The Car Bomb (The detroit im dying Trilogy, Book 1) (9 page)

“
Twenty dollar gold piece.”

“
Com’on, Blanche, the Franchise has a headache here!”

“
Okay, it’ll cost you a penny.”

“
Gonna take you a while to get rich.”

He inserted a penny, pulled the lever and retrieved a tablet. As he slipped another penny in the slot, a nearby office door opened, and to Frank’s mouth-dropping shock, out walked Wil Barnes, followed by News Director Jack Johanson.

A large, mustachioed man, who towered over the tiny Barnes as they shook hands, Johanson said, “Wil, thanks for coming by. Give me a call if you need anything.”

“
Thanks, Jack, I sure will.”

A few feet away but unnoticed by these two, Frank finally found his voice: “Jesus H. Fucking Christ, Jack, I can’t believe you’d actually touch this slimy hack.”

Johanson turned and without great success tried to smile. “Now, Frank, behave yourself.”

Frank turned to Barnes. “Who the fuck let you in this building?” And then back to Johanson: “What are we doing here, handing him a knife to carve us up?”

Johanson stopped trying to smile. “Frank, just calm down.”

“
You calm down, you idiot! We don’t give anything to this fucking midget piece of shit.”

Wil Barnes was moving for a door leading out of the newsroom. “I’ll be going, folks. Thanks again.”

“
Get the fuck outta here before I shove you up your own asshole.”

Smiling as he headed out the door, Barnes said, “See ya, Frank. Give my best to Sherie.”

Frank started after him. “You little cunt...”

Johanson grabbed Frank in a bear hug before he could move more than a step. “Hold on, Frank. He’s not worth it.”

Frank screamed, “Leave her alone, Barnes, or I swear to God, I’ll cut off your fuckin’ balls.”

Everybody in the newsroom was up watching, some actually standing on chairs to get a better view, as Johanson continued to hug his franchise.

In well-worn boxers the black man was again sitting on his bare mattress and watching Frank on his ancient, small-screened TV. He was listening intently to the anchor’s well-modulated delivery.

“
Police still refuse to say if Anthony Peoples is a suspect in the car bombing two weeks ago which took the lives of his wife and two children. But Channel 5 has learned that six months ago Peoples was charged with first degree murder in the shooting death of a security guard during the armed robbery of a party store on the Detroit’s westside.”

When a mug shot photo of Anthony Peoples appeared full-screen, the man fingered a small video cassette next to him on the mattress.

“
The charge against Peoples was later dropped because of what the Wayne County Prosecutor’s office called a lack of sufficient evidence. But police are investigating Peoples’ apparent underworld connections. His cousin, Richard ‘Pretty Rick’ Mahone, was reputed to be one of this area’s major narcotics importers. Mahone, who was said to prefer one of his other nicknames, ‘Maserati Rick,’ was murdered two months ago in what police described as a mob-style execution. Police have been looking for Peoples ever since a bomb planted in his car outside his westside home killed his wife and two children. Peoples was not believed to have been at home when the blast occurred. But he hasn’t been seen since, and police understandably have a few questions for him.”

Frank’s delivery upped its intensity. “We at Channel 5 have offered to help Mr. Peoples safely reach the law enforcement agency of his choice and to tell his side of the story. Again, Mr. Peoples, if you’re watching...”

In the hot, grubby little room the mattress was now empty. Frank was still speaking from the screen in fluttery black and white.

“
...please give me a call here at the station, and I will personally meet with you at the time and place of your choosing.”

On opposite corners of this bombed-out city intersection were a dirty, littered, sad excuse for a park and a crumbling, abandoned apartment building with the glass smashed in nearly every window of its four floors.

Two groups of black males occupied the corners: one in their 40s and 50s in the park, lounging on broken benches or perched on crates, passing something in small paper bags; the other in their mid-teens in front of the apartment hulk, serving the drive-up trade at curbside.

On a third corner the man who had been watching Frank so closely, now in wrap-around sunglasses, jeans and a Hank Aaron “755” t-shirt, walked to a phone booth, reached in and lifted the receiver.

In the WTEM control room, the newscast continued. On the line monitor Mary Scott was saying, “...and in just a moment Don Allard talks to the mother of that 14-month-old girl who was killed by a stray bullet that crashed through her living room window last month.”

With a small flourish of his left hand the director said, “And black.”

At a console next to the director, Dennis Clark pushed a button and leaned toward a mike. “Good work guys, right on the money.” In front of Dennis a phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Control Room.” Dennis paused and shook his head. “Ah, sir, he’s on the air right now in the middle of a newscast.”

In the studio during the break Frank and Mary were shuffling through their scripts. Frank said, “Hey, Mare, you ever tried this Ice stuff, smokeable speed? I hear it’s great for PMS.”

“
Shove it, Frank.”

Dennis’s amplified voice filled the studio. “Frank, a guy on the phone says he’s Anthony Peoples.”

Dropping his script, Frank said, “Put him through.”

Dennis: “You’ve got less than forty seconds.”

The phone buzzed under the desk, and Frank picked it up. “Hi, this is Frank DeFauw.” He paused, pulled a pen from his suit coat, turned his script over and wrote on the back. “Okay, I’ll be there by 7:30.”

On the street corner the man in the sunglasses still held the receiver.

“
One other thing, man. I’ll know if you’re bein’ followed. So make sure you’re not. Or the trip’ll be for nothin’.”

When he hung up, his eye caught something scribbled with a black marker on the plastic window of the booth next to the phone.

detroit im dyin

only come here on a dare

detroit im dyin

dont you even fuckin care

He had seen this someplace else. Spray-painted on the wall of a school off Cass Avenue. So some wanna-be poet was loose on these desperate streets, or maybe others were copying it here and there.

Whatever, the words were lodged with an ache at the base of his stomach.

Moving out of the booth, he swept his gaze from the enterprising youngsters on one corner to the broken down bench brigade on the other.

Then he walked away, wondering how long he could keep hiding in plain site in this god-forsaken city.

With maybe two hours of daylight left, the sun low and in his eyes, he slipped on his shades and drove the Viper quickly through light traffic. Checking the rear-view mirror he noted a black Taurus a block and a half back. He made two right turns. The Taurus was still back there.

Thirteen minutes later the Viper pulled up at the covered side entrance to the Westin Hotel in the huge multi-building Renaissance Center complex on the river. As he slid out of the car, a valet guy was on him quickly.

“
Frank, how are you this evening?”

“
Hey, good. I’ll be awhile.”

“
Very good, sir.”

Heading for the entrance, he glanced about 40 yards up the street and found the Taurus stopped at the curb.

Once inside he kept the shades in place and walked with pace through the lobby past a huge floral arrangement on a marble-topped table. As ususal it was quiet in this cavernous place, and drawing none of the usual greetings and stares, he turned down a circular corridor lined with a few shops and eating places and, moving quickly now, headed for another, larger lobby off an entrance on another side of the complex.

When he emerged from the riverside entrance, he promptly flagged a passing cab. Sitting low in the backseat, he slipped a furtive look at the empty entrance as the taxi pulled away, and the cabbie asked where to.

The sun was still up in the west over the city. From this roof-top corner of a three-story building, there was a clear view of both streets converging to form an intersection below. Little or no traffic moved in this mostly abandoned industrial area. Finally a taxi was headed this way, moving up one of the streets that fronted this building. A car followed the cab but then turned off on a cross street.

From inside the cab Frank took a close look at what used to be a small factory. From the rotting plywood covering the windows and the crumbling masonry, it appeared nothing had been produced here in many years. The cabbie stopped in front and said, “You sure you got the right address?”

Frank got out. “Just keep it running, buddy, and wait here.”

From the rooftop corner, the black man in the wrap-arounds watched Frank stand next to the cab, glance up and down the empty street and move to the entrance.

To Frank’s surprise the battered old door opened easily. The hallway inside was dark and decrepit and filled with a stench so bad he could hardly breathe. Maybe dead animals, he thought. Moving cautiously through, he found a stairwell and headed up. A grimy window on a landing above provided just enough light for him to see the dirty, littered steps. As he climbed he began to feel it in his knees and resolved to get back to the Stairmaster.

At the top of the last flight, he pushed on a door, and it creaked open only with considerable effort. Stepping out into the light on a flat, tarred roof full of cracks and holes, he found no one in sight.

Then from behind the door, a black man appeared and removed his wrap-arounds.

“
Didn’t think you’d come.”

Frank turned to face him, and the two stared at each other.

“
You don’t look much like your mug shot, but Mr. Peoples, I presume.”

“
I’m not lookin’ like my driver’s license neither.” He held his license next to his face. “But yeah, that’s me.”

Frank looked closely first at the license and then at the face, now covered with a heavy beard and framed with budding dreadlocks. “Okay, yeah, so you’re Anthony.”

“
Were you followed?”

“
Yeah, but I lost ‘em. Why would I be followed?”

“
You don’t know these people.”

“
What people?”

“
People blew up my family.”

Frank shook his head. “I can’t imagine how you’re dealing with that, Anthony. So who did it and why?”

Anthony Peoples gazed hard at Frank before answering. “Look, you gotta understand some things first.”

“
I’m all ears.”

“
The first thing is I had nothin’ to do with that robbery at the party store and shootin’ that security guard.”

“
Right.”

“
No, this is for real, man. I’m in there that night to buy some beer, and this guy that did the deal walks in. There’s just this one Arab girl behind the counter, and she knew me from the neighborhood. The guy pulls a gun, she gets all scared and confused. And when the shootin’ started with the guard, I hit the floor, then split and just run home. She tells the cops I was with the guy. And the guy, tryin’ to get hisself a plea deal, says, yeah, I was the look out.”

“
But you’re saying you had nothing to do with it at all.”

“
Swear to God, man.”

“
Okay. So what’s this about your cousin being ‘Pretty Rick’?"

"Rick was my cousin. I grew up with him. But the last five, six years I had nothin’ to do with him. Still, when I got charged, he went the bail and hired me his attorney. Big time guy named Dworkin.”

“
Sam.”

“
Yeah, so he says he can get my case to this judge, and he’ll toss it if I give him fifty grand.”

“
Judge Billy O’Bryan?”

“
How’d you know?”

“
I looked it up. But, hold on, you had fifty grand?”

“
No, man, not even close.”

“
So why the hell would they think you could come up with it?”

The black man shrugged. “Probably figured I could get it easy from Rick.”

Frank shook his head. “I have to tell you, Anthony, this is not making a hell of lot of sense.”

“
It’s the truth, man.”

“
Okay, so what happened next?”

“
So next I went to Gant.”

Frank was incredulous. “Prentis Gant, the prosecutor?”

“
Yeah, my wife Nita said, ‘You are nothin’ but innocent. You go to the prosecutor and tell him about this. And so I did.”

“
And Gant said what?”

“
And Gant says he’s been tryin’ to get something on these guys for a long time. So we end up gettin’ it all on video tape with Dworkin and the judge.”

“
Wait, wait, so you got a pay-off with these guys on tape?”

“
Yeah, but before Gant could do anything, they found out about it. Must be somebody in his office. And they squeezed Gant to drop it.”

“
Squeezed how?”

“
I don’t know, but Gant’s wife is Mexican. Half her family’s here, maybe illegally.”

Frank nodded and stared off for a few seconds before saying, “Okay, so what about the bomb?”

“
So Gant called me before it happened. He said it’d be good to get my family out of town. Said I had to meet with him that night and to bring the tape.”

“
You had the tape?”

“
Copy of it, yeah. That was the deal I had with Gant. I thought havin’ a copy of the tape would be protection. But I was gettin’ that tape when the car blew up. Nita, she didn’t know nothin’ about this. Gant said I couldn’t tell nobody about it, even my wife, so I didn’t want her seein’ me get the tape. So I said take the kids out and start the car.”