your upper lip so close. But I’d have to say in this case it’s pity.”
“Good enough. Let’s go.” I rose.
She smiled the monkey smile. “Let me make a call and climb out of these whites.”
One good thing about the slow retreat of jazz before soul’s groaning, sliding advance in Detroit — the only good thing about it — is you can get into a downtown jazz club in the middle of the week. We had a fifteen-minute wait at the bar of a place on Gratiot, then a hostess in a ruffled blue blouse and a floor-length skirt with peonies on it escorted us to a table across a murky hangar from the stage, where a fat black man in an orange-and-green plaid sportcoat leaned on a saxophone case smoking behind mirrored glasses. We ordered, and when our waitress withdrew with the hem of her skirt slurring the floor we sipped at the drinks we’d brought over with us.
“You’re not satisfied,” Karen said.
“I haven’t tasted the prime rib.”
“No, I mean about Michael. You don’t think he died the way they say?”
“He probably did. It’s the shooting that bothers me. I believe old Stash.”
She laced her fingers under her chin. She wore no rings, or jewelry of any kind. She had on a black shift of some sort with no sleeves and a scoop neck that quit where it started to get interesting. Her hair was pinned up in back. Candlelight from the thick orange cut glass on the table winked in the glossy waves. She watched me and said nothing.
“A gang of witnesses is always suspect,” I said. “They get together and start comparing notes and there’s always one or two that saw something better than all the rest, and then the others get to thinking that what they have isn’t so interesting after all, and by the time the cops show up they’ve all seen the same thing. But the old man didn’t hang around with the rest of the neighbors. He saw what he saw and it didn’t matter to him that none of the others saw it. He just reported it and didn’t try to glitz it up with stuff he thought the cops would like to hear.”
“But he’s senile.”
“Now, maybe. Not then. Maybe not now either. You can be young and stubborn and they call it muleheadedness. When you’re old and stubborn they say you’ve got space to rent upstairs and stick you in a home. I think the old man saw Michael get in before the shooting. Remember that none of the other neighbors saw the boy come home at any time. They would have had no special reason to be looking out their windows until the shotgun blasts drew their attention. The cops just wrote down what Michael said days after the fact. Chances are he was still in shock. You can be for a long time and not show it.”
“Barbara Norton would know that better than anyone,” she said.
“Probably. But she’s as soft as an abutment and I don’t have the six months it would take to wear her down.”
A thought came into her face. She raised her chin from her hands. “You don’t think Michael —”
“No,” I said. “Though it wouldn’t be all that unthinkable. There’s nothing you can dream up that someone hasn’t done, and recently. But the official record’s probably right so far as it goes. Say what you like about them, most cops are reasonably honest and usually right. But thorough they can’t always be, considering their tight budgets and workload. I think Michael saw something that would nail down some of the loosest ends. But he’s fish food in the Pacific and it doesn’t much matter any more.”
The waitress came with our dinner and we didn’t talk again until she’d emptied her tray and gone. Then Karen said, “I’ve never known a private eye before. I thought they were mostly flat-nosed thugs who spend their evenings bouncing people off the walls of alleys. You’re kind of nice.”
“I’ve bounced my share. Tonight you’re looking at my St. Clair Shores face.”
“What’s that?” She picked up her fork.
“Restrained and polite. It’s like my Grosse
“Good enough. Let’s go.” I rose.
She smiled the monkey smile. “Let me make a call and climb out of these whites.”
One good thing about the slow retreat of jazz before soul’s groaning, sliding advance in Detroit — the only good thing about it — is you can get into a downtown jazz club in the middle of the week. We had a fifteen-minute wait at the bar of a place on Gratiot, then a hostess in a ruffled blue blouse and a floor-length skirt with peonies on it escorted us to a table across a murky hangar from the stage, where a fat black man in an orange-and-green plaid sportcoat leaned on a saxophone case smoking behind mirrored glasses. We ordered, and when our waitress withdrew with the hem of her skirt slurring the floor we sipped at the drinks we’d brought over with us.
“You’re not satisfied,” Karen said.
“I haven’t tasted the prime rib.”
“No, I mean about Michael. You don’t think he died the way they say?”
“He probably did. It’s the shooting that bothers me. I believe old Stash.”
She laced her fingers under her chin. She wore no rings, or jewelry of any kind. She had on a black shift of some sort with no sleeves and a scoop neck that quit where it started to get interesting. Her hair was pinned up in back. Candlelight from the thick orange cut glass on the table winked in the glossy waves. She watched me and said nothing.
“A gang of witnesses is always suspect,” I said. “They get together and start comparing notes and there’s always one or two that saw something better than all the rest, and then the others get to thinking that what they have isn’t so interesting after all, and by the time the cops show up they’ve all seen the same thing. But the old man didn’t hang around with the rest of the neighbors. He saw what he saw and it didn’t matter to him that none of the others saw it. He just reported it and didn’t try to glitz it up with stuff he thought the cops would like to hear.”
“But he’s senile.”
“Now, maybe. Not then. Maybe not now either. You can be young and stubborn and they call it muleheadedness. When you’re old and stubborn they say you’ve got space to rent upstairs and stick you in a home. I think the old man saw Michael get in before the shooting. Remember that none of the other neighbors saw the boy come home at any time. They would have had no special reason to be looking out their windows until the shotgun blasts drew their attention. The cops just wrote down what Michael said days after the fact. Chances are he was still in shock. You can be for a long time and not show it.”
“Barbara Norton would know that better than anyone,” she said.
“Probably. But she’s as soft as an abutment and I don’t have the six months it would take to wear her down.”
A thought came into her face. She raised her chin from her hands. “You don’t think Michael —”
“No,” I said. “Though it wouldn’t be all that unthinkable. There’s nothing you can dream up that someone hasn’t done, and recently. But the official record’s probably right so far as it goes. Say what you like about them, most cops are reasonably honest and usually right. But thorough they can’t always be, considering their tight budgets and workload. I think Michael saw something that would nail down some of the loosest ends. But he’s fish food in the Pacific and it doesn’t much matter any more.”
The waitress came with our dinner and we didn’t talk again until she’d emptied her tray and gone. Then Karen said, “I’ve never known a private eye before. I thought they were mostly flat-nosed thugs who spend their evenings bouncing people off the walls of alleys. You’re kind of nice.”
“I’ve bounced my share. Tonight you’re looking at my St. Clair Shores face.”
“What’s that?” She picked up her fork.
“Restrained and polite. It’s like my Grosse
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