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.”