SERGEANT ESTHER WAS EATING breakfast at his desk, three frosted bearclaws and a half-pint of milk in a cardboard carton. He was using a target silhouette for a placemat. Dark Shadows howled and creaked on the TV set atop the file cabinet, without an audience. As Canada approached he chewed rapidly and swallowed.
“Our only lead on Dupree’s partner just blew up,” he told the inspector. “Nobody in town’s seen this buddy of his for a week, but turns out he’s been visiting his sister in Alabama since before the try on DiJesus. Alibi checks out. I’m starting to think Brock went outside the Steelhaulers for his trigger.”
“Forget him. Dary still heading up the Detroit bureau of the FBI?”
“No, he retired in January. Burlingame’s in charge now.”
“Get him on the horn.”
“Something? How’d it go with Brock yesterday?”
“Just get him, okay? I’m pulling the plug on Frankie.”
“I thought you wanted him right where he is.”
“I changed my mind. You ever change your mind?”
Esther lifted his receiver.
In his office, Canada went through the mail on his desk, then went through it again to see what was written on the envelopes. He didn’t open any of them. He sat there for a while looking at nothing. Then he made eye contact with the photograph of the young men in jumpsuits hanging on the wall. He got up and went over and lifted it off its nail and leaned it in a corner on one end, back to front. It left a lighter rectangle on the painted wall.
The intercom buzzed. He flipped the switch. “Get him?”
“Not yet.” The sergeant’s voice crackled out of the speaker. “The commissioner just called. He wants to see you in his office.”
“Now?”
“Yesterday.”
Ray Girardin’s office had windows looking out on Greektown and Beaubien, a quiet room insulated by carpeting and soundproofed panels and blinds that Canada always felt gave its occupant as clear and unobstructed a view of the crime situation in Detroit as the bunker had given Hitler of World War II. He respected the commissioner for his thirty years’ experience as a crime reporter for the Detroit Times and had applauded his appointment, but the glare of public office had exposed him as an indifferent administrator and a poor leader; despite an inspired effort to introduce modern methods of law enforcement to a department whose basic structure had remained unchanged since Prohibition, the twelve precincts had deteriorated for want of decisive guidance from 1300 into a feudal state, with each commander operating his fiefdom independent of all the rest.
Girardin was standing in the middle of the office when the inspector entered, and came forward to shake Canada’s hand. He was a slightly built man of sixty-three with thinning gray hair, swollen eyelids, and a face whose bone structure appeared to have disintegrated below the cheekbones, the flesh withering from there down to his oversize collar like a dried stalk. He resembled a cancer-stricken Edward Everett Horton. But his grip was firm.
“How are you, Lew? You don’t look like you’ve been getting enough sleep.”
“I’m fine, Commissioner.” Canada’s response was automatic to a question barely heard. He was looking at the mayor seated behind Girardin’s desk.
“Officially, Jerry’s not here,” the commissioner said. “He’s supposed to be addressing the city council, but it isn’t the first time they’ve been kept waiting. He asked for this meeting because he’s concerned about the racial situation.”
“Racial situation?” Canada didn’t approach the desk. Cavanagh had made no move to rise and offer his hand.
“Twelfth Street.” The mayor looked grim; but then he always did. His round Black Irish face inclining toward jowls, receding dark hair, five o’clock shadow, and gimlet, up-from-under stare lent gravity to his relative youth. This together with his programs to end polarization among Detroit’s black and white population had won him a whopping sixty-nine percent of the vote in his re-election. In Canada’s opinion he had overestimated his political popularity when he decided to challenge former Governor G. Mennen “Soapy” Williams for the Democratic senatorial nomination; but Canada had served on the department through many administrations and had witnessed the ego-distorting qualities of the office at close range.
“We haven’t had any serious problems on Twelfth Street,” Canada said.
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Inspector. You know what I mean when I say Twelfth Street. Shall I call it the Black Bottom, or don’t you go back that far?”
He said nothing. Opposition charges of inexperience during Cavanagh’s first campaign had left the mayor resentful toward anyone with a proven track record. It was one reason why he had gone outside the usual political circles and placed a newspaperman in the office of commissioner.
“I don’t need to tell you how much of my reputation rests on my record in race relations,” Cavanagh went on. “After Vietnam, the American people are most concerned about the Negro situation in urban areas. Nobody wants another Watts.”
Girardin walked across the room and sat on the edge of the leather couch, one elbow resting on his knee, the reporter waiting to jump on the sparkling quote. “You wouldn’t have known that the first day I walked in here,” he said, looking at Canada. “Do you know what Gene Reuter said when I asked to see a copy of the department’s riot plan?”
“‘What riot plan?’” Canada had heard about the exchange between Girardin and the superintendent whenever the subject had turned to race.
“Exactly. Manual of procedure for crowd control was written in nineteen forty-two. It included special provisions for the arrest and detention of persons of Japanese descent. The weaponry was even worse: A few shotguns and twenty-year-old canisters of tear gas stored with the motor oil in the municipal garage. I stayed up all night getting that stuff fixed.”
“You’ve done a fine job, Ray.” Cavanagh hadn’t taken his eyes off the inspector. “In the event of a civil disturbance on the order of what took place last year in Los Angeles, this department is reasonably prepared to restore order. However, I prefer that order be maintained and that we prevent any such disturbance from taking place. What’s the name of this person we discussed?” He looked at Girardin.
“Quincy Springfield. Numbers boss, runs a blind pig on Collingwood.”
“Drugs?”
“Not that I know of. Lew?”
“He’s clean there,” Canada said. “The associate too, Lafayette. Gamblers don’t cross that line very often. If you’re worried about Springfield’s beef with the Orr mob, that’s just street stuff. It isn’t racial.”
“Any Panther involvement?” Cavanagh asked.
“Definitely not. He’s not political.”
Girardin said, “That’s not current. What do you know about somebody calls himself Mahomet?”
“Springfield’s errand boy. We’ve had him here a couple of times. Assault, disturbing the peace. Nickel-and-dime pops.”
“This incident last Tuesday at the front desk, was that nickel and dime?” The commissioner’s tone was unreadable.
“Somebody overreacted. As soon as I heard about it I had everyone released.”
“Did you order Sergeant O’Pronteagh to return an unlicensed firearm to Springfield?”
That son of a bitch O’Pronteagh had made an end run. Now he knew where this was going. “I thought it advisable that we treat the thing as a non-incident.”
“You’re not on trial.” Girardin sounded exactly like a judge. “We’re just collecting facts. You should have reported to me, but we’ll talk about that later. You should know that this Mahomet character has been spending quite a lot of time lately at the headquarters of the Black Afro-American Congress on Kercheval. It’s a blind pig operated by Wilson McCoy. We’ve quite a file on McCoy,” he told Cavanagh. “He was formerly connected with the Black Panthers and we think this BLAC group is a politically sanitized Panther front.”
“It’s news to me. About Mahomet, I mean.” Canada wondered where the commissioner got his information. Was there another secret squad buried somewhere on the force that answered only to Girardin? Mentally he upgraded the department’s epoch from feudal to Borgian.
“In the light of this revelation,” the mayor said, “would you care to re-think your position on whether Springfield’s fight with Patsy Orr is racially motivated?”
“It’s a dangerous assumption, based on the fact that a man works at one blind pig and socializes at another. Your honor.”
“Jerry. We’re in the team locker room now.” The mood lifted slightly. Cavanagh stood and came around the desk and leaned back against it with his arms crossed. Canada admired the way the mayor’s gray flannel jacket didn’t gap or buckle. “Ray tells me you blame outside agitation for the shooting on Cadieux last week. What’s your evidence?”
The inspector was prepared for that question. If he mentioned Albert Brock’s involvement, Cavanagh would jump all over it, maybe even go public to discredit Brock. Fresh politicians didn’t understand the importance of deals. “The car was a neon sign,” Canada said. “Why steal an old Cadillac unless you want to leave the impression Negroes were involved? Also it’s plain they weren’t out to kill this trigger DiJesus or they wouldn’t have missed with two loads of double-O buck. It’s what we call a Boston tea party.”
“Why?”
“Blame it on Indians,” said Girardin, who knew the language. “Who do you suspect?”
“Frankie Orr.”
Cavanagh made a noise of disgust and circled the desk. “He’s been in Sicily since Thuman.”
“He’s back.”
Girardin rose. “Here?”
“Puerto Rico. A place called the Hotel Pinzón. He’s been there at least a month.”
“How long have you known?”
“A little over a week.”
“You’re an independent son of a bitch, aren’t you, Inspector?” The mayor was back to titles. “You’re supposed to report directly to me.”
“Your honor, at the time we found out I didn’t know if it came under the squad’s jurisdiction.”
“You knew about Orr’s connection with the Steelhaulers and Albert Brock.”
“Sir, with respect, I know the men in my squad and I don’t know the people in your office. If it leaked out that Orr was on U.S. soil he might spook and run home and we’d be back to square one. I was planning to report as soon as we knew what he was up to.”
“So now you know. Or think you do.”
“Any way you shake it up it comes down the same: Frankie’s the only one who stands to gain from a policy war.”
Cavanagh stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed down on Greektown. The Grecian Gardens was visible from the window, the first cloud on his administration’s horizon; some of the columnists had begun to hint at a connection to his office. When he turned back, first names were restored. “None of this is evidence, Lew.”
“Evidence is for convictions, your honor. Jerry. I’m saying it doesn’t feel like what it looks like.” It sounded lame. It always did when he discussed gut reactions with people who weren’t cops.
“Unfortunately, the people of Detroit don’t share that feeling,” Cavanagh said. “I can’t afford to. If you’re right, and Orr is stirring up a hornet’s nest for his own ends, the situation remains the same. Ray?”
The commissioner went behind the desk and sat down. He lifted a typewritten sheet off the blotter and held it out. “I think you’ll recognize some of these addresses, Inspector.”
The first one on the list belonged to the Morocco Motor Hotel on Euclid. He knew most of the rest, and as he took them in he knew a mounting horror unlike anything he’d felt since the jump that had placed him in enemy hands in 1944; the sensation, like a cold fist clenching his entrails, of a tragic mistake in the making. “Blind pigs and dope houses,” he said.
Girardin said, “I’m placing Motor Traffic and the Tactical Mobile Unit at your disposal, but don’t call in the commandos unless you need uniformed backup, and for God’s sake don’t order Mounted without notifying me first. The last thing we want to do is look like Cossacks. I want a staggered pattern of raids, Saturday nights mostly between four p.m. and midnight when manpower is at the maximum, but not every Saturday night, so they’ll be kept guessing. Now, that’s not after hours, so there will be no liquor law violations except in cases where there’s no permit to sell. Concentrate on known felons. I don’t care if the arrests don’t hold up, but don’t take anyone in unless he’s in possession of dope or a concealed weapon. These aren’t rousts. And I don’t want the switchboard jammed with complaints about unnecessary force or racial epithets on the part of the arresting officers. Two of those against the same officer is an automatic suspension. Oh, and if you do require backup, ask for black officers. That goes without saying.”
“They’ll riot.”
The commissioner shook his head. “I’ve studied procedure in the Watts disturbance inside out, and most of the tactical errors had to do with misguided attempts to mollify the rioters, such as withdrawing from the scene once the trouble started in hopes the anger would burn itself out. Go in fast, avoid physical contact as much as possible, and get out with your prisoners before the reaction sets in. Make it look routine.”
“We’ll continue the sweep through August,” Cavanagh said. “The strategy is to keep the agitators from settling down and gaining a following through the hot weeks, which is when these things boil over. The Michigan winter is our strongest ally.”
“You don’t understand these people, Mayor. They’ve been dealt off the bottom for a long time and they’re just waking up to the fact that they’re no longer a minority, not on Kercheval and along Twelfth. They don’t need a tent meeting to get up a good mad. Riots aren’t planned.”
“Our sources say different.” Girardin folded his hands on the blotter. “Wilson McCoy and this golden-throated fellow Mahomet have been exhorting anyone who will listen to secure weapons and go to war with whitey. They aren’t singling out the Sicilians.”
“What sources?”
“The usual. Paid informants, addicts busted for possession trying to deal their way out of custody before withdrawal. You know the animal.”
“I know they’re unreliable. They’ll say anything you want to hear for the price of a lid. You have to know how to interrogate them if you’re going to get anything worth using.”
“I think there are others who are as qualified as you,” the commissioner said stiffly. “I’m giving you this detail because of your experience and because you’ve been in on the situation from Day One. You can turn it down, but I can’t think of anyone better equipped to handle the O’Pronteaghs in the ranks.”
Suddenly Canada wanted out of that cotton-wrapped room. It was beginning to remind him of the nursing home where his Uncle Herman sat day after day with only his clear blue eyes moving in the withered skull; a place where dead men waited for the waiting to end.
He folded the sheet of paper and put it in his inside breast pocket. “When do you want me to start?”
“This coming Saturday, unless you need more time. You’re the driver.” Girardin grasped his hand. “Thanks, Lew. My first editor at the Times told me a great editor was one who could claim he had one reporter he could count on. That goes for police chiefs and cops. I’m a great police chief.”
Cavanagh gave him the single-pump politician’s handshake. “Good luck.” Humming, he turned back to the window. Canada was out of the room before he recognized the tune as the mayor’s favorite, “The Quest,” from The Man of LaMancha: “To dream the impossible dream …” Rumor said he planned to use it in his presidential campaign.
On his way from the elevator to the seventh floor squad room, the inspector stopped at the vending machine in the hall and invested thirty-five cents in a pack of Camels. From April 1961 to last week, when he had watched them bag up Curtis Dupree’s decomposing remains at Detroit Metropolitan Airport, he hadn’t smoked so much as one cigarette. Since then he had gone through a carton.