties and fifties. He seemed nostalgic for that period. It was a better period. And it's funny, too"—it had just struck me—"I had a similar nostalgia.” It had not previously occurred to me, this shared taste. Perhaps it accounted for our getting along as well as we did.

Agge Allyson alarmed me with her raised eyebrow. “Oh no.” I was strangely eager to correct any misapprehension. “I'm not anything like that old. Grootka was much, much older than me. Twenty-five, thirty years, anyway. But it's odd . . . you see, my parents were fairly old when I was born. My mother was nearly forty, I think. She's eighty-some, now. My dad died, oh, twenty years or more ago. But growing up with them, with their outlook . . . even as a child I had
a notion of the twenties and the thirties, a sense of familiarity. It was almost as if I'd experienced the period, because that was what my parents talked about. I knew about comic strips that hadn't been published in decades, big bands that had sunk into total obscurity long ago. Did you ever hear of the Ray McKinley–Will Bradley band? No? Or radio characters like Ish Kabibble or Joe Penner? Joe Penner said, ‘Wanna buy a duck?’ on the radio.”

She laughed, a soft, gurgly laugh. It would convince any man that she found him genuinely amusing. The shirt rose and fell and I looked away.

“The forties and fifties were yesterday to my folks,” I went on. “They had just happened. The twenties and thirties had a little more distance, but they weren't ancient history. Maybe"—I had a sudden thought—"maybe that's why I was always so interested in history. Like you.”

She smiled encouragingly and asked what I meant.

“History is practically my main interest,” I informed her. “After work, that is. I'm interested in Detroit history, Michigan history. Your project sounds intriguing,” I said, “but I'm more interested in earlier periods, although I'm not caught up in this current craze for the Civil War. Are you? No? The Civil War is interesting, sure, but it's become kind of faddish. I'm more into Pontiac's Rebellion. Or, if we're talking recent history, the labor struggle. I'm interested in that. And the War of 1812! The naval action on the Lakes.”

“Grootka,” she said, with mock severity. “Postwar to the seventies. Don't get me sidetracked into discussing Pontiac. I did my thesis on Pontiac's Rebellion and the opening of western migration.”

“Really?” Amazing. “This isn't some ‘great man’ theory, is it? I thought that was passé.”

“No, no . . . although I'm not so dismissive of that notion as prevailing attitudes. . . . Obviously, unusually powerful or forceful individuals have an impact on events. But this is more a variation
on the A
nnalistes
.
.
. let's say A
nnalistes avec personnalité:
find an illustrative individual or circumstance, not necessarily the famous and familiar one, and then . . . but what about Grootka?”

“Okay. Grootka.” I paused for a moment, then dove in. “I have a picture of Grootka, a mental picture, of him striding down a street, a gun in each hand. Everybody scatters. Yeah, that's Grootka. Cool and unflappable. Just walking down the street, keeping the law.” I laughed, to show her I wasn't serious. “He really wasn't like that, of course. But . . . sort of like that.”

Shut, up. Gassing away like a shot Zeppelin. I looked at this chick. What was she about? Pontiac and the opening of the West? And now she wants to write history about Grootka? Nice shirt, though. But she can't figure out if she wants to show it or hide it. Are they all like that? Once in a while you meet one who doesn't seem to care. That one you better get close to. This one . . . who knows?

“'Keeping the law,’” Agge said. “What does that mean?”

I had to give this a little more thought. What did it mean? It was something about Grootka. The way he was.

“Was he intimidating?” she asked. She had velvety brown eyes, full dark lips.

“Grootka was very intimidating,” I said. “Intimidation was his basic wardrobe, like the gray suit, the same red tie—he always wore the same tie, never untied it, just slipped it on and off. He liked to ‘invade your space,’ as they say these days. He'd stand very close to you, too close, and put his big face into yours. His breath wasn't bad, though usually there was a faint odor of booze—you could feel the heat of it. Obnoxious as hell.”

“A big man?”

“Oh, yeah. About six-four, six-five, something like that. A big raw-boned man. He had a face . . .” Jeez, how could you describe that battered, ravaged face? It looked like—what was his line?—like his face caught on fire and they put it out with a pitchfork. I settled for:

“A very menacing face. Pockmarked skin, drawn tight over the bones—like parchment that had shrunk. He had huge hands.”

I could see that face, the thin lips, the curious hair—mouse colored, or no color, really. As if it were artificial, doll's hair . . . too thin, too wiry, too sparse to be a wig, the bony skull showing through. Small, flat ears, pulled back, irregular—as if they'd been added on from different bins, or reconstructed.

“So, his basic technique, as a policeman, was to intimidate people?” she asked. For some reason I was not displeased by her expression of disapproval.

“It's not uncommon,” I said. “Though Grootka was better at it than most.”

“Is it so effective?” Agge asked.

“Amazingly so. Grootka told me when he was on the street, in uniform, they put him out on Hastings. That was the heart of the old ghetto. They called it Paradise Valley. It was a tough place. He said he grabbed the first guy he came to and whacked him over the head with his stick. ‘I'm Grootka,’ he tells the guy. ‘Tell everybody. Grootka's in town.’ He meant, you know, that he was in charge. He says it worked.”

“So that's where you get this image,” she said.

“You mean of Grootka ‘keeping the law'? No, no. Well, maybe in part. But the image really seems a later development. But don't get me wrong. The people liked him.”

“You mean the black people? Because you are talking about black people, aren't you, when you talk about Paradise Valley?”