Read Online Motown by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online

missed supper. Breakfast’s coming.”
    “How do you know? You got a watch?”
    “No, I can hear the trays.”
    Silence again.
    “You a preacher?” Quincy asked.
    “I’m a singer.”
    “No shit, where? Church?”
    “Used to. Guess I will again. I cut twelve sides for Berry Gordy, but he didn’t renew my contract. He said my English was too good.”
    “Whyn’t you do something about it?”.
    “Tried. Can’t. I’ve got a BA from Wayne State and I can’t shake it.”
    “So you bust windows in restaurants.”
    The other man turned his better eye Quincy’s way. “Where’d you study psychology?”
    “Twelfth Street.”
    A big deputy came down the hall and stopped in front of Quincy’s cell. He wasn’t carrying a tray. “Springfield?”
    “Where’d he go if I ain’t him?”
    The deputy unlocked the door and opened it. “You get your phone call now.”
    In the corridor between the cells, Quincy asked the man with the swollen face what he called himself.
    “Mahomet.”

Chapter 8
    T HERE WAS NO TELEPHONE.
    The room the deputy took him to and left him in was twice the size of Quincy’s cell, with two laminated tables surrounded by vinyl chairs and three machines against the wall selling coffee, sandwiches, and cigarettes. Copies of Argosy, True, and last week’s Life littered the tables. The inspector from yesterday stood by the cigarette machine. He had on the same black suit without even a rumor of lint and a red tie on a white shirt. He placed a quarter against the slot in the machine. “What brand?”
    “Don’t smoke,” Quincy said.
    The inspector made a noise in the back of his throat and pocketed the coin. “Me too. Have a seat.”
    “Cop said I was getting my phone call.”
    “I can save you a dime. They kicked your friend Lafayette out of Receiving yesterday. All he had were splinters in his wrist and hand, from where the shotgun blast hit the bar. Thirty minutes in and out. He’ll be writing down numbers left-handed for a day or so, but he’s fine.”
    “You could be lying.”
    “It’s a fair bet. I lie a little every day. You can call and find out for yourself after you leave here.” He waved a hand. “This is the guards’ lounge, like it?”
    “Beats where I been.”
    “You ought to try a bamboo stockade on Rabaul.”
    “Where’s that, downriver?”
    “It was in New Guinea. Still is, probably. I don’t plan to go back and check. Battery acid?” The inspector slotted a dime into the coffee machine.
    “Yeah, okay.” In the cells it was milk; Quincy had decided the county didn’t want its inmates staying awake. He slid out a chair and sat down. The slippery seat felt good. He’d memorized all the slats in his cot.
    He wondered about Rabaul.
    The other man bought coffee for himself too and carried the waxed cups over to the table and set them down. Before sitting he unbuttoned his coat and tugged up the knees of his trousers. Quincy could count his pores, man was that clean. He made Quincy, who hadn’t shaved since day before yesterday, feel even grubbier.
    “My name’s Canada. I apologize for Sergeant Esther. The department dumped him on me six weeks ago and I don’t like him any better than you do. But he does his job.”
    “Done one on me.”
    “You were begging for it. I’m talking about that racist shit. This department’s in enough trouble without it.”
    “That’s what I heard.” In January, a gambling raid on the Grecian Gardens restaurant a block from 1300 had turned up a “Christmas list” of recorded payoffs to high-ranking police officials to ignore gambling in the Greektown area. A number of the officials named had since announced early retirement.
    “Scandals come and go like buses,” Canada said. “The population of Detroit is better than forty percent black. If we don’t improve relations with the Negro community we could have another Watts on our hands. I told Esther if he mouths off like that again I’ll get his fat butt