Goins said. ‘But
us? My boy couldn’t get no job, no one’d touch him. Blind prejudice, see. So he set up this gang, the Delta Mavi in your language;
the Delta Blues in ours. It all buying, selling, jacking up heroin. Kids do that when they ain’t got no future.’
It happened all over the world. Both İkmen and Süleyman had seen it or things like it before. One of the reasons why İkmen
was so bitter about his lost son Bekir was because the boy hadn’t had to get involved with drugs; he had had a future.
‘But Miller and his boys was running drugs too,’ Goins said. ‘My son got in the way. I know he did. The Delta Blues took some
of Miller’s business. Elvis was shot in the head over Brush Park at point-blank range. Miller done it! I know it was him!’
‘Zeke, you can’t go around making accusations.’ Gerald Diaz’s voice cut across what the old man had been saying with a firm
rebuke. ‘There’s no evidence to connect Grant T. to drug-running of any kind. If Miller finds out, he will—’
‘Miller taunts me with it himself!’ Zeke Goins said, his eyes beginning to water with the cold and his misery. ‘If I go up
there to the Windmill, he’s always hanging outta his window, laughing at me, telling me how his boys took my son away from
me!’
‘Don’t go up to Brush Park! There was never any evidence to connect Miller to either narcotic supply or Elvis’s death,’ Diaz
said.‘And anyway, Zeke, you shouldn’t be bothering our guests from overseas with that.’
‘Oh, it really is quite all right . . .’ İkmen began.
‘No it isn’t,’ Gerald Diaz said. He looked at the two officers. ‘Zeke has a belief that because you’re both Turks, like he
believes he is, you can help him.’
‘They can!’
‘No they can’t,’ Diaz said. ‘They have no jurisdiction here, Zeke. They don’t know the city, the case, anything. It was a
long time ago; I was only a rookie when it happened myself!’ He put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and began to lead him
away. ‘But I remember it, and the lack of any solution still gets me. I’m not saying that you have to forget, that you must
move on or any shit like that. But Zeke, you gotta work with what you got, and that’s Martha and her family, the food garden
and Samuel. That’s a lot.’
The old man stopped, frowned, and then looked back at the Turks before he said, ‘You think so?’ His voice was bitter and broken,
and as he spoke, he threw what remained of the sandwich he had brought from Martha’s fridge on the ground. ‘How’d you like
it if someone had killed your child and was never brought to justice? How’d you like it to know that that person is out there,
every day, free?’
İkmen turned away. The old man had been speaking directly to him, he felt, and in that moment, he just couldn’t take it. His
own son had been killed and he knew exactly who had done it, and why, yet still it hurt like an open wound inside.
Chapter 6
The food was familiar and comforting, and Tayyar Bekdil, Süleyman’s cousin, was a very convivial host. Reflecting what Lieutenant
Shalhoub had told İkmen and Süleyman, he said, ‘There’s a big Lebanese population in Detroit, mostly out at a suburb called
Hamtramck. Cafés and restaurants with names like the Cedars and Beirut all over that area. It’s easy to get foodstuffs. Tahini,
köfte, börek, baklava, you name it.’
Çetin İkmen put another square of baklava into his mouth and savoured both the sweetness of the dessert and the warm comfort
of Tayyar’s massive home. For a man who lived alone, a four-bedroom house with a double garage seemed, to İkmen, excessive.
But then apparently, if one was just reasonably well off, that was the American way. Property prices compared to Turkey, and
particularly when measured against western Europe, were cheap. And that especially applied to Detroit.
‘This place would probably sell for around three
us? My boy couldn’t get no job, no one’d touch him. Blind prejudice, see. So he set up this gang, the Delta Mavi in your language;
the Delta Blues in ours. It all buying, selling, jacking up heroin. Kids do that when they ain’t got no future.’
It happened all over the world. Both İkmen and Süleyman had seen it or things like it before. One of the reasons why İkmen
was so bitter about his lost son Bekir was because the boy hadn’t had to get involved with drugs; he had had a future.
‘But Miller and his boys was running drugs too,’ Goins said. ‘My son got in the way. I know he did. The Delta Blues took some
of Miller’s business. Elvis was shot in the head over Brush Park at point-blank range. Miller done it! I know it was him!’
‘Zeke, you can’t go around making accusations.’ Gerald Diaz’s voice cut across what the old man had been saying with a firm
rebuke. ‘There’s no evidence to connect Grant T. to drug-running of any kind. If Miller finds out, he will—’
‘Miller taunts me with it himself!’ Zeke Goins said, his eyes beginning to water with the cold and his misery. ‘If I go up
there to the Windmill, he’s always hanging outta his window, laughing at me, telling me how his boys took my son away from
me!’
‘Don’t go up to Brush Park! There was never any evidence to connect Miller to either narcotic supply or Elvis’s death,’ Diaz
said.‘And anyway, Zeke, you shouldn’t be bothering our guests from overseas with that.’
‘Oh, it really is quite all right . . .’ İkmen began.
‘No it isn’t,’ Gerald Diaz said. He looked at the two officers. ‘Zeke has a belief that because you’re both Turks, like he
believes he is, you can help him.’
‘They can!’
‘No they can’t,’ Diaz said. ‘They have no jurisdiction here, Zeke. They don’t know the city, the case, anything. It was a
long time ago; I was only a rookie when it happened myself!’ He put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and began to lead him
away. ‘But I remember it, and the lack of any solution still gets me. I’m not saying that you have to forget, that you must
move on or any shit like that. But Zeke, you gotta work with what you got, and that’s Martha and her family, the food garden
and Samuel. That’s a lot.’
The old man stopped, frowned, and then looked back at the Turks before he said, ‘You think so?’ His voice was bitter and broken,
and as he spoke, he threw what remained of the sandwich he had brought from Martha’s fridge on the ground. ‘How’d you like
it if someone had killed your child and was never brought to justice? How’d you like it to know that that person is out there,
every day, free?’
İkmen turned away. The old man had been speaking directly to him, he felt, and in that moment, he just couldn’t take it. His
own son had been killed and he knew exactly who had done it, and why, yet still it hurt like an open wound inside.
Chapter 6
The food was familiar and comforting, and Tayyar Bekdil, Süleyman’s cousin, was a very convivial host. Reflecting what Lieutenant
Shalhoub had told İkmen and Süleyman, he said, ‘There’s a big Lebanese population in Detroit, mostly out at a suburb called
Hamtramck. Cafés and restaurants with names like the Cedars and Beirut all over that area. It’s easy to get foodstuffs. Tahini,
köfte, börek, baklava, you name it.’
Çetin İkmen put another square of baklava into his mouth and savoured both the sweetness of the dessert and the warm comfort
of Tayyar’s massive home. For a man who lived alone, a four-bedroom house with a double garage seemed, to İkmen, excessive.
But then apparently, if one was just reasonably well off, that was the American way. Property prices compared to Turkey, and
particularly when measured against western Europe, were cheap. And that especially applied to Detroit.
‘This place would probably sell for around three
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