Motor City Burning (35 page)

“Wasn't you scared?”

“Hell yes I was scared. When we got back to my place Walter called his boss in Washington, Thomas Henderson, told him we'd go back out after curfew was lifted at sunrise. The noise outside went on all night—gunfire, screams, sirens, laughter, breaking glass.”

“You think to keep your lights off?”

He ignored the question. “In the morning I drove Walter downtown to police headquarters for a press conference. The city looked like it'd been bombed, fires still smoldering, glass and rubble everywhere. All I could think was that the race war had finally started.”

“Was you glad like I was?”

“No, I was just numb. Walter spent the day taking pictures—families sitting on their furniture in front of their burnt-out houses, a looter walking down the middle of the street hauling a bass fiddle, some wild stuff. It was starting to get dark when a fire truck passed us on Lawton and Walter told me to follow it, said he wanted to talk to some firemen. I followed it to the fire station at the corner of Lawton and Warren and I stayed in the car while Walter went off to do some interviews. I saw a tank at the end of the street. When a ladder truck pulled out of the firehouse, Walter hopped back in the car and told me to follow it. That's when I heard someone shout, ‘Halt! You in the pink car! Halt!'

“I stopped the car. A Guardsman walked up and I handed him my license and Walter's press credentials. He told us to get out the car. Then he told us to put our hands on the hood and spread our feet. A state trooper walked up and said, ‘They're okay, they're press,' but the Guardsman said, ‘I don't give a fuck who the niggers are.' He patted us down for weapons, then he jabbed me in the shoulder blades with the butt of his rifle and told us to move. I realized he was pushing us toward two lines of firemen. One of them spit in my face and suddenly they were all spitting, kicking us, punching. I ran with my head down, trying to fend off the blows, trying to reach the station house without falling because I was afraid that if I fell down they'd stomp me to death.”

“But I don't understand,” Octavia said. “You had ID and you weren't doin nothin wrong.”

Willie smiled. It was working. “We were put in a small detention room,” he went on, “and we could hear the Guardsmen taunting and beating other guys outside, screaming things like ‘Castrate that coon!' and ‘Beg, nigger, beg!' Every time a Guardsman walked by the room Walter started yelling about his press credentials, but the men told him to shut up or they'd beat him some more.”

“You didn't complain?”

“No, I knew from experience we were past the point where complaining or pleading would do any good. After a while we were all led outside into a paddy wagon. I noticed my Buick was still parked at the curb where I'd left it. On the way downtown some of the men moaned about their injuries, others bragged about the sniping they'd done, the stores they'd looted. When the paddy wagon finally stopped we were led into a large building. I realized it was the back of police headquarters, the building where Walter had attended the press conference. Inside we were photographed, fingerprinted and told to sign a card that said Curfew Violation. Walter and I both refused. We demanded to make a phone call and see a lawyer but the cop with the camera laughed, and we were led downstairs and turned loose in a huge garage. The floor was greasy and there was a single spigot and a rain drain in the corner—our latrine. I found a dry patch of concrete and fell asleep.”

“You was able to sleep in a place like that?”

“I was exhausted and sore. Besides, I've seen worse.” Her eyes widened, and he felt another trill of satisfaction. “When I woke up there was sunshine coming through the caged windows. My back and ribs hurt and I had a wicked headache. Walter came out of nowhere and handed me a bologna sandwich and a cup of water. The sandwich tasted like cardboard and it hurt to chew, but I ate the whole thing and drank all the water. A lot more prisoners had arrived while I was asleep, and the heat and the smell were enough to knock you down. Everyone had been beaten. One guy'd been beaten so bad his left eyeball had popped out of its socket and was dangling by a thread on his cheek. Another guy was having convulsions, twitching on that greasy floor, foaming at the mouth.”

“Where was Walter's boss the whole time?”

“I'm coming to that. I started to doze off again. The last thing I heard was a woman with her left eye swollen shut saying, ‘I ain't looted no store or fired no gun—and the motherfuckers picked me up and done
this
to me. I tell you one damn thing, though, when I get out this hole The Man is gonna pay.'

“Walter woke me up. He said they'd called our names. His boss had arrived from D.C.—”

“Bout damn time.”

“—and they led us upstairs. This dapper dude with a moustache, made me think of Cab Calloway, he's talking low with a plainclothes cop. They're nodding their heads, obviously working something out. When they're finished, the guy with the moustache introduces himself as Thomas Henderson, the editor of
Ebony
magazine. He told us to sign the release forms, then he led us out of the building through the front door. The street was much cooler than the garage. God, that air tasted fine! Thomas Henderson had a rental car and he drove us to the Sheraton Cadillac. In Walter's room I took the longest hottest shower of my life. I couldn't help but remember all those southern towns where I'd walked out of jails and how good that first hot shower felt, how good that first hamburger tasted. When I got out of the shower, Walter was packing and the phone was ringing. Thomas Henderson answered it. ‘It's for you,' he told Walter. ‘Make it quick. We can't miss that plane.'

“Walter took the phone. He didn't say much. When he hung up he said, ‘I can't believe this shit.' I asked him who it was. He said it was the mayor of Detroit calling to apologize personally for what had happened to us. We all just looked at each other, not believing anything anymore.”

“Keep your voice down,” Octavia said again.

“Then Thomas Henderson drove us back to the firehouse. My Buick was still there, not a scratch on it. Walter's camera bag was still on the floor, right where he'd left it. I was afraid to drive home alone, afraid of the checkpoints, so Thomas Henderson and Walter agreed to follow me. Soon as we got to my building, they split for the airport. The building next-door to mine had burned while I was in jail. It was still smoking.”

There was a long silence. When it became apparent he had finished telling his story, Octavia said, “That's it?”

“That's it—my humble experience in a Detroit lock-up.”

“Wasn't you mad?”

“Mad doesn't begin to get it.”

“So what'd you
do
?”

It hit Willie then that his story had not had the intended effect. It had not put her in her place. She wanted to know how he went about exacting his revenge—for it was a given, in her eyes, that any black man who took such treatment lying down was less than a man. But answering Octavia's question was something he simply could not do yet, even if he'd wanted to. He was still missing that one crucial piece of information: what happened, exactly, on the roof of the Larrow Arms.

She couldn't believe he was finished. “You mean to tell me you didn't do
nothin
?”

“Oh, I did something. But that's another story for another time.” He grabbed the check and stood up. He could see his brother standing in the doorway of his apartment, all that blood. He could see Detroit burning down below the edge of the roof. He blinked the memories away and stepped to the cash register.

As they rode back to the city Octavia sang along with the songs Ernie D was playing on the radio, raised her hands above the windshield and let the breeze dance through her fingers. She had already forgotten Willie's story, and he was glad for that.

Ernie D was saying, “It's your ace from inner-space with the swinginest show on the ray-dee-oh. Don't go way cuz I'll be right back, Jack, with another stack of shellac for you and doll-face too. . . .”

Octavia laughed. “You hear that? Man just called me doll-face.”

The familiar Q&A came out of the radio's speaker:

What's the word?

Thunnnnnn-der-bird!

What's the price?

Forty-four twice!

What's the reason?

The grapes are in season!

Who drinks it most?

Us city folks!

That's right, Thunderbird is a delightfully fruity fortified wine. . . .

Willie snapped off the radio. He wasn't in the mood for this happy-go-lucky darkie routine. The day had been an emotional roller-coaster ride, beginning with his high spirits at breakfast, rising with the drive out of town, peaking when he told Octavia about starting his book, then plunging after he finished telling her about the riot and heard disappointment instead of awe in her voice. He felt cheap and foolish. He needed to shut up and get back to work. The world was full of people who talked away their books.

When he pulled up in front of Octavia's building he left the engine running and turned to say goodbye. Before he could speak she had her arms around his neck and she was kissing him. When their teeth clicked together, she giggled. They kissed for a long time there in the open car under the high sun-washed trees.

Finally she pulled away and said, “You wanna come in?”

“I don't think so, baby.”

“You sure?” She cocked her head and smiled. Making it easy for him to reconsider.

“Yeah, I'm sure. I just remembered something and . . . I need to go write it down.”

She reached for the door handle. Her next words sounded more sad than angry. “I'm beginning to think you and me ain't never gonna get it together.”

He had begun to think the same thing. The woman had so much going for her—that body for starters, but also an unfed hunger to know things, to travel, to break out of her small world. He found her hunger attractive, sexy even, and yet he could see that it was unlikely she would ever feed it. There was a gulf between them. He needed to get far away from this place, the only place she had ever known and was ever likely to know. She had a dying daddy to look after, a berth at Motown, a frisky sports car, a nice crib, family and friends all over town—no wonder she was unable to imagine living anywhere but Detroit. But Willie couldn't allow himself to get tied down here. It would be suicide, spiritual and physical suicide. But instead of saying these things to her now, he said something that was as bland as it was true. “Come on, baby, there's no way of knowing how things're gonna play out. This book's important to me.”

She got out of the car then and closed the door, gave him a sad smile before she turned to go. Watching her walk up the sidewalk to her apartment building, he thought back to the day they'd first met, when he'd watched her walk to the restroom in the Seven Seas. That day seemed like half a lifetime ago. She waved to him now from her doorway and blew him a kiss before disappearing into the building.

Willie's phone was ringing when he opened the door to his apartment. He picked up the receiver and found himself listening to the very loud voice of a very drunk man. “Where you been, bruh?” Wes bellowed. “Been tryin to reach you all damn day long.”

“I been out. What up?”

“Just wanted to let you know I's goin back.”

“Back where?”

“Southeast Asia. Gonna take the money and run.”

“Why you going back there?”

“Cause it's gonna take me away from this town. From this whole messed-up country.”

“Did you re-up?”

“Fuck no. Gonna open a restaurant over there with an old Navy buddy. In Saigon, or maybe Bangkok.”

“Where are you now?”

“Oakland.”

“California? Ma said you were on your way to Denver.”

”Got to keep movin, man, keep the pigs guessin.”