The Car Bomb (The detroit im dying Trilogy, Book 1) Read online

  Also By T.V. LoCicero

  NOVELS

  The Obsession (The Truth Beauty Trilogy, Book 1)

  The Disappearance (The Truth Beauty Trilogy, Book 2)

  Admission of Guilt (The detroit im dyin Trilogy, Book 2)

  NON-FICTION BOOKS

  Murder in the Synagogue

  Squelched: The Suppression of Murder in the Synagogue

  STORIES

  A Round with J.C.

  Fixed

  Shrunk

  The Jungle Plant

  The Visit

  MEMOIRS/ESSAYS

  Selling the Bison

  The Lessons of Sport

  T. V. LoCicero

  THE CAR BOMB

  T.V. LoCicero has been writing both fiction and non-fiction across five decades. He's the author of the true crime books Murder in the Synagogue (Prentice-Hall), on the assassination of Rabbi Morris Adler, and Squelched: The Suppression of Murder in the Synagogue. His novels include The Car Bomb and Admission of Guilt, the first two books in The detroit im dyin Trilogy, and The Obsession and The Disappearance, the first two in The Truth Beauty Trilogy. Seven of his shorter works are now available as ebooks. These are among the stories and essays he has published in various periodicals, including Commentary, Ms. and The University Review, and in the hard-cover collections Best Magazine Articles, The Norton Reader and The Third Coast.

  THE CAR BOMB

  By T. V. LoCicero

  The detroit im dyin Trilogy

  Book 1

  The Car Bomb

  by T. V. LoCicero

  Copyright 2013 by T. V. LoCicero

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information on this and other works by T.V. LoCicero please visit:

  www.tvlocicero.com

  For Patrick

  Table of Contents

  Also By T.V. LoCicero

  About The Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Inscription

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Other Books

  An excerpt from Book 2 of The detroit im dyin Trilogy: Admission of Guilt

  detroit im dyin

  only come here on a dare

  detroit im dyin

  dont you even fuckin care

  --Detroit Street Grafitti, early 1990s

  Chapter 1

  On a clear, bright, early evening in May, 1992, in a westside Detroit neighborhood lined with weathered ‘50s colonials, squat, swarthy Arnold Russo, his eye to the Panasonic’s viewfinder, backed off a low slab porch onto his neatly kept front lawn. Out of the front door came a teenaged couple, Jeff in a white tux and pink ruffled shirt, Jill in a Portofino blue prom dress with spaghetti straps that kept falling.

  Arnold said, “Okay, natural now! Walk to the right.”

  Holding hands, the couple moved off the porch to their right.

  “No, no, to the right, for chrissake!” Arnold dipped the camera from his eye to function as an exasperated director, then remembered he was his own camera operator.

  Jill whined, “We did go right, Daddy.”

  Arnold barked, “Jesus, high school graduates!”

  “Daddy, you’re swearing on the tape!”

  Arlene, tall and bony thin, and Mikey, a ten-year-old version of Arnold, came out on the porch. The wife rolled her eyes. “Oh, right, Mister Hollywood.”

  “Yeah, someday you’ll thank me.” Arnold shot the couple posing now on the cracked driveway. “Jesus, do somethin’. It’s movin’ pictures.”

  Jill again with the whine: “Mom, tell him to stop.”

  Arnold said, “Mikey, get in there and do something with your sister.”

  Off the porch, Mikey ran to the couple and tried to stand on his head.

  Jill stamped her foot. “Mom!”

  “Arnold, this is getting ridiculous.”

  Behind the teen couple, two doors up the street, a young black woman emerged from a house with two small children. They headed for an old maroon Dodge on the street.

  Noticing her neighbors, the woman stopped and called, “Oh, let me see, honey. Twirl that pretty dress.”

  Pleased, Jill did a spin. “Hi, Mrs. Peoples. Hi, kids.”

  Her mom on the porch and Juanita Peoples exchanged waves. Arnold kept the camcorder rolling.

  Juanita said, “Beautiful, honey. We’re in a rush, or I’d get my camera too.”

  A last wave and she hustled her little boy and girl into their car seats in the Dodge and slipped behind the wheel. Arnold was still shooting the teen couple with the Peoples’ car behind them.

  Juanita turned the ignition, and with a huge percussion that Arnold felt in the chest, the Dodge became a fireball.

  “Oh, Jesus, God!” He flinched yet kept the
camera in front of his eye as a kind of shield from the furious orange flames. Jill uttered a high-pitched scream, but it was nearly lost in the roar of the raging fire. Jeff held her tightly in his arms as they both turned away, and Arlene grabbed little Mikey and yanked him back toward the house.

  Thick black smoke was billowing now from the burning wreckage and heading up. As it reached the top branches of the giant Dutch Elms lining the street, a breeze began moving it off above this rustbelt metropolis going about its business, oblivious to what Arnold had just recorded.

  Within 10 minutes, the leading wisp of smoke was high above a red Viper convertible moving in the same direction.

  Chapter 2

  At the wheel of this “Buy American” roadster was Frank DeFauw, 48, tanned, sandy-haired, and dressed expensively in a navy suit and Caribbean blue tie. Frank knew his face showed more than a little mileage, although that young gal with the local monthly wrote last week that it still owned a “charismatic edge.” A glance at it in the rear view mirror told him again that she was sweet. And full of shit.

  From the Viper’s dash came a well-modulated radio voice belonging to a fellow he had shared drinks with 10 years ago in New York when he was thinking of taking the job at WNBC.

  “In the wake of that deadly riot in Los Angeles, four men have been arrested in the beating of truck driver Reginald Denny. And supporters of Texas billionaire Ross Perot say they’ve filed 200,000 signatures to place Perot on the Texas presidential ballot. And that’s Newsbreak for this hour.”

  Frank tapped a button on the radio and Eric Clapton suddenly sang with his lilting guitar, “You Look Wonderful Tonight.”

  Chapter 3

  At the Black Knight Inn he watched the valet boys running at the dinner hour. Three cars were queued in front of the Viper as he listened to Clapton finish and give way to a spot for McDonald’s. This he ended abruptly by punching the AM radio button and giving voice to an excited young news reporter who had fawned on him recently at a banquet:

  “I’m live at the scene of an apparent car-bombing that happened just minutes ago on Eliot Street on the city’s westside. Police are already on the scene...”

  Frank moved up to the restaurant’s overhang. A kid in a polo shirt with the Black Knight logo and the name “Andy” scripted below snapped open the driver’s side door.

  “Hey, good evening, Mr. D. How...”

  Frank raised his left hand off the wheel just high enough to shut the kid up.

  “According to one neighbor, a woman and her two children were in the car when it exploded.”

  Frank put his hand down on the wheel. “Andy, you know where Eliot Street is? This side of town?”

  “No, I sure don’t, Mr. D.”

  Frank grabbed a phone off the dash and punched in a number. “Just one second, Andy.” The kid nodded, and Frank said into the phone, “Neil, you got this car bombing on the westside?” After a pause: “Okay, good. I’ll check in later.” He got out of the car. “Andy, I’ll want the top up.”

  “You got it, Mr. D.”

  With a lithe step Frank moved to the restaurant door. The Black Knight’s foyer was jammed tonight. He stepped slowly through the crowd with an occasional “Excuse me" and “Thanks so much." In his wake he left murmurs of surprise and whispers of his name. A man asked how he was doing. Frank glanced just long enough to be sure he didn’t know the guy. “Great. How about you?”

  When Rosie, the petite 50-year-old hostess with a streaked hairdo, spotted him heading her way, she ignored the people talking to her and moved her huge smile directly to him. “Frank, you look beautiful, as usual.” With a hug and a kiss on the cheek, she slipped a proud, possessive arm around his waist and moved him through her patrons less privileged.

  “How you doin’, doll? Lookin’ pretty fine yourself.”

  “Ah, Frank, flattery will get you anything I’ve got.”

  Leaving the foyer, Rosie led him past a long, dark-paneled bar. Halfway down, two heads were in a conspiratorial bow. They came up as Frank approached. One belonged to a small, slight man he despised as the town’s leading gossip, the other to a pudgy, well-known defense lawyer in a pinstriped suit with a red bow tie and suspenders. Frank hoped to slide by them unnoticed, but “Wee Willie” Barnes turned on his stool. “Hey, Frank, how they hangin’?”

  Frank stopped. “I wouldn’t know, Wilbur. I haven’t been reading your column.”

  Barnes deflected the venom with two innocent palms up. “Hey, big guy, I haven’t laid a glove on you lately.”

  Frank in a quiet voice: “You little prick, if you didn’t have me to write about, that rag you work for would shit-can your ass in a heartbeat.”

  On the next stool, Sam Dworkin, the flamboyant criminal mouthpiece, flashed an obscene grin. “Frank, you got this little guy all wrong. He was just saying how much he loves and admires your work.”

  “Letting him suck your fat cock, counselor?”

  Frank rejoined Rosie and her big smile. She was already holding a Scotch. “Your usual libation?”

  Frank took it. “Great. Sorry about that, Rosie.”

  “Oh, you know Wil’s problem.” She leaned close as they walked together and held up a hand with the thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

  Frank’s laugh was raucous. “Rosie, you’re bad.”

  Chapter 4

  When Rosie delivered Frank to the prized Booth One with a commanding view of the room, trim, athletic Judge William O’Bryan had eyes only for his seatmate, a curvy blond in a low-cut blouse.

  Rosie interrupted, “I think you two boys know each other?” The judge reluctantly tore his gaze away.

  Frank shook his hand. “Ah, your highness, and who’s this lovely creature?” She was already dipping low to get up, further revealing a red lacy item and much of its contents.

  “Frank, this is Kim. Kim, Frank DeFauw.”

  Kim took Frank’s hand in both of hers. “Oh, I’m a big fan.”

  Frank brought her right hand to his lips. “How nice, darling. You have taste.”

  Kim giggled with a curtsey. “Why thank you, kind sir.”

  The judge put a hand firmly on her rump. “Frank, Kim’s gotta run. She’s late for her class in quantum physics.”

  Frank raised an eyebrow at the blond. “In grad school, are you, Kim?”

  Another giggle. “Oh, you know Billy. He’s a big kidder.”

  Frank nodded. “Oh, yes, I know Billy. Nice meeting you, Kim.”

  She smiled at Frank and winked at the judge. “Call me later?”

  “Of course,” said the judge.

  Both men watched as she walked off. Then Frank sat in the booth. “Tell me something. When she’s coming, does she call you ‘Billy,’ or do you insist on ‘your honor’?”

  “Frankie, this is strictly Platonic.”

  “Billy, where do you find these bonbons?”

  The twinkle in his old pal’s eye told Frank the judge loved this exchange. “Man, with your cameras in my courtroom, I have to beat them off with a stick.”

  “Must be the black robe. Like those coeds so nuts about the good fathers back in high school, they wanted to give ‘em all blowjobs.”

  The judge nodded with a self-satisfied look on his sharp features. “So what’s in the news?”

  Frank took a swig from the Scotch. “Same old shit. Coming here, though, I caught something about a car bombing.”

  “Really? Who the hell uses car bombs any more?”

  “Those crazy Chaldeans. Except this wasn’t a Chaldean neighborhood. Westside, they said, maybe not that far from here, actually. I almost left you here to cover it.”

  The judge’s creased brow was serious. “Anybody hurt?”

  “A woman and two kids were in the car.”

  “Jesus!” William O’Bryan shook his head, then drained the last of his drink. He waved two fingers at the bartender.

  “Yeah, probably a mistake.”

  “I guess.”

  “Yeah,�
� said Frank, “I almost got the old urge. Sometimes I think I was happier 20 years ago, when I was doin’ what that radio kid does, runnin’ all over town covering breaking stuff, getting it before anybody else. A big bloody rush, and I was pretty good at it.”

  Frank knew what was coming now. Despite all the mockery and kidding, their long history dictated a brief but heartfelt reassurance on correct life choices.

  The judge on cue: “Well, you’re pretty good at what you do now, and you’re a lot richer and more famous. By the way, nice wrap on the Bill Hart conviction last week.”

  “Oh, thanks. Yeah, Christ, old Chief Hart salting away taxpayer millions while his narco guys have to go into their own pockets for 50 bucks to pay their snitches.”

  “God, the corruption is rampant in this town. And Coleman still calls him a good man and a good cop.”

  “Yes, our mayor is nothing if not loyal to his pals.”

  As usual, the silence that followed lasted no more than a second or two before the judge opened a new subject. “So, the book, how’s that coming?”

  “It’s coming. I think I’ve talked to half the Belgians in this town. I’m up early most mornings writing, unless I was prowling the night before. So how about you? What’s new? I mean beside Kim. Any scuttlebutt?”

  “Well, let’s see. Oh, I hear our crusading county prosecutor is about to resign.”

  This interested Frank. “Gant? Why would he do that? He’s only been in there a year.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe problems at home.”

  A waiter brought two more drinks and was followed by a pretty young woman with fine black hair and green eyes. She was holding a pen and a slip of paper. With a nervous smile: “Frank, I hope I’m not bothering you. I just had to ask for your autograph.”

  In a quick, gallant move, Frank was up from the booth and took the young woman’s soft, warm hand. “No bother at all, darling. And your name is?”

  “Patty O’Conner? I’m just one of your biggest fans.”

  “Well, Patty, sit here for a minute next to Judge William O’Bryan. Better known to his friends as Honorable Billy.” Frank ushered her into the booth between the judge and himself.

  Smiling at the judge, Patty sat and said, “Well, I told Larry this would only take a sec. He thinks it’s for my mother. But it’s really for myself.”