Motor City Burning (25 page)

“No, I come here for two reasons. Because I do think the frescoes are beautiful, and because I never want to forget what the Henry Fords of this world do to men like my father, the way they get rich by grinding human beings into dust. The prettiest art in the world can't hide that fact.”

“I'm no head shrinker, but it sounds to me like you're as mad at Rivera as you are at Henry Ford.”

He chuckled. “I never thought of it that way, but I guess I do blame Rivera. Henry was just doing what industrialists do—the same way fish swim and birds fly. I'm inclined to give the devil his due. The man was an anti-Semite and a crank, but he was also a genius and at least he was pure about being evil. But Rivera—what a fraud.”

“Did you know he was all gung-ho for the Mexican revolution—but he was nowhere near Mexico while it was happening. He was in Paris.”

“I didn't know that, but I'm not surprised.”

“Know how much he got paid for this job?”

“Five grand?”

“Try twenty. A small fortune in 1932.”

“Where'd the money come from?”

“Edsel Ford's bottomless pockets.” She pointed at a little man in a suit and tie in the bottom right corner of the large mural on the south wall. “That's Edsel, Henry's son. When the murals were unveiled to the public in '33, a lot of people in Detroit thought they should be white-washed—they thought the nudes were pornographic and the vaccination panels were sacrilegious. But old Edsel stood his ground, and the murals survived. And look at that small panel just below Edsel. It shows Rouge workers getting paid from the company's armored truck and crossing the Miller Road overpass to the employee parking lots. That's the famous overpass where Walter Reuther and his union organizers wound up getting stomped by Harry Bennett's goons in '38.”

“The Battle of the Overpass. My father was working there when it happened. He said the union guys had it coming. He actually bought the company line that the organizers were a bunch of Jews and Commies. He thought Harry Bennett was a great man, and of course he thought old Henry walked on water.”

“Who turned you on to this place?”

“My mother brought my brother and me here every chance she got. She loved it all—the medieval armor, the Morris Louis paintings, these frescoes.”

“Was your mother an artist?”

“No, she was a housewife with a high school education who loved to cook and loved beautiful things. But she wasn't a snob. Much as she loved Rivera, she worshiped Frank Sinatra. Her favorite thing in the world was cooking while listening to Old Blue Eyes. Her name was Dolores—her maiden name was Carbucci—and when Sinatra would sing
I was made to serenade Dolores, serenade her chorus after chorus
, my mother would squeal, ‘Listen, Frankie, he's singing about me!'” Doyle smiled at the memory. “You want to hear a little secret?”

“Absolutely.”

“You may not believe this, but my mother actually named me after Sinatra. My full name's Francis Albert, same as his.”

“Did your father come here a lot too?”

“Yeah, he used to spend hours in here on Saturday afternoons, just staring at these walls. He said the frescoes made him feel like what he did during the week was worthwhile, gave his work dignity. The poor deluded bastard. He actually bought the bill of goods Ford and Rivera were selling.”

“Well, at least these frescoes made his life more bearable. That's something.” Like father, like son, she was thinking.

“Yeah, I suppose so. Whatever gets you through the day.”

They lapsed back into silence. After a while she said, “First Chopin, now Diego Rivera and Frank Sinatra. What's the next surprise, Francis Albert Doyle?”

“Why shouldn't I know a few things about music and art? Like I said before, I hate all the assumptions people make about each other—cops can't love art, artists can't commit crimes, black guys can't be brain surgeons, white guys can't play basketball.”

“Can you?”

“Can I what?”

“Play basketball?”

“Once upon a time. I led the city in rebounding my junior year.”

“What about your senior year?”

“I blew out my left knee during the Catholic Central game—along with my shot at a scholarship to Michigan. I can predict rain now better than the weatherman on Channel 7.”

“Anybody can do that.”

They laughed. Then she tugged him to his feet and said, “Come on, let's go outside and get some fresh air.”

They sat on the museum's white marble steps and looked across Woodward at the Public Library, its mass and elegance, another monumental building that had always made Doyle proud to be a Detroiter. He put his arm around her shoulder and they watched the traffic flowing up and down Woodward, watched the sun sink toward the library. There was no need to talk.

A big red convertible sailed past, three black guys in it with the radio blasting, sending music trailing in its wake like smoke:
Sittin here restin my bones—and this loneliness won't leave me alone . . .

“Looks like fun,” Doyle said.

“What looks like fun?”

“Riding around on a sunny afternoon in a convertible listening to Otis Redding.”

“I'm having fun sitting here listening to you.”

“Yeah, same here. This is nice.”

“I loved hearing your stories about your mother and father coming here, and your job at Chevy Gear & Axle, and how your father died. I wish you'd been open like that last night.”

“Last night?”

“When you started to tell me about that lady in Alabama, on the way to my place. Beulah something.”

“Jesus Christ. I told you about Beulah Bledsoe?”

“You started to—you said she was making you hate yourself. When I asked why, you clammed up. It reminded me of that night when we were at the Drome and you saw that guy from work, that detective, in the men's room. Boy, when you shut down you really shut down. You let me in so close and then, I don't know, you just slam the door in my face. And then all of a sudden you're so far away. Detached, like. I gotta tell you, it's awful.”

“Detachment's what keeps homicide cops alive. What am I supposed to do? Come in at three in the morning and tell you how pathetic those two stiffs looked in that lake of blood outside the Driftwood Lounge? No, it's better to keep the two worlds separate. My partner's always telling me there's no way around it and there never will be.”

“You believe him?”

“I'm afraid I do.”

She knew it was unwise, but she said, “So who's this Beulah Bledsoe?”

“You don't want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well I don't want to talk about her.”

“Why not? You sure wanted to talk about her last night.”

“That was John Jameson talking.”

“In vino veritas.”

“I've never believed that shit.”

“I've always believed it.”

“Well, I can't tell you about Beulah Bledsoe.”

“How come?”

“Because she's part of an ongoing investigation. I'm not allowed to talk about her. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it works.”

It sounded like a canned defense, but she didn't press him. “I'm sorry, Frank. I shouldn't pry. . . .”

“You don't got to apologize. I should apologize for getting drunk and running my mouth. What a lightweight. I appreciate your interest, Cecelia, I really do. It's just that I can't talk about cases I'm working on.”

“I understand.”

“Believe me, I'd love nothing better than to be able to talk to you about some of the things I see every day.” Saying the words made him realize how much he valued his late-night talks with his father. He couldn't imagine life without them.

She rested her head on his shoulder and they went back to watching the traffic. When the sun came to rest on the roof of the library, she said, “I promise I won't ask you about work anymore. But if you ever need to talk about it, you just go ahead and talk.” Then she took his chin between her thumb and forefinger and kissed him, her tongue skating along his lips. The world went away for both of them then, and by the time it came back the sun had disappeared behind the library and the museum was closed and they were all alone on the cooling white marble steps.

They made love in her bed, beginning in the soft, washed-out light of dusk and continuing as the moon came up out of the river and filled the room with hard white light and wine-colored shadows. His tongue was on fire. It traveled over every inch of her, along the creases behind her ears, over the bumps of her vertebrae, across the hot patches behind her knees, up between her legs. Sweat and frenzy followed by cooling and calm, then building right back up, again and again.

She awoke at dawn with her jaw welded to the crook of her elbow. It was like emerging from the deepest sea. There was a note on the other pillow:
Had to go to work. Thanks for
THE
most wonderful day—and night. I'll call later.

She felt goose bumps race across her skin, then she was diving back into that deep, deep sea.

17

W
ILLIE WAS BRIEFLY BLINDED WHEN HE STEPPED FROM THE SUNSHINE
into the chilled gloom of the Seven Seas. He put a hand on Louis's shoulder and followed him through the smoke and noise to the bar.

She was sitting on a barstool in a blue dress that looked like it was spray-painted on her. Clyde had an arm around her bare shoulders, and every man in the place was checking her out. The women were too, but in a different kind of way.

“Alabama!” Clyde cried. “Come on over here and say hello to Octavia Jackson.” He turned to the woman. “Shug, you know Du. And this here's Willie Bledsoe from Alabama, cat I been telling you bout, the big civil rights hero. He warrior stock.” Clyde turned toward Willie. “Octavia works for Mr. Berry Gordy.”

Willie was flustered, as much by Clyde's introduction as by the woman. She had enormous almond eyes that looked vaguely Asian and skin the color of coffee with a lot of cream. Her hair was shiny and straight, what he called blow hair because the wind could blow right through it. It brushed her shoulders, and the curtain of bangs was chopped at her eyebrows. He couldn't say for sure if she was black or Hispanic or Asian or some exotic hybrid. She was drinking orange juice through a straw. Her lips were thin and bright red.

“Pleasure to meet you, Octavia,” Willie said, shaking her hand, her warm and soft hand. His face was burning. He could see that she was laughing softly at his discomfort, with no malice, just a gentle laugh from a woman who was at home in her body, at home in this noisy room, at home in the presence of all these admiring men and envious women.

“Pleasure's mine,” she said, “meeting a man who do what you do.”

“What I do?” He looked for help to Clyde, who was beaming like a proud daddy seeing his son off to the senior prom with the prettiest girl in the class. Willie said, “What's this noise about warrior stock, Clyde?”

“Don't gotta be modest, Alabama. I know all about the shit you done. That bus you was on got fire-bombed. That day you got your mouth busted open at the Montgomery bus station by that cracker hit you with a Co-Cola box.”

“How'd you hear about that?”

“Read about it in the Michigan
Chronicle
while I was doing research for a case I'm preparing. They had a picture of you in Montgomery, bloodier'n a stuck pig, next to that white boy got his teeth knocked out.”

“You just gettin off work, Willie?” Octavia said. All eyes swung back to her. She was slightly buck-toothed, and Willie found this imperfection even more attractive than her obvious assets.

“Work? No, we were at the ball—”

“But them clothes. Looks like you been fixin cars. Or choppin cotton.”

“Oh!” He looked down at his overalls and brogans. “This is—these are—what we use to wear in Mississippi. . . .”

She patted the empty barstool next to hers. “Sit down and tell me all bout Mississippi. I ain't never been to Mississippi.”

Louis and Clyde took this as their cue and drifted to the back of the place to shoot a rack of pool. After ordering a beer for himself and a fresh orange juice for Octavia, Willie said, “So what do you do at Motown? You a singer?”

“Lord no!” She laughed, like the idea was ridiculous. “I'm just a lowly receptionist. Don't try to change the subject. Tell me bout them clothes.”

He explained the evolution of the Snick uniform. She had never heard of Snick, she confessed, but she had a way of asking questions that set him at ease, made him open up. He found himself telling her about the Freedom Rides, all those bus stations in Rock Hill, Atlanta, Birmingham, Montgomery, Jackson. What it was like to be trapped inside a burning bus. What it was like to live in a cage at Parchman Farm.

A bunch of brothers at the far end of the bar started singing along with the new James Brown song on the jukebox:
“Say it loud—
I
'
M BLACK AND I
'
M PROUD
!”

Willie didn't know what to say next. He had never told these stories to anyone but his mother and Aunt Nezzie. Other than Blythe Murphy, whose motives proved to be shamelessly transparent, Octavia was the first person in Detroit who'd shown the slightest interest in what he'd been through down South. Everyone up here was too busy making it to care what had happened in Jim Crow country. Everyone except this woman with the unblinking almond eyes.

Willie's eagerness to talk made him wonder if he'd been waiting to find a stranger, the right stranger, to tell his stories to, someone who would simply listen without pegging him for a hero or a fool. Maybe, without even realizing he was looking, he had found his perfect stranger. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Since he didn't have a snowball's chance with such a fine woman, maybe he was thinking he might as well lay it all on her.