“He run with Pony Down?”
“Yeah, later on. He’s younger than us. This dude Ray-Ray brought him in when he was just a shorty. He was Ray-Ray’s cousin.”
“Ray-Ray?” asked Greenway.
“Ray Bonaventure. He’s dead. Got sent up in ’86. Some cracker busted his head in Jackson.”
“Okay, tell us about David Wilkins,” I said.
“Not much to tell. Ray-Ray brought him in because he didn’t have nothin’ else. His dad was long gone, and his moms was real sick. She couldn’t work or nothin’, so David had to Pony up to get some money.”
“So why do you think this David Wilkins is the priest?” Greenway asked.
“It was the thing with his moms.” Lonnie looked at the floor. “She had the cancer real bad. Real bad. And David couldn’t get nobody to do nothin’ for her. They’d give her some pills and shit, but never enough. David said she was hurtin’ real bad.”
“Didn’t she see a doctor?” I asked.
“Yeah, but it was the free clinic, you know? They tried to help her with assistance and shit, but it wasn’t enough to get her the right medicines.”
Ronnie added, “Or enough medicine. She needed more pain pills but she just couldn’t afford ’em. At first, David would tell us how she would be screamin’ sometimes cuz it hurt so bad. But after a while, he stopped talkin’ about it. He got real quiet.”
Lonnie said, “Way we heard it, took a long time for her to die. She was sufferin’.”
“The way you heard it?” asked Greenway.
“Yeah, cuz by that time David had stopped comin’ around. We just didn’t see him no more. We heard he was on the bottle, on the weed, on the pipe, every damn thing. Can’t blame him after that shit with his moms. We thought he was gonna show up DOA.”
“But he didn’t?”
“Naw,” said Ronnie. “He showed back up at our crib.”
After the seasons had changed a couple of times, David appeared on the Twins’ doorstep one day. He was clear-eyed, clean and sober. The Twins described his demeanor as friendly, quiet, and serious. After some small talk, he told them he wanted drugs. “Not that street shit,” he’d said. He gave them a list; heavy stuff, major-league painkillers and narcotics. Large quantities. They negotiated a price and a pickup time and he left.
“Okay,” I said, “so where can we find David Wilkins?”
Ronnie surprised me. “Downtown. He’s staying at that old theater building on, what is it, Bagley …?”
He looked at his brother, who nodded and said: “United Artists.”
“Yeah, that’s it. He’s staying there.”
“He’s staying in the United Artists Theater or the office building?”
“The office building. At the top.”
I was skeptical. “At the top of the building? And what about the security guard?”
Ronnie and Lonnie traded smiles. “He is the security guard. Some dude out in Bloomfield Hills hired him. He’s got a cot and space heater up there.”
I looked at Tucker, then Greenway, who shrugged. We all went out.
Greenway spoke first. “I know it seems too neat, but the other stuff they’ve been giving us has been straight. I think they’re serious about not doing the hard time.”
Tucker said. “I think so too. I bet they’re thinking about some of their old crew who got sent up back in the day. They played both sides, you know. YBI, then Pony Down. Could be that they know they wouldn’t get a very warm welcome inside.”
“Does anyone?” asked Greenway.
He had a point.
It was still mid-afternoon, but the heavy snowfall made it seem like dusk already. The commute had become a nightmare; businesses were closing early and sending their people home. The streets were fast clogging with snow and cars spun out in every intersection we passed. It was going to be a long rush hour.
The old United Artists building stood eighteen stories above Bagley Street on a flatiron-shaped plot. The narrow end of the flatiron faced Park Avenue, with Grand Circus Park just across the street. At one time, the area was the city’s theater district and Detroiters could stroll to any number of ornate movie palaces. The Fox and the State were rescued from the wrecking ball and refurbished, and the Gem had to be moved from its original location to be saved. Most of the other old theaters were either gone or falling to ruin.
Like many of the vacant towers in downtown, the UA had been invaded by all types over the years. Squatters, bottle bums, and under-medicated street psychotics all left clues to their maladies in the nests they vacated. Recently, the monoliths had become destinations for self-styled urban explorers and curious suburbanites. They posted photos of the crumbling towers on websites, attracting more and more to come and visit the Urban Failure Amusement Park. The police insisted that the building owners seal off the entrances and provide security to keep the junkies or thrill-seekers out, and the owners mostly complied. It seemed that David Wilkins had found a way to exploit this situation and hide in plain sight.
We pulled up on the Bagley side and tracked through the virgin snow that drifted under the old marquee. Most of the doors to the theater lobby were covered with painted plywood and sealed, but the owner had installed a steel security door to allow access to the building when necessary. Tucker tried the door, but it was locked. He pulled a small leather zip-pouch from his coat pocket. Lock picks. I stepped back from the door and looked up and down the street. We had the block to ourselves. I raised my eyes to the building façade and scanned the windows. Nothing.
Tucker popped the lock. We slowly opened the door, and a backwash of foul air hit us. The smells of mold, mildew, building rot, and piss swirled around and it occurred to me that breathing the air might be hazardous to our pulmonary health. Tucker pulled a small but powerful flashlight from his pocket and we stepped inside.
The once-beautiful theater lobby was a disaster of standing water, shredded plaster, and piles of rubble. Something, maybe a rat or feral cat, splashed into a corner and disappeared through a tear in the plaster. We gave the lobby a pass and looked for the entrance to the office tower. After fumbling along dank hallways, we found a stairwell off an elevator lobby that stretched far upward into the musty air. Tucker shined his light. Dust and God knew what else floated through the beams. The stairs were piled with bottles, clothing, fast-food wrappers, and assorted trash. We chose our steps with care and started up. It would be almost impossible to stay quiet as we crunched our way up, and the noise would probably alert any residents to our presence. All we could do was try to minimize our footfalls and maybe the bird wouldn’t flush until we were close enough to grab him.
About five floors up, the garbage thinned and we stopped to listen to the building. Silence. We kept climbing. At floor ten, we stopped again. Still no sounds from the floors above. At fifteen, we stepped out into an office corridor that didn’t look much different from the day its last occupant packed up back in ’75. Marble panels lined the hallway and dark hardwood trim detailed the offices. One of the rooms was piled high with battered steel desks. We searched the whole floor and found nothing but empty offices and dust.
We climbed to the sixteenth floor and into an eerie red glow. A blood-red hand was painted on the window of the elevator lobby, and it cast the room in crimson light. A few years back, the UA became a favorite for local graffiti taggers and street artists. These guerilla Picassos were inspired to cover the building’s windows with unusual and brightly colored images. The UA became a kind of modern folk art symbol. Too bad for art. A powerful local real estate developer acquired the UA for some unspecified future venture and immediately set about “cleaning up” the windows. Either they had missed a couple of windows, or the artists were coming back.