Detroit: Spring Gold--Reality in Detroit

}(NOTE: The original MS of this work made use of italics and different spacing to set off the background comments and internal musings of the main character from the activity sequences. Without that formatting, the excerpt offered here may very well seem to lack focus or drag somewhat. I don't think of myself as Victor Hugo but do think that the added information is germane to the story.



I don't know just how to format such things here---your suggestions are avidly solicited!  I've posted it here because I expect to offer updated editions of the three books in the series and am soliciting input here to do improvements.  Ben)



                                                                                                                             

DETROIT: SPRING GOLD

A MEMOIR



BEING THE FIRST WRITTEN ADVENTURE OF

BENJAMIN GARRICK





BY BENJAMIN GARRICK

FOR INVICTUS, A TRUST







DISCLAIMER

  }Some who’ve read this work tell me that I’ve left too much stuff out of the story. And others complain that I’ve said too much, in one way or another. On one hand, it’s true, I’ve purposely omitted some specifics, such as otherwise unlisted ’phone numbers or an inventory of the easily-acquired ingredients necessary to make a fire-bomb. (You can find such information on the internet, but not in these pages.)       

    On the other hand, because I’m an engineer, I deal with minutiae on a daily basis, and small details are necessary to every report I write. I’d rather not ‘talk down’ to folks or awkwardly over-simplify. Therefore, items such as firearms handling trivia and how to injure someone with your bare hands are made available.  But please feel free to skip over details of any sort that you might think to be non-germane. I’ve set off some of the details here, as well as some of my internal musings, to make the activities easier to follow.

    You’ll also notice that it’s often my practice to avoid communicating with local authorities regarding confrontations. I have chosen to follow this path, as you’ll see in these writings, due to my determination to keep a low profile. But in a case of ‘do as I say, not as I do’, if you go armed, and find it necessary to protect yourself, please, immediately after,  inform the authorities. Tell them that you were afraid for your life, that someone is ‘down’, and that there is need for an ambulance. Give your name and location, and then SHUT UP. Nothing else you say can possibly be of any benefit to you except that if the subsequent attempts at questioning are at all extended, DEMAND A LAWYER.  And good luck!

    On another note, those of you who are acquainted with Detroit will realize that I’ve moved some things from their actual locations. I’ve also changed a few names; some people are quite bashful. And my attorneys require it, so I declare to you, “I invented this whole story.” You’ve seen much the same comment before, I’m sure, perhaps in more formal words, at the beginnings of other works. Having made this declaration, the attorneys will be satisfied. I leave it to you, however, to use your intellect in deciding how much to accept as reality. 

    And, although I declare the scenes ‘invented’, I have made a sincere effort to offer an honest and accurate portrait. Societal activities and attitudes are depicted so as to absolutely reflect reality. The observations and opinions derived therefrom, however, are purely my own.

    A few of you might wonder why I’ve been so candid about some of the details herein set down. Although I’ve declared this story an invention, such details assure that the entirety of the tale is offered. As you’ll see, I emphatically offer equal opportunity scorn for all tyrannical manifestations of power. This is a free society only if all of us require that it be so.

    For some people, the assertion ‘invented’ will be most puzzling; for others that declaration should bring great relief.         

Ben Garrick           

                             





“I know some of what’s in this book is factual because I was there and I’m sure of what I said and did. Also, I’ve known the author for a number of years and I know he’s truthful. So, for the rest of it, you’ll just have to make up your own mind.”

                                                                        Jack Roush



FOR MELISSA and JESSICA









ONE



         Between the gasps of agony, the voice in the ‘phone recording said, “Professor, I don’t know---who else to go to---for help, so I’m calling you. There’s nobody---I can trust. They’ll be after me, as soon as---they figure out what happened. The first trip of the season---and the bastards---set me up. I thought it was just an---ordinary week-end---for my kind of business. Now I’m hurt---and everybody else’s been---shot dead. Will you come? Please. I’m bleeding---and it won’t quit---and it really hurts. It’ll be worth your while. I’ve got it all---both ends---and I’ll share! Please come soon. Help me. On Greenfield…”

              She gave the address in a fading voice full of grittiness. There was also significant pain and what sounded like a fair degree of fatalism---mixed with a little hopefulness. It was Janice Holcombe’s voice, and she certainly didn’t sound very good. She’s a Madam---I’ll explain to you presently how I came to know her.



         I didn’t really feel much like going back out again, to tell the truth, so soon after coming in from the trip. But she certainly sounded like she needed help, and completely aside from the fact that I liked her---what little I’d come to know of her personality---there was that comment about being “worth my while.” I’d have gone to her assistance anyway, of course, but her comments sounded like money to me and the idea of money always makes my ears grow long and pointy. I then find it very easy to focus. I made a face---concern and frustration mixed---and scratched my hairy chin.





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         I’m slightly more than six feet tall. I weigh 225 or thereabouts---so long as I work out regularly---and have hair and a short, full beard that’ve all been silver-gray since I was nineteen years old. In summer sunshine---usually on the boat ---the hair turns ever lighter as I accumulate more tan. My just-completed time in Florida had turned it almost white. It’s somewhat tightly curly and always a little down over my ears; I mostly don’t get a haircut until it’s at least two weeks---or more---overdue. My eyes are a very light blue and when I talk, you can easily enough hear my Scots background. I sound a little like Jackie Stewart---or even more like Sean Connery if he were trying to speak American English. (If I don’t watch myself, I have the same tendency to roll my ‘rr’s a  bit.) But, I’m nearly as pretty as Sean was at my age. I’m forty years old, and I’m left handed.

                           For my ‘day’ job, I develop parts, largely for NASCAR race engines. I’m an Engineer (notice the capital letter) so I suppose I should say, “It’s my business to develop improvements directed at race engine components.” That’s engineer-talk and it’ll make sure I sound most properly professional. Actually, though, continuing in engineer-talk, I often find myself acting in non-proper fashion, at least if you were  thinking of me primarily as your usual sort of engineer. And part of that non-properness is because sometimes, I have to admit, I become bored, and then something or other comes my way and I get nosy.



         And, bluntly, being nosy has been known to get people pissed off. That may not be proper either, but then things do get interesting.



         Anyway, a large part of my development work is done---on an independent-contractor basis---for premier NASCAR team owner Jack Roush. Last spring, when all this stuff happened, I’d just completed a re-design job at his request in order to explore a different---stronger and lighter-weight---sort of rocker-arm. (For you race fans who don’t much get your fingers greasy, that’s an interior engine part that takes a lot of strain. There are sixteen of them in each NASCAR V8 engine. Sometimes they break---that kills the engine and ends the race.) We made several sets to my new design and they worked out well in load tests and dynamometer trials.



         After cleaning up my other commitments, I made all the other necessary arrangements for a several-weeks trip out of town. Then I threw some things into a couple of duffel-bags and took a taxi out to Willow Run Airport, headed for the Roush facility there. I was looking forward to a plane ride to a series of ‘just like the real thing’ test sessions at some of  Jack’s southern locations. He’d called me and asked if I’d come and help out, and even if I hadn’t been really interested, I’d have found it very hard to say ‘no’ to Jack. He’s that kind of guy. And I got another chance to ride in one of his airplanes. He has, among others, a meticulously-restored (and improved?) P-51 Mustang fighter of WW 2 vintage, called ‘Old Crow.’

         Jack’s exploratory engine-facility , and his main office, are in Livonia, Michigan, only a few miles from my own shop, but I’d been asked to participate in this series of ‘real world’ tests starting at one of his operations in North Carolina---on some of the engines containing ‘my’ hardware.

         He has almost two thousand employees in the US, but he finds it worthwhile to ‘farm-out’ some special work to fellows like me. He’s told me, “It keeps the perspective fresh. A group of men working together all-day every-day develop a common viewpoint. Someone from ‘outside’ is likely looking at things just a little differently. Guys like you help keep things stirred up.” And that helps keep him Number One.

         I usually operate independently from---but in some degree  of conjunction with---the people in his Prototype Engine Shop. In this particular case, my starting supposition was simple. A rocker arm that’s been seriously lightened on the valve end can make it easier for an engine to operate at ‘ten grand’---ten thousand RPM---if the rocker remains rigid enough to withstand the valvespring load. But as they say in the southern US, “The proof of the puddin’ is in the eatin’” and load tests and even dynamometer examinations in Livonia are not completely the same as running a real race engine in a real race car on a real race track---and down south is where the available tracks are located. I’m not going to tell you exactly how I made the rocker lighter---only part of it is in the cross-sectional shape-change. Some is in the material. And it works!

         By the time all the pre-tests were complete---the rockers, significantly lightened, showed no tendency to fail---it made sense for me to go on directly to Daytona for all the test-connected ‘doings’ there, and afterwards, what with one thing and another---including a relaxation-slash-business trip to the Florida Keys after the Daytona 500---it was the end of March before I stopped living out of my luggage. I’d had (almost) enough of the raspy scream of racing V8 engines for a while  ---I say ‘almost’ because there really isn’t any such thing as ‘enough’ for very long---it gets into your blood and there’s no known cure.





Since I had no one but myself to please with the layout of my living space, I have it so that things rather run together. Most of the loft-wall toward the front is window from waist-high up, looking down into the chassis dynamometer  and parking area; with vertical blinds on the glass. This is in the large space in the loft that comprises my lounge/living room, a study area with two walls of books (they wrap around a corner), and my kitchen, with a very large pass-through space. Down a short hall there’re also four bedrooms, each with a bath, and all the other things a house offers.

         The ’phone sets on a file cabinet next to my desk, along with an aquarium tank full of brilliantly-colored little salt-water fish. (I’d got industrious and rigged-up an automatic feeder, along with the water-cleaning apparatus, for the fish. It keeps them going when I’m away.)





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The ’phone answering system is as good as they come and will hold an almost unlimited volume of messages. I’d not checked, and cleared it, for more than a week, being involved in wrapping up toward coming home..

          I pushed the right combination of buttons for replay and turned the volume way up. That way I could listen as I put away in my adjacent kitchen the few fresh groceries I’d picked up and did the myriad of little chores necessary on coming back after an absence.

         Most of the messages were engineering business-related---(two were from the marina about work being done on my boat)---and I could half-listen as I put the kettle on for a cuppa ‘char’---Tea---Darjeeling is my favorite---and went into the walk-in cooler to see what I might have overlooked in there that had grown green fur and would now need to be thrown out. The message system gives the date and time of each call, speaking in that somehow metallic-overtone-to-the-voice that’s the best synthesizing seems, at present, to do.

          Almost at the end I heard words that brought me up short and I hurried to the ’phone console and hit the button for ‘repeat.’ After the date and time---two days before and just past three AM---it said---but I’ve already told you what it said.



   

         I’ve lived in this country for just more than ten years; I’m a naturalized US citizen, and as I explained, a self-employed performance-oriented development engineer---and, as I stated, I’ve been told that I’m quite nosy. Whoever says that is usually very angry---sometimes violently so---when they say it.   

My Stanford-Binet test score was two hundred; measured when I was two years old---reinforced by test results when I went to Sandhurst and then into the Queen’s service. Friends often call me ‘Professor;’ I read a lot and, as you see, do some writing. I’ve also taught courses---as a guest lecturer ---at a local technical university. My name is Benjamin Garrick.



         I took the kettle off the fire and quickly changed into ‘un-noticed clothes’---tan twill shirt and trousers and a dark blue ‘Tigers’ ball-cap with the Old-English ‘D’, and cheap, scuffed, yellow-leather work boots.

         It helps to be un-remarkable when you’re sticking your nose into something. I buy the shirts and trousers from a used work-clothes place in Allen Park, and have them modified by a tailor for my purposes---so I’ll look like I’m from a repair service or maybe I’m a handyman. The ball cap changes the entire observed shape of one’s head, and makes my hair less remarkable.

         I make sure to buy the shirts with enough looseness around the middle so that there’s room inside for a special holster I had Milt Sparks’ people make up for me. This whole works, including the little .45, goes to the right of my belt buckle. It’s tilted so that my .45’s butt is just to the side of the line of buttons on the shirt. The tailor changes the overlap of the shirt and as fasteners, uses small spots of Velcro. The buttons are attached just for show. I can easily jerk the front of the shirt open with my right hand, shove my left through the opening and immediately have a proper grip. With the loose shirt all this is virtually un-noticeable. A snap-loop of leather on the holster goes through an unobtrusive hole in the shirt-front and anchors around my heavy-duty trouser belt to hold the assembly precisely in place.

         This particular arrangement flies in the face of one of Lt. Colonel Jeff Cooper’s most basic rules, which is to always carry your sidearm in exactly the same way. The draw must be instinctive. “If you have to think about it, you’re dead.” My day-in-and-out carry is ‘strong-side’ behind my left hip bone, with a light jacket or open shirt over it. With the un-noticed set-up, speed has to be somewhat sacrificed to looking as close as possible to very ordinary. This goes along with the un-noticed clothes. Besides, if I manage to do everything right I’ll probably not need the pistol. But---“It’s better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.” If you know you’re going to need a little friend, take a rifle or shotgun. They’re both far more efficient than a pistol. I told you I’m nosy---and people do sometimes take offense! 

   

         My building is located on Michigan Avenue, just west, by a few blocks, of Telegraph Road in Dearborn. The main floor is my shop. I have there all the machine tools, test equipment, etc., for doing all the kinds of development  and improvement of race-engine parts that I find both enjoyable and profitable. Since I do port-flow development, among other things, there’s a fully computerized (1020) flow bench and test area and a small room arranged to facilitate the hand-shaping of cylinder head (and manifold) runners. (This is another area where I often do work for Roush Racing.) In addition, there’s a Heenan-Froude engine dynamometer cell. In the far back corner of the loft is my gunsmithing area and my shooting range. I live in the loft when I’m not on my boat.

         Much of this upper floor area was at one time the offices for the small manufacturing facility that preceded me and I did, by myself, a goodly share of the upgrading work that turned some of that former office space into living quarters of about three thousand square feet. There’s also lots of storage room upstairs—drive up the ramp or use the (car-size, industrial) lift---the building dimensions are one hundred feet wide by one hundred fifty feet deep; the loft is a hundred feet square.



         My highly ordinary-looking, un-memorable, white, short-wheelbase E-150 van was parked by the roll-up door along with several of my other vehicles. The open space at the west end of the shop is next to the beginning of the ramp  ---by the door onto Michigan Ave.

         I drove out and hit the button, watching in my rear-view mirrors as I pulled away to see that the door went completely shut. (And that no one appeared from around the corner to dive through before it closed completely.)   

                 Protected lights at the upper corners of the building assure that there are no dark spots to hide in. There is also a  video camera system, and other warning devices. Such is the price of security.

         I drove north on Telegraph Road to McNichols, which is what Six Mile Road is called inside the Detroit City Limits. The trip was completely without incident in the fairly light traffic, except for my quick decision to lean into the gas pedal a little, to embarrass a drag-slick-equipped Dodge Viper out looking for mischief, just coming off the Fenkell (Five Mile Road) stop-light. Horsepower (really torque) is great fun and I have to confess to occasionally ‘bashing gears’ with some unsuspecting would-be hot dog. (Jack’s people provided some of the ideas behind the engine powering the van---and the all-wheel-drive that helps traction. When the project was completed, Jack said to me that,  “Now you won’t have any excuse left for not making a delivery on time.” I guess he was accurate---as usual, even though I don’t remember ever being late anyway.

         I walked the Mopar by about three cars in first gear and then short-shifted into second. I didn’t have to push it very hard---a Viper only has about five hundred horsepower---I didn’t even use the ‘spray’.

         Turning east the several miles to Greenfield---a main north-south street---and then north again soon had me going past the address Janice’d mentioned. I did a U-turn and parked in front of the place, an ordinary red-brick colonial-type residence in a neighborhood of similar homes. There was light visible at windows on both floors and in the basement. The front porch light and the one over the side door were both lit. Running over in my mind the possible scenarios and what I was likely to find had left me with several, somewhat conflicting, thoughts. First, maybe there was no one there. Second, maybe Janice was there by herself. Third, maybe there were others with her; friendly or hostile. Fourth, maybe there were  watchers on the outside. As a subscript to fourth, the watchers might be specifically waiting to see who’d come.

         On the other hand, neighbors, watching, might see what was happening without particularly watching that house; by just observing the neighborhood. I came to the conclusion that if I were to be expected by unfriendlies, it was unlikely that a tan work uniform such as I wore would fool anybody. It might do some good with the neighbors.

         I therefore grabbed my little chopped .45 from the console and slipped it into its holster, pressed the velcro spots on the shirtfront together and then picked up a small brown toolcase, not for its contents but because it ‘went with’ the tan shirt and trousers and the ball-cap. I’d already put on a pair of light-blue surgical gloves. Since it was coming on for night-time they’d be almost invisible. I carried the box in my right hand as I went up the driveway, knocked on the side door, got no response, and went to work with the tension tool and raker; lock-picking tools I’d been holding ready for dealing with the very ordinary security hardware I expected to find there. The little clock in my head said it took twelve seconds to get the door open---I told you it was quite ordinary.

         The layout of these colonial-style houses, built before the Second World War, is such that on entering the side door one can go straight ahead from the inside landing and proceed down the basement stairs. There was, in this case, also a pair of short sets of steps going up both right and left. The right set goes into the front hall. The left set goes up into the kitchen at the back of the house. I first bent and looked down at what I could see of the basement, listening for any sound. As always happens in these situations, my whole head turned into a giant ear. I heard ‘silence’---which really means there aren’t any ‘big’ sounds so the tiny ones like a gas-flame pilot-light hiss were audible---and there was nothing to see. There seemed to be a single bulb lit down there. In its light, after I crept down several steps and stooped, I could see an almost empty expanse of dark, asbestos-tiled floor. A squat boiling-water-for-radiators sort of furnace and a hot water tank (the pilot?) and laundry tubs were off to one side. There was also a washer and dryer, and a pile of what looked to be, perhaps, used towels heaped on the floor.

         I went up the stairs to the left. The door was open and there was no light on in the kitchen but enough came in through the open doorway to the front so I could see dimly that although the appliances seemed to be in place there were none of the impedimenta, except a ‘Mr. Coffee’, that would suggest regular use. A quick glance around showed me there was no one on the entire floor, and no feeling of anyone in the house. A desk was setting in the entrance hall inside the front door, however, in such a way that it gave the area almost a ‘lobby’ look. And several upholstered chairs and couches were dotted about the carpeted front room. Suddenly the full picture became clear. This wasn’t set up for use as a residence---the house was arranged to be a bordello; in ‘Detroit-speak’ a ‘ho’-house.

         The front parlor, on the north side of the front of the house was easily recognizable as a reception area. I set the little tool-box by the desk. With less hesitation---I still couldn’t ‘feel’ that anyone seemed to be home---I crept up the carpeted stairway---and discovered what was left of Janice.

         She was on the bed in the blue-wallpapered room to the right, at the head of the stairs. Huddled in a blood-stained quilt; stripped to a tan bra and matching step-ins now stained blackish-red-brown down the one side and back from her injury. Quite dead---and somehow, my questing hand found, colder than room temperature. A quick glance into the nooks and crannies of the other rooms showed her to be there all alone. (Look into the little places---then there’s less chance of someone surprising you as you explore the details of the larger spaces.)

         She had taken a hit just below the lowest rib, far over on the left side. It looked to have been from a pistol (or a sub-machine gun); one of the thirty five calibers, perhaps 9MM, from the entrance wound. I’d also guess that it had been a full-jacketed bullet, because the exit wound, lower and almost over to her backbone, was roughly the same size as the hole in her side. It had penetrated about a foot. An expanding bullet would have opened an exit hole bigger than my thumb. A really high performance slug, such as from a rifle, might have left an opening in her the size of a teacup. This bullet had possibly damaged a kidney---the hole was in roughly the right place.

         From touching her to pull back the towels, I could tell that she must have died not long after she left the message for me. The chemical changes involved with rigor mortis had come and then come again in their turn for she was completely flaccid. There was also that not-as-yet overwhelming, nevertheless unmistakable odor of the departed, together with the butcher-shop stench of the old blood.

         She had used several colorful beach towels in an attempt to staunch the bleeding; I had to pull them loose. She had also used four---I counted them---white, fluffy towels of the kind ready to hand in the rather luxuriously appointed bathroom. They were all wrapped around her as a kind of bandage, and all well-soaked with mostly dried blood. There were also traces of blood in the lav, and two no-longer damp but well-crusted face cloths wadded on the vanity top. An otherwise unidentifiable handful of blood-soaked clothing lay on the floor. She’d obviously tried to fix herself up; then she’d lain down, probably passed out, and ultimately bled to death.

         She’d died with a cell phone beside her; it was on the duvet, dry but slightly messy. I put it in my pocket and looked for her purse. It was on the bedside table; small enough to go in the other pocket, it contained the usual wad of Kleenex, make-up oddiments, and several pens and a pencil. It also had in it twenty banded ten-packs of hundred dollar bills and a neat fold of lesser notes. Some coins were in the little zippered compartment on the one side. Over the back of a chair by the foot of the bed was a tan Mac. It was badly stained on the lining but nothing showed on the outside. There was nothing in the pockets and nothing else that could be hers.

         Aside from the altered position of the body and the disarranged bandaging, there was no sign that I’d been in the room. I went back to the reception area on the first floor. I was now looking for anything besides her cell phone that might contain a message. There was an answering box connected

to the telephone on the desk. I disconnected the wires and wrapped them around it and put it in the brown toolcase. Then I reconnected the remaining wires, leaving no sign that there was anything missing. While doing the reconnecting by the floor, I noticed an unfamiliar box hooked to another telephone socket alongside the first on the base moulding. There was no telephone attached to this box, just the box itself setting on the floor with runs of wire into it in two places, a telephone line and a power flex over to a duplex receptacle in the wall. I unplugged it also and put it with the first one in the toolcase.

Then I went back to the upper floor and stood for a moment looking at the body. I had liked her but there was nothing more I could do for her here. I simply hadn’t been available when she needed me. She was gone and there was nothing left but the husk. I bowed my head, commended her soul to her Maker, and left the house.



         When I got back to home base, my thoughts were still in a whirl. Her brief message told me enough that I could guess at the rest of the story. There were simply none of the details---the facts that would make it possible for me to do anything. At that point I paused, realizing that I did intend to do something. I’d made up my mind without any conscious process of thought. I wasn’t mourning her death---I actually didn’t know her well enough for real mourning---I was just plain pissed, clear through, at the loss inherent in her demise, moved with the kind of restless anger that would, if I tried to relax, have had me jumping to my feet and then wondering why I was standing. Such a waste!

         During the time since my beginning encounter involving Janice, (this was my second) I had largely been dawn-to-almost-the-next-dawn busy. Jack Roush has the kind of perfectionist brain under that signature fedora that causes him to demand of himself that the impossibility be made a commonplace. He requires the same of those around him. It’s part of the reason for his success. When working to get ready for the racing season and one of the most important NASCAR races of the year, no barrier, least of all personal convenience ---like sleep ---is allowed to get in the way. This is the milieu in which I had been existing.

         Yet in some of those brief moments of down-time allowed by the tasks we had faced during the race preparation, I had found myself with my thoughts, on occasion, turning to Janice. That there was only a blank in the direction of intimate involvement, was an absolute. I did not find a single iota of physical desire for her---attractive though she might be. But I had wished her well. I had found the toughness she displayed during our shared experience with the attempted car-jacking to be highly admirable. No dither. No wuzzle. Just calm acceptance of the necessity to do something. And the fact that doing something might include sudden violence was also accepted without demur. Add to this the attributes of intelligence, good humour, and that otherwise indefinable projection of ‘class’, and she was not easily forgotten.

         Now, back in my loft-lounge, sprawled-out on the bend in the tan leather settee, I took stock of my attitude. I had liked her, and she was dead at the hands of someone unknown. She’d got involved in something, to accept her words, without intent and as a surprise. The end result, as she said, was that people, (including her), got killed.

         I’d like to know what happened and who’d taken it upon himself---or herself---to require death as a result. There was also money---or at least something of value---involved somewhere. Two good reasons to look around. I’d attack it in the morning. I dragged myself to my feet and went to bed.















TWO



         If I were to trace it back to the very beginning, I would have to say it started upstairs at Sindbad’s, there on the riverfront, a couple of weeks after New Year’s. Bill Johnson has a fifty-odd foot ‘Chris’ that, during the season, he keeps several slips down and across the dock from my motorsailer at Kean’s Marina. It is his custom to put in early and take out late and during the off-season, when he is precluded from boating by the occasionally evil winter weather we are blessed with here in Detroit, (If you don’t like Michigan weather, wait an hour or two---It’ll change!---probably for the worse!!) he looks for any excuse to get a group of us, Kean’s regulars, together for what he always refers to as “a small bash”---or perhaps occasionally a “medium bash.” His voice on the answering machine in my office space had suggested that we all get together for the aforementioned ‘bash’ on this Friday P.M.

         I got there late in the afternoon, driving my early Bronco replica. It was well along toward getting dark and had been snowing---great big flakes---for more than an hour. Just before Duane, the car parking attendant, got to me I flipped the inconspicuous switch under the dash that limits engine speed to only a little over an idle. As I gave him the single key for the ignition I also handed him a folded ‘double sawbuck’ (I like Americanisms) with the twenty on the corner showing.

“Keep it right up front here,” I suggested.

         “Yes sir, Mr. Garrick,” he replied with a smile, while making the bill disappear. He was always ready to take the extra money and keep the transportation handy. In the winter it meant that I didn’t have to walk to the far side of the building, if I stayed long enough for the valets to have gone home. It’s cold out there by the water. And sometimes I want to leave quickly.

         I went up the outside stairs on the east side of the building and down the narrow deck/walkway, past the windows, to the door. As I expected, it was locked, but also as I expected, the group was clustered there and Ron Gilmour, who was closest, took two steps and hit the crash-bar, saying “Hello, Professor,” with a welcoming smile, and also something polysyllabic about the weather. I took off my overcoat and put it on the third chair by his two-top, made a suitable reply (we have a running battle on words and their meanings and I’m at least somewhat ahead) and flopped. I’d had a busy day and moving into an undemanding social situation felt real good. Juney, one of the waitresses, had seen me come in and had immediately put a cold bottle of Iron Horse in a bucket and filled it with ice and a splash of water. She put it alongside me and went through the ritual with the foil capsule, wire and cork. I had a filled flute in my hand within three minutes of coming through the door. That’s service---but then they know me.

         I could delineate the next several hours in detail. But if I said simply that a group of friends/acquaintances with a mutual interest in boats and the water, who had not seen each other as a group for several months, sat around and ‘gassed’ over drinks and something to eat, I will have said everything that needs to be mentioned.

         The thing that really impacts on the events we’re exploring occurred at about seven thirty when I caught, out of the corner of my eye, a striking woman making an entrance from the direction of the elevator. She was probably in her late thirties; alone when she came in and alone when she was seated. Dressed in a bright red knit sheath-dress that somehow set off her auburn hair and café–au-lait complexion and ended just at her knees, she radiated that hard-to-describe aura that’s covered with one word---‘Class.’

         A goodly share of the people in the room were obviously the after-work crowd. A guy dressed in the regulation three-piece arose from the far side of the bar and from the motions they both went through, introduced himself. She greeted him and he sat down. At that same time, Ron dragged my attention back to the discussion running in our bunch about the ‘whoop-de-do’ surrounding Crystal Bay in the Detroit River. Since he was facing in the other direction, Ron hadn’t seen her come in.



         The Detroit River isn’t really a river at all; it’s the name given to the waterway that connects Lake Saint Clair with Lake Erie, all part of the Great Lakes System.  It’s International---you can start there and go, by water, anywhere in the world. Detroit, Michigan, USA is on one side and Windsor, Ontario, Canada is on the other. The International Border runs roughly down the middle and by a trick of geography the water runs in such a way that right at the downtown areas of the two cities is the only place on the entire border where Canada is south of the U S.

         There are many shallow places along the length of this “river” and some of them actually are islands---even some with trees. The nautical charts for the area, the Erie end particularly, are full of the notation “uncovers.”  There is one of these islands, in the lower river, that forms a narrow inverted vee, with its opening at the bottom end of the island. It’s close to the southern end of Grosse Ile, north of Boblo and on the Canadian side. It’s said that a spring of clear water flows from the upper end of the cove formed by the ‘vee’. Although the river, proper, is greatly polluted by all the heavy industries that line its banks, the clear water (from the spring?) makes it possible to swim and otherwise actually have contact with the river, without worry, within the confines of the cove. If you were to jam it full with mostly smaller boats it might be possible to get more than a hundred craft (I’ve never counted!) into the clear water area. It’s called Crystal Bay.     

         People intent on partying do their best to achieve all this during every weekend when the weather is remotely cooperating. One particular weekend is chosen each summer, by the cognoscenti, as The Party. At that time, craft of every size and description are to be found rafted together to such an extent that one could quite easily walk across the middle of the cove and never wet a toe. Booze and other recreational chemicals are found in abundance. Clothing seems to be optional, and therefore, among a large contingent, nonexistent. It is in Canadian waters.

         As is true of most things, if some is good, more is not necessarily better. Before Crystal Bay became so well known, it was, at least in its less raucous moments, a fun scene. But any fun scene that goes on for any length of time will attract some degree of airheads, donkeys and nitwits. Crystal Bay had become too high-profile. The dumbness has attracted law enforcement. To my mind, it is no longer a good place to go.



         Since some of our group tended not to be put off by the higher profile that had become common in Crystal Bay, the plusses and minuses made for lively conversation. My own mind was made up, so I had faded into the background of the discussion and was idly watching the bubbles rise in my flute. That was when I had noticed the lady.

         About that time the conversation began to wind down. Several of our group went through the proper motions and then left. I also saw the three-piece suit stand up and shake hands with the lady and walk out. Ron was now turned toward that part of the room and when she stood up as well, his gaze fastened on her. 

         “There’s Janice Holcombe,” he exclaimed. He half-stood and waved a hand. “Hey, Janice, over here!” He straightened up completely and I arose as she wended her way between the tables and chairs to us.

         “Hello Ron,” she greeted him. “I’m glad to see you.” The carefully gauged degree of warmth in her voice made it clear to me that they were ‘good acquaintances’; not close friends.

         “Let me introduce Janice Holcombe, Ben, and this is Benjamin Garrick, Janice. We often call him ‘Professor’ because he’s a genius---you can tell from the way he puts words together---and he teaches a performance-engine-oriented engineering class occasionally.” (Ron’s often a little bit sarcastic---it’s his way of making light of the truth.) Her hand was warm and conveyed the idea that she was truly glad to meet me---at that point at least partly because she would be glad to meet any presentable male.

         “What are you drinking, Janice?” Ron asked as he deftly snared an empty chair for her from an adjoining table.

“Perhaps a brandy would work,” she replied. Her voice was deep for a woman---contralto is the term that comes to mind. There was also a broad hint of magnolias and peach blossoms. Then as she stood up again---“I’ll be right back.” She pointed to the entrance area by the elevator, obviously headed for the ‘biff.’ As she flowed in that direction, I waved for Juney.

         “Give us a Williams in one of those smaller balloons, will you, luv?” I asked.

         Ron had the look on his face of someone who has a giant secret and is wondering how to tell it to create the greatest impact. He took a big breath, let it out and took another. Then he said, “She’s such a knockout you’d never guess that she makes her money doing houseboat cruises in the summer for small groups of tired businessmen!”

         Ron is in business for himself. With the assistance of a few employees, his company expedites the handling of specialized shipments through the Port of Detroit. If your property is being imported and particularly if it has to go through a bonded warehouse, because of the paperwork, you probably need his services. As a single guy, he’s also quite a Man-About-Town. If it’s ‘happening,’ he’s probably there, so his knowledge didn’t surprise me. The information was intriguing however. He went on, “It costs twenty grand for a week-end and she doesn’t take more than four guys. That’s less than a dozen people altogether. His grin came again, “Boy, is it worth it! The gals are gorgeous!”

         As he finished his statement, Janice came back from her excursion; she sank once again into the chair and tried the contents of the snifter in front of her. “Ohhh, this is different,” she exclaimed. “What is it?”

         “Williams Pear Brandy,” I replied. “They grow the pear inside the bottle. Then when the fruit is full-size and ripe, it’s clipped off and the brandy is poured in. It’s one of my favorites and I know they have it here. It’s sometimes hard to come by.” 

         We talked of inconsequential things for fifteen or twenty minutes. From the calculating and surreptitious way in which she examined me when I wasn’t looking directly at her, it was obvious to me that she was trying to decide---among other things---if Ron had told me about her activities. Finally she decided to be direct.

         “So has Ron told you about my houseboat?” she inquired. Ron was silent. I let myself grow a little grin and responded, “Sounds as if it could be a interesting weekend. But I have a boat of my own. It’s a Hong-Kong-built cutter with a deck-house and a Marconi rig and the kind of underbody features that let me call it a motorsailer. It’s 48 feet on deck with an eight foot bowsprit and a 44 foot waterline, so it has a fair turn of speed with a fresh breeze.” I chose to ignore what she was really asking---my reaction to the idea of the hi-jinks that were the real reason for her enterprise to be a significant success. 

         She changed the subject---to her most pressing concern. “I had to come down here to meet a business contact. Then I’d intended to go over to Kean’s Marina. That’s where I had the ‘Willing Wench,’ my boat, hauled this past fall. I want to see how it’s doing in this weather. I’m a little concerned that my taxi hasn’t arrived yet. I left word with the hostess downstairs that I was up here and to call me when it arrived. This snow really isn’t doing me any good at all.”

         Two thoughts crossed my mind in quick succession. First that she probably had called a cab---and it might not come for some time with the kind of snowy mess that was developing outside. Consider also the generally abysmal response time of Detroit area cab services, even in the best of conditions. The second---intriguing---thought was that she was lightly angling for a ride. It would be interesting to know her better and I certainly had nothing more worthwhile to do for the remainder of the evening.

         “You know, with the snow doing this to us, you might be here for some time yet.” I offered. “The cabs are likely to be rather tangled up. My Bronco has four-wheel drive and real good tires for this kind of situation. I wouldn’t mind, at all, going over to Kean’s to see how your tarps are doing. And I’ll be happy to drop you wherever, afterwards.”

         She projected a medium twinkle and the kind of nod that somehow expresses just a faint hesitation. She had it, but she wasn’t altogether sure what she was going to do with it. Then with a further nod she agreed that it was probably the best way out of her difficulty.

         I left more than enough to cover my share of the tab for the festivities and included a good hit for Juney. That’s how you keep the eager-to-please-ness. Besides, I like Juney. Grabbing my coat---down-lined tan poplin if it matters  ---from the back of the chair, I trailed them to the elevator and down to the ground floor. As many times as I’ve been in the place I’ve never had anything to eat or drink except on the upper floor. We collected Janice’s coat as we went past and she asked the hostess to cancel the cab. As soon as we cleared the door the attendant had my rig running and then setting ready at arm’s reach. I opened the passenger side for Janice and helped her in. The valet held my door, earning a “Thanks” and a twin to the first pop. I tripped the switch the other way, to have full use of the engine, and flipped the toggles that turned the seat heaters on. Ron had had a somewhat envious look on his face as he saluted a goodbye and handed his ticket to the attentive valet. I think he thought himself outmaneuvered.

         I am most emphatically a car enthusiast and as such I can’t bring myself to drive a ‘Winter Rat,’ as a ragged, winter-only car is called here locally. But winter weather is really hard on a regular passenger vehicle. I gave thought to the situation for some time and finally came up with a solution. I arranged to buy, at auction, an almost new Mountaineer. Hit from the rear, the body was wracked so badly it was good for nothing but parts. But it had only four thousand miles on it and had been very well optioned. I removed the entire drivetrain and some of the interior and the wiring harnesses.

         Then I went through the mechanical bits and replaced as necessary to add extra strength. I built a very stiff shorter-wheelbase truss-style frame, constructed mostly of two-inch-round DOM steel tubing, and included the attachment points necessary to put in the modern underpinnings. I had the entire frame and suspension powder-coated. Then I mounted a fibreglas replica of a pre-1978 Bronco body, with generous flares over the cut-out wheel openings to cover the oversize studded tires. The hard-top clamps to the body and also the roll cage. The leather interior appointments---including heated---and cooled---seats all around, from the donor likewise found this new rig ‘home.’ When I was done I had a new-old Bronco. It’s painted candy-apple dark blue with pearl white ‘skunk stripes.’ It’s also more than a thousand pounds lighter than the donor, so with the engine I’d installed---a 408 inch Windsor-style small-block with a Paxton supercharger and a camshaft to match---the performance is really brilliant. It retains the on-and-off-at-your-option traction control and four-wheel disc brakes with ABS that come with the independent rear suspension from the Mountaineer. With  oversize, cleat-y, studded tires it is practically impossible to find weather so bad as to bring it to a stop, it will almost drive up the side of a building. Yet it will never rust. I add lead ballast when necessary to give improved traction---as in the snow. This was the vehicle I was driving that evening.