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Authors: Steve Hamilton
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Teresa’s supervisor came charging out of that back room, a woman who looked exactly like Alex Karras, the old Detroit Lions defensive lineman. Maybe Alex Karras on a bad hair day.
By the time she got done with Randy, I was already out the door.
It was almost five o’clock when we hit Woodward Avenue again. The rush-hour traffic was heavy, and it didn’t help that half the roads were being torn up.
“Don’t say a word, Alex.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“We were close,” he said. “We almost had it.”
“Tackled at the one-yard line.”
“You going to the library?” he said. “It’s gotta still be open now, right?”
“We’ll find out,” I said.
We were driving north on Woodward. Woodward Avenue. The library was up by Kirby Street. I could feel my stomach tightening up. A few more blocks north and we’d be driving right by it. The building where it happened.
We drove by the new stadium, right across the street from the old Fox Theater. Comerica Park, they were gonna call it. Not quite the same ring as Tiger Stadium.
“There it is,” he said. “Hell, you can see right into it.”
“That’s the way they build them these days,” I said. “You’re supposed to able to see the city while you’re watching a game.”
“I don’t get it,” he said. “It’s Detroit, for God’s sake.”
I let that one go. When we got to the library, it was obviously closed.
“How can a library be closed at five o’clock?” Randy said.
“Budget cuts,” I said.
“Maybe when the casinos open up, the city will have more money,” he said.
“That’s right,” I said. “Those casinos will be a godsend to the library.”
He looked at me. “You all right?”
“It’s been a long day,” I said. “I could use a drink now, and some dinner. You still want to go to Lin-dell?”
“Let’s go,” he said. “Then maybe later you can show me around.”
“Around where?” I said.
“Around Detroit,” he said.
“Your
Detroit. This is your hometown, right? You gotta have a lot of memories here.”
I drove south, back to the motel. I didn’t say anything.
Memories, he says. You gotta have a lot of memories here. If he only knew.
CHAPTER 6
Its full name is the Lindell Athletic Club, but I’ve never heard anybody call it that. It’s the Lindell AC. It used to be a few blocks east, over by the old Hudson’s department store; then they moved it to the ground floor of an oddly triangular-shaped building on the corner of Cass and Michigan Avenue. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear it had been there forever. The building itself looks like nobody’s touched it since World War II, right down to the old metal awnings over the windows. Next door there’s a barbershop where you can still get a shave with a straight razor and a splash of Royal Bay Rum.
As soon as you step into the Lindell, you see fifty years’ worth of photographs and memorabilia all over the place. Right above the door, there’s a huge black-and-white photograph of an old-fashioned hockey brawl, back when everybody could come off the bench to join in. The caption read “Detroit vs. Toronto, 1938.” A lot of sports bars try to look like the Lindell AC, but they don’t pull it off. You can’t just open up a bar and try to stick all the sports crap you can find all over the place. It has to evolve naturally over time. A bat one week, a ball the next. The next week a jockstrap. Two thousand weeks later, you’ve got the Lindell AC.
We sat in a booth in the comer, right under the picture of Mickey Stanley going over the left-field wall. We ate our world-famous grilled hamburgers while the sun went down outside. I didn’t say much. Randy was too busy soaking in the place to notice.
“God, this place hasn’t changed at all,” he said. “There’s Johnny Butsakaris over there behind the bar. Think he remembers me?”
“You were here a couple times almost thirty years ago,” I said. “You really think he’s
By the time she got done with Randy, I was already out the door.
It was almost five o’clock when we hit Woodward Avenue again. The rush-hour traffic was heavy, and it didn’t help that half the roads were being torn up.
“Don’t say a word, Alex.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“We were close,” he said. “We almost had it.”
“Tackled at the one-yard line.”
“You going to the library?” he said. “It’s gotta still be open now, right?”
“We’ll find out,” I said.
We were driving north on Woodward. Woodward Avenue. The library was up by Kirby Street. I could feel my stomach tightening up. A few more blocks north and we’d be driving right by it. The building where it happened.
We drove by the new stadium, right across the street from the old Fox Theater. Comerica Park, they were gonna call it. Not quite the same ring as Tiger Stadium.
“There it is,” he said. “Hell, you can see right into it.”
“That’s the way they build them these days,” I said. “You’re supposed to able to see the city while you’re watching a game.”
“I don’t get it,” he said. “It’s Detroit, for God’s sake.”
I let that one go. When we got to the library, it was obviously closed.
“How can a library be closed at five o’clock?” Randy said.
“Budget cuts,” I said.
“Maybe when the casinos open up, the city will have more money,” he said.
“That’s right,” I said. “Those casinos will be a godsend to the library.”
He looked at me. “You all right?”
“It’s been a long day,” I said. “I could use a drink now, and some dinner. You still want to go to Lin-dell?”
“Let’s go,” he said. “Then maybe later you can show me around.”
“Around where?” I said.
“Around Detroit,” he said.
“Your
Detroit. This is your hometown, right? You gotta have a lot of memories here.”
I drove south, back to the motel. I didn’t say anything.
Memories, he says. You gotta have a lot of memories here. If he only knew.
CHAPTER 6
Its full name is the Lindell Athletic Club, but I’ve never heard anybody call it that. It’s the Lindell AC. It used to be a few blocks east, over by the old Hudson’s department store; then they moved it to the ground floor of an oddly triangular-shaped building on the corner of Cass and Michigan Avenue. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear it had been there forever. The building itself looks like nobody’s touched it since World War II, right down to the old metal awnings over the windows. Next door there’s a barbershop where you can still get a shave with a straight razor and a splash of Royal Bay Rum.
As soon as you step into the Lindell, you see fifty years’ worth of photographs and memorabilia all over the place. Right above the door, there’s a huge black-and-white photograph of an old-fashioned hockey brawl, back when everybody could come off the bench to join in. The caption read “Detroit vs. Toronto, 1938.” A lot of sports bars try to look like the Lindell AC, but they don’t pull it off. You can’t just open up a bar and try to stick all the sports crap you can find all over the place. It has to evolve naturally over time. A bat one week, a ball the next. The next week a jockstrap. Two thousand weeks later, you’ve got the Lindell AC.
We sat in a booth in the comer, right under the picture of Mickey Stanley going over the left-field wall. We ate our world-famous grilled hamburgers while the sun went down outside. I didn’t say much. Randy was too busy soaking in the place to notice.
“God, this place hasn’t changed at all,” he said. “There’s Johnny Butsakaris over there behind the bar. Think he remembers me?”
“You were here a couple times almost thirty years ago,” I said. “You really think he’s
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