The Car Bomb (The detroit im dying Trilogy, Book 1) (13 page)

It had been the last trip the once “best cousins” had ever taken together, and afterward each had begun to find his own way.

For Rick, strictly “Pretty Rick” back then, and strictly small-time, dealing junk and the occasional whore on Detroit’s near westside, the break had come when the girl from Cleveland had hooked him up with her half-sister who just happened to be running an outfit supplying half the stuff in that old Pingree Street neighborhood. The half-sister had been looking for some smart muscle, “heady pop” she had called it, and Rick, despite his slight build and effeminate style, had heady pop to spare. Within a year he had his first Maserati, a four-year-old BiTurbo coupe. And two years and three Maseratis later, with the half-sister suffering an advanced case of AIDS, he had been running the show.

Actually, the show had turned out to be a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Monelli clan. And for a time, with his love of Italian cars and the Monellis’ need for efficient street operations, “Maserati Rick” Mahone had thought it was a marriage made in heaven. Eventually, like everything else in this world, that had changed.

As for Anthony, with Nita’s prodding, pleading and homework help, he had managed to get through a year and a half at Wayne County Community College. A job as an investigator with the city’s water department had followed, dealing with residents’ complaints. Actually he had enjoyed the work and for a time thought he might have a future with the department. There had been posts in the upper echelon he felt he could qualify for eventually, perhaps with a little more college.

He and Nita had married and started a family; they had bought a small home on the city’s southwest side and had generally lived on his salary while putting most of hers from the bank in a saving’s account and a couple of conservative mutual funds. Life had seemed good. Certainly he had no regrets about leaving Rick to his risked-filled career.

Then the city had hit a particularly rough patch, and layoffs in the water departments had sent him home without a job. By then, with Damon three and a half and Sara 16 months, Anthony and Nita had agreed that, rather than taking just any job, he should stay home with the kids, save on child care, take some night classes and wait for the right opportunity.

In the ensuing years, Anthony and Rick had seen each other only occasionally, usually at some family function. A wedding, a funeral, the big annual summer picnic always on Belle Isle, the city’s major park in the middle of the Detroit River. But the meetings had become much less frequent, and their last time together had been at Anthony’s sister’s wedding, a year before Anthony’s trouble with the law. By then Rick had been on his sixth Maserati, and despite each man’s effort to keep his demeanor casual, there had been an uncomfortable stiffness about their attempts at conversation.

The fact that many in the family at this happy affair had been fawning on Rick hadn’t helped. But several months later when Anthony had been charged with murder, Rick neither hesitated nor asked. He had simply ordered Sam Dworkin to call his cousin and announce he was taking on the case.

And while Nita had been certain it would be much wiser for Anthony to find his own lawyer, this had been another of those rare moments when Anthony had known that to be his own man, he would have to defy his wife.

Anthony’s big sister Vanessa, who worked for the postal service, married a man originally from Kashmir. It was a whirlwind romance, four weeks and they were married. He said he was a doctor with a practice in Cleveland, but when the newlyweds arrived there, it turned out the man was actually a failing second-year med student at Case Western Reserve. Even so, Vanessa, who had transfered to a job at Cleveland’s main post office, bought a bungalow for them in the Glenville neighborhood near the lake. Five months later she came home one day to find all her husband’s clothes and belongings gone.

“
So how you settlin’ in?” she asked Anthony as he sampled her spicy gumbo, one of his favorites. Sitting at a small kitchen table, she watched her baby brother give a half-nod with a low, pleasant moan.

She had told him he was welcome to stay in her spare bedroom as long as he liked. But after a week now, he could not bring himself to say the truth: he had no intention of staying. He was reasonably sure the local cops, the ones who had checked out Vanessa that first week he went missing, wouldn’t be back soon, but she was putting herself at risk by taking him in. He had sworn he would never again jeopardize anyone else he loved. So he said only that he felt very comfortable, thanks to her, and he would be eternally grateful.

“
Anthony, I’m your sister for godsake. Why didn’t you come to me in the first place?”

“
Ness, I told you, cause I was feelin’ safer hidin’ in broad daylight in the middle of a city I know better’n any place else. And there was also a guy that helped me. You knew him back in the day. DeShawn gave me a little loan, and then he was leavin’ for a trip to see his family, drivin’ down to Baton Rouge. I gave him some plastic, my bankcard and a Visa, asked him to get me some cash on the way down and use the Visa for some things when he got there.”

“
You wanted them thinkin’ you left for down there. Good, Anthony.”

He shook his head. “Ness, you don’t know these people I’m dealing with and what they’re capable of. I didn’t want to bring all that to you. Still don’t.”

Vanessa eyed him silently for a moment. Then she spoke softly. “I haven’t asked you what happened that day. I wanted you to know I believe in you without question. I know it must be too painful to even hold in your mind. But if you ever feel like you want to, or can, I hope you will talk to me about it.”

He said after a moment, “I can talk about it.”

She looked down at her gumbo. “Okay, so first, tell me what happened to Rick. I mean I read the stories in the paper you sent me. But what really happened? You pick up anything from his friends, or on the street?”

“
I picked up a little on the street, and I know this one boy was really tight with him. I was also going to night school with this other guy who’s a cop, so I heard some things. Turns out our little Rick was about to be makin’ a big score. I mean real big. Somehow or other—I heard it was through some spic dude he got to knowin’ in L.A.—he was about to make his own direct connect with some Mexican pipeline. And this made these big Eye-talian dudes very pissed off. Word on the street was they got him.”

Vanessa shook her head. “But Ricky was nothin’ but smart. He musta known they’d be after him. Why would he let them even get close?”

“
Ness, when they want to do you, they got their ways, man. Anyhow, this courtesy car driving the freeway at two in the morning come up on this big Maserati—Quadroporte, I think—parked on the shoulder on I-75. They stop and the car’s still running, and Rick’s behind the wheel with his head back against the headrest. Like he just stopped and pulled over and takin’ a nap. ‘Cept there’s this little hole just above his nose. And later they find this other one just behind his ear.”

“
You go to the funeral?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Was it bad like they said in the paper?”

“
Pretty bad. Like Nita said, they coulda fed half the city with what they dropped on it. This big, custom-made casket made outta parts from that first Maserati he owned. Bumpers in the front and back, wheels, part of the engine and inside a steering wheel and part of the dashboard. He’s lying there like he’s sleepin’ behind the wheel, just like when they found him on the freeway.

“
I spent the whole time in front of the casket not thinking about when we were eight and we’d walk to grandma’s house and get eggnog after school, and how he stood up for me, even though he was so much smaller than me, when these older dudes tried to shake me down. I just kept trying to see where the bullet holes were.”

“
Sad.”

“
Way sad.”

Silent for a while, Vanessa finally said, “So, Anthony, tell what happened with the bomb. If you feel like you can.”

He said, “Well, but look, okay, when I was hidin’ back there, I talked to Gant on the phone, just like a week before they popped him. And I only know what he told me, true or not.”

“
Which was?”

“
Which was somehow they found out about the tape and stuff. He figured somebody in his office sang. And he was bein’ squeezed to drop the whole thing.”

“
Yes.”

“
But back then I didn’t know none of this.”

“
Right.”

“
So that morning I get this call from Gant sayin’ there’s this big change in the case, and he needs me to come in right away and with the tape.”

“
Your copy.”

“
Yeah, my copy. But I say, ‘Well, but I told you I’m goin’ today to Chi-town with Nita and the kids to her sister’s.’ And he says, flat out, ‘No, you’re not doin’ that! You have Nita take the kids and go. Be better for them out of town anyways. And you come on down here to my office at the courthouse at 7 pm. You got no choice.’

“
So we’re plannin’ to take the Caravan, but that damn piece-a-shit been stallin’ so much I took it in to the shop that morning. They say it need a fuel pump, and they can’t get one ‘til Monday, so they need to keep it. Nita says, ‘It’s okay, you take us to the Amtrak, and we’ll take the train. Be the first time for the kids. They’ll love it.’ So that’s the plan. I’ll drive ‘em to the Amtrak in my car, and then I’ll meet with Gant.

“
But Nita don’t know ‘bout the tape. She just know if the prosecutor say, ‘Jump,’ I gotta jump. So we’re runnin’ late. I already got the suitcase in the Dodge, and I tell her to take the kids out there and get it started, and I’ll be right there. I’m gettin’ the tape where I have it stashed behind the furnace in the basement. And I hear the bomb. And feel it. It shook stuff all over the basement. By the time I’m upstairs lookin’ out the window, Nita and the babies...”

He stopped. After a few seconds he opened his mouth, but he couldn’t speak.

Vanessa covered his hand with hers and said in a whisper, “Baby, don’t.”

Glancing at his sister, he saw tears rolling on her cheeks. He looked away and said, “ I ain’t gonna cry. I cried enough. Some way they gonna pay.”

“
Nice ball, Billy.” Frank watched the judge’s drive tail a bit before bounding on the bright green fairway and finally roll to a stop on the right edge about 240 out. Picking up his tee, the judge made a little move with his hips that Frank knew was meant to ward off a slice. Having played together since high school, they knew each other’s game almost as well as their own. O’Bryan climbed into the cart, and they headed down this lush fairway at beautiful Oakland Hills.

The site of major championships over the years and the area’s premier private club, it’s $25,000 annual membership fee had been part of Frank’s last two contracts with WTEM.

With his ball up the left side about ten yards beyond the judge, they rolled up to Billy’s ball first, and Frank wondered how long it had been since he’d seen his best friend.

Was Billy really his best friend? If not, then who? That racket ball game had been over a month ago now, and they had talked only briefly on the phone since.

Chit-chat over the first few holes had covered the easy stuff—kids and family items. The judge had been out of town for two weeks. As usual he and Gloria had opened their lakefront home up north for the summer. Gloria, 19-year-old Cindy and little Missy would spend much of the season up there. Billy and 22-year-old Martin, who was interning at a large firm in the city before heading off to law school at Michigan, would commute often on the weekends.

Billy hit a 7-iron over the green on the right, and Frank said nothing as he drove them back across the fairway to his ball. At 50 bucks a hole, this game was just as competitive as their racket ball. As he pulled out his 8-iron, he said, “Well, you left it wide open for me, your honor.”

“
Just testing your nerve.”

Frank hit it on line but barely made the front of the green, leaving himself a long uphill putt. He could already hear Billy saying “Never up, never in,” but the judge changed the subject.

“
So, Frankie, what were you really doing that night visiting Prentis Gant?”

He had been waiting for this. “Just what I said I was doing, what I told the cops and everybody else on the news. Were you watching?”

“
Oh, yeah, but I mean beyond the stuff about asking him why he resigned. We both know you didn’t go to his place at midnight just to ask about that.”

Frank had two baits ready to toss. “Hey, I got a real scoop outta that visit. Before he was murdered, Gant told me he’d been pressured to step down.”

With a side glance to catch Billy’s response to this double cast, he wondered which bait his friend would rise to first.

“
Pressured, eh. Pressured how, and why didn’t you report that?”

Frank stopped the cart near the green, got out and pulled his putter. “Hey, I never tell everything I know. In any case, he didn’t say. He just said he’d been forced to step down and that he couldn’t talk about it. Yet. He said he was working on things, and there would come a time when he would talk about it. Of course, now that time will never come.”

Frank had a fifty footer and the judge a long downhill chip and run. As he walked up to his ball, Billy said, “And you said ‘murdered.’ Everything I hear out of the prosecutor’s office says suicide.”

“
My theory is murder.”

“
Your theory.”

“
Right. As I told the cops, from what I saw that night, he was not a man on the verge of ending it all.”

“
Maybe you freaked him enough to push him over the edge.”

“
Oh, he was freaked all right, but not by me.”