Marked for Murder

12

“Sunday, sweet Sunday, with nothing to do. . .”Alonzo Tully was humming the tune from “Flower Drum Song.” It expressed his sentiments perfectly. Today happened to be that rare Sunday when no duty called and he was determined to do nothing. But in order to fully appreciate doing nothing, one could not spend the day in bed.

So, Tully had wakened at seven and cautiously slipped out of bed, careful not to rouse Alice. She had been quite explicit in the past about not wishing to share his early-bird habit.

He had retrieved the Sunday News and Free Press from the front porch, brought them into the kitchen, brewed some coffee, made some toast, and settled himself at the table. He began skimming the papers, scanning headlines, stopping only to read the few articles that caught his interest.

One such item was the column by Pete Waldmeir in the News. Once again, Waldmeir was taking on the city administration in general and Detroit Mayor Maynard Cobb in particular. This, for Waldmeir, had become routine. Of all the columnists in town, no one spent more time or ink on the mayor’s case than Pete Waldmeir.

Maynard Cobb was black. And that, particularly to black Detroiters, was the most important feature of the mayor. To Tully, Cobb’s skin color was symbolic of Detroit’s radical change.

Tully, born and raised in Detroit, easily recalled the early days, the days before any of the civil rights legislation of the sixties. But mostly, the days before Cobb enraptured and captured Detroit.

The fifties, perhaps the final decade of innocence for the United States, had been fun. A lot more fun if you were not in Korea or not one of America’s minorities. Blacks in Detroit were significant numerically and distinctive in lack of clout. The white majority lived blissfully more or less unaware that they formed the cork in a bottle seething with a dark liquid. Everything boiled over during the riots of 1967 and again in the wake of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr.

And then came Cobb.

It was the Reverend Jesse Jackson who first pointed out to fellow blacks that no one any longer was standing in the schoolhouse door. An allusion to George Wallace’s attempt to block the entrance of black students into Alabama’s all-white schools.

While it was true that civil rights laws had technically removed racial obstacles to education and, to some degree, advancement, it was the election of Maynard Cobb that had opened doors and ushered blacks through them in Detroit. Then, as might be expected, patronage, appointments, and contracts began favoring minorities. And gradually, the complexion of the city’s majority changed from white to black.

About nearly all of this Tully couldn’t have cared less. He left politics to the politicians, business to the businessmen, and religion to the preachers. He had cut out for himself a small island called the Detroit Police Department and an even tighter plateau called the Homicide Division. As soon as someone—he didn’t care who—cleared away the strictly racial impediments, he was free to rise as high in the department as talent, dedication, and hard work could take him.

Now, as lieutenant in charge of one of the homicide squads, he was exactly where he wanted to be, doing exactly what he wanted to do. He answered only to Walt Koznicki, something he could easily live with. And he spent his time solving puzzles of enormous human consequence.

As a lad growing up on Detroit’s near east side, he could never have dreamed he would go this far.

His parents called him Al. Only later, with the propensity adults have for nicknames, had his buddies in the department christened him “Zoo,” after the last two letters in his given name, Alonzo.

Tully’s father had worked on the line at Ford. He worked hard, so hard that his fellow workers finally left him alone. It was an accolade of sorts. Harassment—or worse—was the usual treatment whites gave blacks on the line. To leave a black alone to do his work was, for that era, a mark of respect.

Alonzo’s mother, with eight children—he was the youngest—necessarily was a housewife and homemaker. Occasionally she would take in laundry or some other odd job or service to provide some always needed extra money.

All in all, the Tully family was a close-knit unit folding in upon itself. They—father and children—went out to work or school, each to do his or her best, only to return as if to an oasis.

As a youth, Alonzo was unsure what he wanted to do with his life. He knew he didn’t want to follow his father on the assembly line. Not that it was demeaning or beneath him. It was just that he did not want to spend the major portion of his life doing precisely the same humdrum thing over and over while answering to an extensive chain of command.

It was at the suggestion of a friend that he took the test to join the police department, a test he easily passed.

In the beginning it was most discouraging. Many times he came close to quitting. The bigotry was deep-seated. But, gradually, as his father before him, he began to impress his coworkers with his skill and professionalism. In time, he became convinced that this was the life for him.

With the ascendancy of Maynard Cobb, the final barriers fell and Zoo Tully knew he had found a home, running his squad efficiently and solving puzzles.

What disturbed him right now was his inability to solve the murder of El Bonner. Several times this past week, he’d thought he was on the verge of finding the missing link, only to have the puzzle regroup and stare defiantly at him.

It was the Bonner case he was thinking about when Alice padded into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Such deep thoughts for so early in the morning,” she said.

“What early?” His furrowed brow smoothed as he smiled at her. “It’s almost nine o’clock.”

“A compromise. What time did you get up?”

“About seven.”

“See? On Sundays I usually get up about noon. So, it’s nine o’clock. A decent compromise. Anything in the papers?”

He’d been through both the News and the Free Press. But for the life of him, he could remember scarcely anything he’d read. Either there had been little of interest or he’d been too distracted. Most likely, he thought, the latter.

“There’s Waldmeir’s column,” he remembered. “Takin’ off on Cobb again.”

“What else is new? I have long suspected that the mayor’s secretary’s job consists of cutting out Waldmeir’s column before Hizzoner gets a chance to read it.”

“That’ll make for a happy mayor.”

“A happy mayor.” Alice nodded. “Detroit’s most important product.” She swizzled some orange juice around in her mouth, then swallowed it.

Running her hands through her hair, she padded toward the living room in near-somnambulant fashion. Tully followed. She switched on the electric fireplace. Heat began to radiate from the artificial logs. Gradually, it brought warm comfort to its immediate space.

Alice curled up on the floor before the couch directly in front of the fireplace. “This is nice.”

Tully slid down beside her. He felt very much at home. Oh, yes: Sunday, sweet Sunday, with nothing to do . . .

“I can’t get my eyes open.” She rubbed them.

“Probably the wine you had last night. You don’t need much, you know.”

“The wine!” she remembered. “That’s why my mouth feels like a troop of juvenile delinquents marched through it.”

“J.D.s with rap sheets as long as your arm.”

“Ooh.” The image was disquieting. “What’s on the docket today, Zoo?”

“You’re kidding! You don’t remember what today is?”

“Sunday.”

“Uh-huh.”

“There’s more?”

“Uh-huh.”

She concentrated. It was difficult. “The last Sunday in January.”

“Uh-huh.”

“There’s still more? Let me think.” She pondered. Finally, “Su-per Bow-l Sun-day!” She drew out each syllable to confer the proper reverence.

“I’m proud of you.”

“Bob Hope! Red! Fake! Roll out! 57! 44! 40! Or fight! On 7! Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut!”

“That’s eight.”

“Who’s counting?”

“The offensive line.”

“That’s what makes them offensive.”

They chuckled and leaned closer together.

“Who’s playing, anyway?”

“Hmmm . . . I think it’s Pat Sommerall and John Madden.”

“Really! I knew they were big but I didn’t know they were whole teams.”

“The important thing to remember is how much it costs for a thirty-second spot during the Super Bowl.”

“How much?”

“More’n you and me are worth dead or alive.”

“There you go, playing cop again. When does the damn thing start?”

“Who are you—Miss What? I never heard so many questions from one person. Pregame is practically all afternoon. But the kickoff won’t take place till about six o’clock.”

She placed her hand gently on his thigh and began tracing small circles. “What’s on the docket till then?”

He felt tingling sensations and could not suppress a grin. He looked down at her. Her robe had fallen open at the neck. She wasn’t wearing a nightgown. He could see the upper portion of one breast. She took a deep breath and the breast swelled provocatively. Tully had no doubt she’d staged the whole sequence. He had never met anyone as adept at seduction. He had no objections. “Whadja have in mind?”

“Have I ever told you,” she said, “that you get out of bed way too early on Sundays?”

“I’m willing to be convinced.”

“Come on; I’ll make my case upstairs.”

“Leave the fireplace on. It’ll be nice and warm when we come back.”

“So will we.”

They did not return to the downstairs until mid-afternoon. Alice proved a prophetess: Both were feeling warm and wonderful. Tully’s entire soul was silently singing, “Sunday, Sweet Sunday.”

Alice went to the kitchen to begin preparations for an early supper. Nothing must interrupt the Super Bowl once it began. She also nibbled. She’d had nothing but the morning glass of orange juice.

Tully took command of the recliner chair and the TV’s remote control . Festivities had reached the point of presenting highlights of past Super Bowls. It was a source of continuing amazement to Tully that the networks were able, year after year, to get so much mileage and milk so much revenue out of a simple game that should take about an hour to play. With all the hoopla, extended halftimes, and commercial time-outs, even the duration of the game itself promised to stretch nearly four hours. Only in America . . .

After a time, he became aware of sounds coming from the kitchen—homey sounds. He smiled. This was good. The thought occurred again: marriage. He was quite sure Alice was willing. But if experience was any sort of teacher, that way lay disaster.

Something happened after a marriage ceremony. He wasn’t sure what to call it. Proprietorship, maybe.

Now he came and went at his discretion. So did Alice. They lived in the same house. They loved and cared for each other. But neither owned the other. There were no ugly scenes when he did not come home at the expected hour. Or, even worse, when he did not return for days at a time.

He well remembered the incessant argumentation and debates between him and his wife. The mindless accusations. He wasn’t running around with anyone else. And, despite her charges, his wife knew that. Pure and simple, she was competing with his work, and she couldn’t win. But she wouldn’t admit it.

No, this was good. This was right. Marriage would only complicate things.

There were times when he sensed that Alice was on the verge of broaching the subject, but she always backed off. However, because he was well aware that marriage was on her mind, he knew that one day it might come to an ultimatum. He didn’t want to think about that. For that could be the end of something great.

As his interest in the undiluted TV hype waned, he became more conscious of the sounds and the appetizing odors emanating from the kitchen. It was irresistible.

Tully stood in the kitchen doorway for some time savoring the scene. Alice, her back to him, was preparing a tossed salad. She seemed oblivious to all but the green pepper she was chopping. She was humming. He tried to place the tune. He knew it, but what was it? An oldie. She returned to the beginning of the chorus, and, with that, the words came to him. “We’ll be close as pages in a book, my love and I.”

Quietly, he approached her. She was unaware of his presence until his arms encircled her waist. She gave a startled gasp then relaxed and leaned back into him. He kissed the top of her head while holding her. “The cook needs a kiss.”

“She certainly does.”

“I feel good.”

“But I’ll bet you couldn’t leap over tall buildings in a single bound now!”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Who’s ahead?”

“In what?”

“The football game. The Super Bowl . . . what else?”

“They haven’t begun to fight.”

She laughed, “Well, at least this nonsense will be over until next fall.”

“There’s one more.”

“One more!”

“The Pro Bowl.”

“No!”

“Uh-huh. And we won’t have to wait till fall. They’ll start the exhibition season this summer.”

She made a face. “At least they’ll give us a couple of weeks off.”

The phone rang. It startled both of them. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

Tully stared at it as it rang twice more. He had a premonition. It was Mangiapane. There had been another prostitute murder. He had no basis for the presentiment. It was just there.

He picked up the receiver. “Tully.”

“Mangiapane, Zoo. We got another one. A hooker.”

“Was she cut?”

“Just like the other one. And branded.”

“Who’s with you?”

“Dominic. He’s just starting the SIR.”

“Uh . . . no. You do that.”

“Okay, Zoo.” Mangiapane felt honored. Just a rookie in homicide and the lieutenant was picking him over a seasoned veteran to make the report.

“You’re familiar with the first case. So when you start the report, I want you to pay special attention to the similarities—and differences, if there are any . . . got it?”

“Uh, okay, Zoo.” Humility quickly supplanted pride. It wasn’t his expertise; it was his familiarity with last week’s case.

“Where are you?”

“Michigan, near Central. Wait a minute,” Mangiapane glanced at his notepad, “7705 Michigan. You comin’? You can’t miss it. We got units all over the place.”

“I’m comin’. Get busy on that report.”

“Okay, Zoo.”

Tully replaced the receiver on the wall phone and, hand still on it, bowed his head.

Alice had heard only Tully’s end of the conversation. Clearly, it was police business. When she heard him ask, “Was she cut?” she knew. Actually she had known without having to overhear. Intuition.

“Damn!” Tully said, fervently.

“Another one.” It wasn’t a question.

“If only . . . if only I could have figured it out. I’ve had a whole week.”

“You can’t solve them all . . . especially with the little you’ve had to go on.”

“I shoulda done it. This wouldn’t have happened if I’d just been a little smarter.”

“You’re going.” Again it was not a question.

Tully nodded.

“I’ll wait dinner for you.”

“I don’t know when I’ll get back. It’s gonna be late.”

“It’s just pork chops and salad. They’ll keep.”

“Better you eat now. I might not even get back.”

“I’ll wait. And if you don’t get back, it’s okay. I understand.”

He gazed at her for several moments. There was sincere appreciation in his eyes. “Then I’ll be back. Sometime. But I’ll be back.”

He kissed her, then hurried upstairs to dress. Along the way, the thought occurred that he might still be married if his wife had had Al’s attitude. His next thought was that he was a very lucky man indeed.