The Car Bomb (The detroit im dying Trilogy, Book 1) (4 page)

“
Yeah, bullshit, eh. Well, I caught a crack case a while back woulda put me away for 20 years, so I make a little charitable contribution to the judge through my lawyer, and poof! It all goes away.”

With a long look at the guy’s mouth, Frank decided there was a distinct resemblance to the rodent family. “So who’s your attorney?”

The narrow, pale face puffed with rage. “Oh, so now you’re interested, eh, Frank, you fuckin’ phony! Let’s see you tell that story on the fuckin’ First at Five News.”

“
I don’t tell bullshit stories, pal. Give me your attorney’s name, and I’ll check it out.”

“
Oh, sure you will, Frank, you fuckin’ phony. He’s another one of your fuckin’ friends.”

Suddenly animated, Jackson had moved around from behind the bar. Now he was all over the Rat Man, grabbing him by the back of the belt and the greasy hair over the nape of his neck. Yanked off the stool he squealed in pain, flailed his arms and kicked his feet as he was carried to the door.

“
The man say don’t interrupt. And I say haul your ass outta here and don’t never bring it back. I ain’t gonna be so fuckin’ nice next time.”

Tossed like a sack onto the street, the guy struggled to get himself upright. “Man, it’s a free fuckin’ country,” he whined, then appeared to consider barging right back in. Finally, he thought better of it, stumbling off, then whirling with several obscene gestures.

Inside, Jackson headed back behind the bar. “Sorry about that asshole, Frank.”

“
No problem. Who is that guy?”

“
Got me. His last time in here the same thing happen. Got soused and I run him out.”

He slipped in the key, and its soft raking sound filled the silent hallway. Opening the door with its usual squeak and ticking, he moved through the small foyer toward the murmuring movie voices coming from the living room TV. The still-lit candles were half-gone, the Chardonnay uncorked and one of the two glasses half-full. In the warm, scented room, she slept with her head back on the couch, her small pretty feet on the cocktail table, the short, sheer gown almost covering what it was supposed to.

He sat next to her and used the remote to silence Bogey and Bacall. Quietly pouring himself some wine, he took a long sip, then walked two fingers like a bug up one bare thigh.

Sherie stirred, and the blue eyes opened. “Oh, Frank, you scared me.”

He gave her the smile. “You always say that, and you never sound scared. Besides, you said you like bugs. Most of them are harmless, you said, ‘kinda cute.’”

She stared at the glowing VCR clock. “Yeah, I don’t mind bugs. I just don’t like some guy acting like a bug. One-fifteen, Frank. Where’ve you been?”

“
Working.”

“
What do you mean, working?” She tugged at the hem of the shortie, trying to cover more with it than was ever intended.

“
Working. I had to check out a lead.”

“
Frank, this was supposed to be our night.”

“
I know, sweetheart, I…”

“
First, you cancel dinner. Then you don’t show up until the middle of the night.”

He put his glass down on the table, leaned forward and held the hand that was still tugging. “Calm down. Did you watch tonight?”

“
Of course I watched. TV’s the only time I get to see you these days.”

“
Sherie, cut it out. So you saw the car blow up with the mother and her kids.”

She sighed and shook her head, meaning, yes, unfortunately she had.

“
And you heard the guy with the camcorder?”

“
Yeah, I saw that jerk.”

“
So in the break I ask the jerk if he knows where this guy Peoples hangs out. The guy who just lost his whole family. And he says he saw him once in a bar called Marvin’s. So after the show I went there and found out this whole damn thing is probably drug-related.”

She took her hand from his. “So, really. No shit. I could have told you that without going to the bar. Everything is drug-related. Ninety-five percent of all parking meter violations are drug-related.”

He laughed. Occasionally the girl got off a good one, usually when she was angry. “Speaking of which, did you get my go-gos?”

She leaned back and closed her eyes, as if she were wondering what the hell she was doing with her life. “They’re next to the TV.”

Moving to the wall unit, he picked up the vial, rattled its contents and dropped it in a coat pocket. “So who’s this doc who fills prescriptions without asking questions?”

“
Forget it. You make you own connection, I’ll never see you.” The eyes were still closed.

Back at the couch, he sat even closer. “Baby, you know you drive me crazy.”

“
No, I know you
are
crazy. I have nothing to do with it.”

“
You look especially luscious in this sexy new thing.”

She was still sulking but finally opened her big blues and let him take her in his arms. “I bought it just for you tonight.”

“
Well, I can’t wait to see what it looks like tossed on a chair.”

Kissing her softly, he knew from the way her beautiful head lolled back on his arm that everything would be just fine.

The Sunday morning sun rose in a clear sky over the shimmering lake behind a large Bloomfield Hills home. At a fashionably distressed French farmhouse table, Marci, mid-40s in sweats, her dark blond hair in a clip, gazed at the sparkling water, looking for inspiration through the large picture window in her kitchen. She and 16-year-old Bobby, in jeans, a Nirvana “Nevermind” t-shirt and bare feet, were sharing the Free Press.

Her face still pretty but faded and settled, the woman gave up on inspiration and reached for the MinuteMaid. Bobby was lean and handsome, but his complexion was sallow, and his eyes were hooded at the moment.

“
More juice, honey?”

A silent scowl at a folded-over page.

Still holding the carton: “Bobby, how about more juice?”

The boy finally looked up. “No thanks, Mom. You see Wil Barnes today?”

Marci put the carton down. “Reading Barnes is against my religion.”

“
He’s got another thing in here about Dad.”

“
Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Bobby read aloud: “‘The Sun King was jousting for the honor of his lady fair, or somebody’s lady fair, Friday evening at the posh Black Knight Inn. Channel 5 eminence Frank DeFauw decked a young swain in the Knight’s crowded dining room with a swift and surreptitious blow to the nether regions (a.k.a. a sucker punch to the gut). At the coveted Booth One the young stalwart had found his pretty blond favorite wedged between WTEM-TV’s ‘Frankie Franchise’ and his long-time pal Recorder’s Court Judge William O’Bryan. DeFauw, who has used his fists in more than one barroom encounter over the years, settled the matter quickly while his younger opponent was looking the other way. When asked by Your Intrepid Reporter if that was his usual stratagem in physical encounters, the local Nielsen King would say only,
‘Get away from me, you little (bleep).’”

The boy dropped the paper and stared at his mother.

Marci with a frown: “You had to spoil a perfectly lovely Sunday morning.”

“
Mom, you’d have seen it. One of your friends would have told you about it.”

“
No, I’ve got them trained not to.”

“
Why put up with his shit, Mom? Why not get a divorce? Or maybe an annulment. Ted’s mother got an annulment. She said her husband never had any intention of keeping his vows, and the Pope granted an annulment.”

“
Sweetheart, I don’t care about an annulment. One marriage has been more than enough.”

In a shiny black jogging suit Frank walked into the kitchen. “Well, what’s this? Scheming a palace coup, are we?”

“
Ah, the Sun King,” said Bobby. “Wait’ll you see Wil Barnes this morning.”

Frank got himself coffee. “I saw it in last night’s edition. As usual, the little prick got almost everything wrong.”

“
Like what?” The boy stared boldly at him.

Sitting at the table Frank faced his son. “Like she wasn’t a blond. She was a brunette. And I didn’t sucker punch the kid. I was just too fast for him.”

Bobby was one large smirk.

“
And Barnes never asked me if that was my usual M.O. He made that stuff up.”

“
Dad, you’re so full of shit.”

Marci finally looked up from the paper. “Bobby!”

Frank shook his head. “No, he’s right. I am full of shit sometimes. Besides, it’s good to see this boy show a little spunk for once. How about some golf this afternoon, kid? I’m playing with the Doctors Ross and Katz, and I could use a partner.”

Bobby, on his feet: “No, thanks, I’m busy.”

Annoyed, especially after handing the boy that “bullshit” business, Frank asked, “Busy doing what?”

“
Homework.”

“
Homework! Do your damn homework instead of sitting up there all day in your room, jackin’ off on that damn computer. Then you’d have time for some fun. The world is leaving you behind, Bobby boy.”

Waving at Marci, the kid headed for the door. “Thanks for breakfast, Mom.”

Frank tried to reel him back in. “Number one on the golf team this spring, and you quit. I hate to say I just see a quitter and a loser here.”

Stopping in the doorway, Bobby said, “Yeah, you hate to say. And you say it all the time. Anyway, I didn’t quit. My grades weren’t good enough.”

“
With your brain, it amounts to the same thing. The only way you could fail is on purpose. Out of spite.”

“
Yeah, that’s it. I’m spiting you. Later, Mom.”

She called, “Bobby?” And when he walked off, not answering, she turned to Frank. “Why do you do that? You know what Dr. Fine said about calling him names.”

He kept his angry voice low: “Look, Fine’s had six months to show us something with this boy, and I’ve seen nothing. No improvement whatsoever. I try to reach out to him, ask him to play golf, something we always loved to do together when his brother was alive, and, no thanks, he’d rather sit in his damn room and do nothing.”

She moved to the counter where she put two bran muffins on a plate. “You only ask when it’s convenient. You’ve got your cronies along today, and he doesn’t want to be around them.”

“
No, he just locks me out.”

“
Frank, do you realize…” She set the plate loudly in front of him. “…what it does to that boy to see something like that column in the paper today?”

“
There’s not a damn thing I can do about that. The guy’s an asshole, and he’s going to write what he wants no matter what I do.”

“
But you give him grist for his mill. It’s the way you choose to live, and it’s destructive to the people who are close to you and care about you. I know you think your daughter’s doing just fine, but she’s not. Jennie’s drinking too much and, I think she’s way too adventurous, let’s say, with way too many young men. She’s got real problems, Frank.”

“
Oh, bullshit.” He caught the echo of his son’s earlier response.

“
Your capacity for denial, Frank, is unbelievable.”

“
Yeah, well, it doesn’t help these kids to hear you talk about divorce.”

“
I never talk about it. In front of them.”

“
Well, maybe just annulment.”

She was up from the table. “Bobby brought that up. He’s only trying to protect me.”

“
From what?”

“
From you, Frank. I’m really beginning to think divorce
is
the only answer.”

Trailing an angry exhaust, Marci stalked out. Frank shook his head, picked up a bran muffin, then dropped it back on the plate. With his coffee mug he headed for the kitchen’s back door, open on a large deck.

Walking out, he moved past the expensive outdoor furniture to the far end of the deck. He stared at the quiet, sunny lake. A lone seagull rode the bow of the speedboat moored at their small dock.

Often when feeling down, or maybe in the grasp of something robbing his control, he would craft a small game with fate. So, if the gull stayed in place for at least the next five seconds, everything would be okay. Starting his slow, even count, he got as far as three.

From the bench in his blond-paneled courtroom in the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice came the stern voice of Judge William O’Bryan.

“
And it is the determination of this court that you be sentenced to...”

A TV cameraman rolled on the proceedings from one corner. In front of Judge O’Bryan at the bench were the court reporter, her fingers flashing as she stabbed her machine, and the uniformed bailiff, a lean competent looking man with a large, irregular strawberry birthmark covering the left side of his face. Standing in front of them, the girlish prosecutor and the portly defense attorney, sporting red suspenders, were both looking at the defendant, a well-built young guy with the hint of a smile and his short-sleeves rolled up even shorter to show off the full glory of his extensively tattooed arms.

“
...not less than 12 years,” said the judge, staring hard at the defendant, “and not more than 20 years at the State Department of Corrections facility at Jackson. This court feels strongly...”

Suddenly the defendant leapt forward, lunged past the court reporter and was almost instantly at the judge’s throat. He was screaming, “You motherfuckin’ pig! I’ll rip your fuckin’ head off!”

Moving quickly, the bailiff grabbed the defendant’s ample head of hair and promptly yanked him off the judge. Then with one arm around the defendant’s neck and the other clamping his colorful right arm behind his back, the bailiff restored order.