of his own Deuce and a Quarter, all his problems would be solved.
He told himself these things so many times that by the time he fell asleep on his bunk in the Quarters, well past midnight, he had actually come to believe they were true.
4
A S SOON AS D OYLE OPENED THE DOOR TO THE BASEMENT GARAGE, the smell hit him. It was a layered, physical thing, the smell of ammonia and lye and disinfectant and their failure to conquer the far more powerful smells of human shit and piss and sweat and rage that had stewed in that garage since last July, when it was pressed into service as an impromptu holding tank for hundreds of people whoâd been arrested on charges of curfew violation and looting and arson and were waiting their turn to stand before an over-worked, short-fused Recorderâs Court judge and learn that their bail was up there in fantasy land, in the neighborhood of ten grand. Doyle guessed the stench would linger in this garage forever.
He climbed into a Plymouth and headed north on Woodward. It amused him that these cars were considered âunmarked.â With their cheap hubcaps, long radio antennas and identical chocolate paintjobs, they might as well have had bullâs-eyes on the doors. Couldnât the brass at least spring for a few different shades of paint, maybe a Chevy or a Ford every once in a while just to keep the bad guys guessing?
He took Woodward instead of the Lodge Freeway because he preferred surface streets. For one thing, you were less likely to get a brick dropped through your windshield by some prankster whoâd cut a hole in the cage on an overpass. For another, you were more likely to pick up on new strains of street life.
As he passed the Fox Theatre he saw that another Motown Revue was coming. His eye caught a few names on the marqueeâMartha & the Vandellas, the Miracles, Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. âThe Sound of Young Americaâ sounded like fun, but he knew it wasnât available to him. He was much closer to his thirties than his teens, and he wasnât about to pretend he didnât know it. Besides, he preferred jazz.
When he crossed over the Ford Freeway, the atmosphere changed. It wasnât anything on the street; it was something in his stomach, a sudden tightness. Instead of turning left on Grand Boulevard and going straight to the Harlan House, he kept heading north, guided by the tightness in his stomach. He knew where it came from: It came from the neon sign and his need to see it. And suddenly there it was up ahead, on the left side of the street, waiting to remind him of so many bad things. The palm tree with its green neon fronds, unlit at this time of day, topped the familiar metal rectangle. What he saw next came as too much of a shock to be a relief.
Theyâd changed the name.
What had once been the Algiers Motel was now the Desert Inn. Theyâd changed the name but they hadnât bothered to take down the sign and get rid of that fucking neon palm tree. The place was a blot on the entire police force, on the city itself.
Doyle slowed the Plymouth as he passed. There were a few black guys drinking out of paper bags in the parking lot beyond the swimming pool, out by the annex building. That was the killing floor. That was where cops killed unarmed civilians in cold blood. He was so mesmerized he almost missed âherââthe six-foot Negro with the copper wig and the hot pink mini-skirt and high heels who was hip-swiveling along the sidewalk in front of the motel, dangling a big white purse and checking each car as it passed. Christ, Doyle thought, now theyâve got trannies doing the hooking up hereâin broad daylight.
He turned left onto Boston, a boulevard of fading but still-grand mansions. The grandest of them all was off to his right, a three-story palace roosting on a green carpet that was being groomed by black men riding a fleet of little tractors. Country living right here in the heart of the
He told himself these things so many times that by the time he fell asleep on his bunk in the Quarters, well past midnight, he had actually come to believe they were true.
4
A S SOON AS D OYLE OPENED THE DOOR TO THE BASEMENT GARAGE, the smell hit him. It was a layered, physical thing, the smell of ammonia and lye and disinfectant and their failure to conquer the far more powerful smells of human shit and piss and sweat and rage that had stewed in that garage since last July, when it was pressed into service as an impromptu holding tank for hundreds of people whoâd been arrested on charges of curfew violation and looting and arson and were waiting their turn to stand before an over-worked, short-fused Recorderâs Court judge and learn that their bail was up there in fantasy land, in the neighborhood of ten grand. Doyle guessed the stench would linger in this garage forever.
He climbed into a Plymouth and headed north on Woodward. It amused him that these cars were considered âunmarked.â With their cheap hubcaps, long radio antennas and identical chocolate paintjobs, they might as well have had bullâs-eyes on the doors. Couldnât the brass at least spring for a few different shades of paint, maybe a Chevy or a Ford every once in a while just to keep the bad guys guessing?
He took Woodward instead of the Lodge Freeway because he preferred surface streets. For one thing, you were less likely to get a brick dropped through your windshield by some prankster whoâd cut a hole in the cage on an overpass. For another, you were more likely to pick up on new strains of street life.
As he passed the Fox Theatre he saw that another Motown Revue was coming. His eye caught a few names on the marqueeâMartha & the Vandellas, the Miracles, Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. âThe Sound of Young Americaâ sounded like fun, but he knew it wasnât available to him. He was much closer to his thirties than his teens, and he wasnât about to pretend he didnât know it. Besides, he preferred jazz.
When he crossed over the Ford Freeway, the atmosphere changed. It wasnât anything on the street; it was something in his stomach, a sudden tightness. Instead of turning left on Grand Boulevard and going straight to the Harlan House, he kept heading north, guided by the tightness in his stomach. He knew where it came from: It came from the neon sign and his need to see it. And suddenly there it was up ahead, on the left side of the street, waiting to remind him of so many bad things. The palm tree with its green neon fronds, unlit at this time of day, topped the familiar metal rectangle. What he saw next came as too much of a shock to be a relief.
Theyâd changed the name.
What had once been the Algiers Motel was now the Desert Inn. Theyâd changed the name but they hadnât bothered to take down the sign and get rid of that fucking neon palm tree. The place was a blot on the entire police force, on the city itself.
Doyle slowed the Plymouth as he passed. There were a few black guys drinking out of paper bags in the parking lot beyond the swimming pool, out by the annex building. That was the killing floor. That was where cops killed unarmed civilians in cold blood. He was so mesmerized he almost missed âherââthe six-foot Negro with the copper wig and the hot pink mini-skirt and high heels who was hip-swiveling along the sidewalk in front of the motel, dangling a big white purse and checking each car as it passed. Christ, Doyle thought, now theyâve got trannies doing the hooking up hereâin broad daylight.
He turned left onto Boston, a boulevard of fading but still-grand mansions. The grandest of them all was off to his right, a three-story palace roosting on a green carpet that was being groomed by black men riding a fleet of little tractors. Country living right here in the heart of the
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