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  “What church are you getting married at?” Irene asked, smiling and fluffing up her veil.

  Leah sighed, shaking her head.

  “We’ll figure something out,” Leah’s mother said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “To hell with Father Patrick.”

  Erica and Leah looked at each other in the mirror, eyes wide and mouths open. Then they both burst out laughing, and Patty looked between them, a smile forming at the corners of her mouth. That turned into a snicker, and then laughter. The three of them couldn’t stop, even though the other bride and her party were staring at them and whispering. It just made them laugh harder, forcing Patty Wendt to dab at her eyes again, using the tissue to wipe away tears of laughter from her eyes this time.

  Chapter Six

  Curiosity killed the cat. That’s what kept going through Erica’s mind as Clay drove down the back roads of the ironically named Paradise Alley, the black ghetto between the Detroit river in the south and Grand Boulevard to the north, at a crawling five miles an hour with the lights of his Sedan off, the passenger side window cranked all the way down, making Erica shiver in the frigid December air, what was left of a pile of rolled up newspapers between them at one in the morning.

  “Do you always deliver them like this?” Erica whispered as if the people sleeping in the houses and tenements could hear them.

  “Have to.” Clay slowed to a near stop, grabbing a paper and leaning across her, tossing it with the velocity and aim a major league baseball player would have been impressed by, hitting the front porch stoop square on. “They’re called ‘underground’ papers for a reason. I could be arrested for writing most of this stuff, let alone distributing them.”

  “Wouldn’t your parents just throw a fit?”

  “Oh hell yes.”

  “Is it worth it?” Erica picked up one of the papers, sliding the rubber band off the end and opening it up. It was too dark to read much, but when she held it up in the dashboard light, she saw the headline read, Detroit Plans for ‘Negro Removal.’

  “Sit back.” Clay slowed again, grabbing a rolled paper and tossing it. This one missed the stoop and ended up in the bushes next to the porch.

  “You missed.”

  “You were distracting me in that blouse. Button it up, would you? At least until we’re done?”

  Erica grinned, looking down at the cleavage showing and reached for her buttons, slowly unbuttoning one more so that her bra was showing, looking straight at him the whole while. Clay groaned.

  “What’s this about ‘Negro Removal?’”

  “Urban renewal project plans to tear down all of Black Bottom and Paradise Alley. They’ve already razed a bunch of housing near the river. They call it ‘eradicating blight.’ Yeah, they’re eradicating blight all right—they’re getting rid of the negros in one fell swoop.”

  Erica frowned, squinting at the article in the darkness. “But the news said it was a good thing. Something about increasing tax revenue, improving living conditions. You have to admit, some of these houses are pretty shabby. Aren’t they planning on building nice, new high-rises for them?”

  “For them?” Clay snorted. “Is that how you think of Solie? She’s one of them?”

  “Well… no… I…” Erica floundered, flustered, flushing red in the thankful dimness. Solie was like part of her family, had been for years. She was the closest thing she had to a mother since her own mother had died. But she was ashamed to think that she didn’t know much about Solie’s life outside of the Nolans. Erica knew she had children, a husband who worked at a factory. But that was about it.

  “Can you be that naïve?” Clay grabbed another paper, leaning over her to toss it angrily out of the window. “They gave the people living down by the river thirty-days notice to vacate their homes. Then they tore them down to the ground. But they don’t have plans to build on the land at all! That empty area they call Cobo Field now? It’s just sitting there. ‘Urban development’ is just code for ‘Negro Removal.’ They’re trying to get rid of their ‘negro problem’ without creating any solution at all.”

  “Well… I don’t understand why the news isn’t covering this…”

  “They are.” Clay slowed again, tossed another paper. “They’re spinning it all into nice little bits and bites for the whites to swallow so they can feel better about driving down Hastings street after dark. They’re using federal urban renewal dollars to eliminate the only housing blacks are allowed to live in, and they’re doing nothing to build any more. In fact, they’re going to build a freeway instead.”

  “Where will everyone go?”

  “Good question. I wasn’t kidding when I said that we’re not far from the race riots we saw back in forty-three.”

  “Clay, you were, like, fourteen…” Erica didn’t remember the incident very well. Her mother had been sick at the time and they’d been well insulated in their big house on the river. It had all started out on Belle Isle in a traffic jam, and rumors flew about a white woman being raped, and a black mother and child being thrown off the bridge, neither of which were true but which spurred the biggest race riots Detroit had seen.

  “I was at Belle Isle that day.” He threw the last paper, hitting not just the stoop this time, but the door beyond it. “We were in a traffic jam on the Belle Isle Bridge. It was hot and everyone was irritable. There was a little black kid in the car next to ours. He was just goofing around, you know, like kids do, making faces at the other cars?”

  Erica felt her heart drop to her middle when Clay whipped the car around the corner, pulling it to the curb and looking over at her in the darkness. He turned toward her, his breathing shallow and sharp as he told her his story.

  “Four guys got out of their car behind us. White kids, probably just old enough to drive. They grabbed that little boy out of the car and beat him up right there in front of his mother.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “And no one did anything. His mother screamed and called for help and got a fat lip herself trying to get those boys to stop. And no one did anything.”

  “Oh Clay…” Erica reached out, putting her hand over his. “I’m so sorry…”

  “I didn’t do anything either.” He swallowed, the clicking sound in his throat huge in the darkness. “I asked my dad—he was driving, and my mom was sitting in the passenger seat, we’d just gone to Belle Isle for the day because I’d begged them to take me—I asked him, ‘Shouldn’t we do something? Dad, shouldn’t we?’”

  Clay’s voice cracked and Erica felt tears stinging her eyes, imagining it.

  “And he told me, ‘Son, you don’t step into trouble like that if it isn’t yours. Just look away.’”

  “What did you do?”

  Clay put the car into gear, pulling away from the curb and popping on his headlights. “I looked away. Like you said, I was just fourteen. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Did anything happen to you? How did you get home?”

  Clay stopped at a red light and Erica glanced up, seeing a crowd of colored people crossing the street. She sank down in her seat without even thinking about it and Clay looked over at her and laughed.

  “You’ve lived in this city your whole life. What are you afraid of?”

  Erica straightened in her seat, crossing her arms and frowning at him. “Nothing. I was just… getting more comfortable.”

  “Sure.” Clay chuckled, giving the car a hard shot of gas as he pulled away when the light turned green. “You ever been to the Blue Haven?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll show you.” Clay pulled around the corner and parked the car in a dimly lit lot. The music emanating from the back of the building made the ground tremble beneath Erica’s feet. The street was cobblestone and she followed behind Clay as they went around to the front.

  “Welcome to Black Bottom,” Clay whispered into her ear as he reached for the door handle of the Blue Haven. The neon sign above the entrance told her that much. A blackboard out front had Sonnyboy
Williamson Appearing All Week written in chalk. “The cops won’t even come down here.”

  “Okay, now I’m scared.” She grabbed for his hand as he opened the door, the music blasting them both.

  “Don’t be. I’m here.” He grinned and pulled her in. “Everyone knows everyone on Hastings Street.”

  “Do they know you?”

  “Yeah, they know me.” Clay waved to the woman tending bar. She dropped him a slow wink and raised her painted-on eyebrows at Erica trailing behind him in the smoke-filled haze of the darkened bar. There was a band playing up front and lots of crammed in tables filled with patrons slapping their knees and rocking along. They were the only white people in the place.

  Clay pulled out a chair for her at a two-person table near the wall and she quickly sat in it, hoping she might blend right into it. Clay looked like he was enjoying himself, more at her expense than anything else.

  “This whole street was jumping in the heyday,” he said over the music. “It’s dying now. They’re killing it with a freeway.”

  “Getcha?” The waitress appeared with a pad and a pen and a skirt so short it made Erica blush.

  “Two beers. Schlitz.” Clay pulled out his wallet, handing over two dollars. The waitress eyeballed Erica, looking like she wanted to say something, but she didn’t. She just took Clay’s money and came back with two glasses from the tap, putting them on the table.

  Erica wasn’t quite old enough to drink, and she was pretty sure Clay wasn’t either, but they sat at the table and drank beer and talked and no one came over and bothered them or told them to leave.

  “We can go in their stores and clubs. But they’re not allowed in ours. Why is that, do you think?” Clay wondered out loud. He leaned forward in his chair toward her and she could smell the beer on his breath. “You know the KKK is alive and well in Detroit, don’t you? Some of our city council members still wear white after Labor Day.”

  “Shhh!” Erica glanced around. “You can’t say that in here!”

  “Do you think black people don’t know about the KKK?”

  “Clay! Hush!”

  “Got a sweet home Tennessee born girl like me here to sing the blues and steal your heart,” said the man at the mic. “Please welcome Miss Aretha Franklin.”

  The young girl that stepped up onto the stage barely reached the microphone. She had big, dark wet eyes and her hair was wrapped around her head like a small, black beehive.

  “She’s not even old enough to be in here,” Erica whispered.

  “You’re right.” Clay squinted at the stage as the music started. “That’s the little girl who sings at the New Bethel Church. She’s the pastor’s daughter. I don’t think she’s quite fourteen. What’s she doing here at one in the morning?”

  She might have looked small, but when the girl opened her mouth and began to sing the whole place went up in a stunned cheer. How could such a powerful voice be coming from that little bit of a girl? Erica met Clay’s eyes, both of them staring, open mouthed and too stunned to speak.

  It was an old gospel song, with Sonnyboy’s soulful blues harp wailing behind, but he couldn’t compete with the girl’s voice. Just when they thought she couldn’t take them any higher, or push her voice any lower, just when they thought she was done toying with them like a cat with its paw on a mouse’s tail, she would come back even harder and knock the whole place on its behind.

  She only did three songs, and Erica leaned over to say, “It’s past her bedtime!” to Clay, who laughed, still clapping and whistling in the wake of the young girl’s performance. Sonnyboy picked it up again, knocking his music out of the park. Erica had never listened to much blues, although she recognized the sound. Her father’s gallery had done a whole show on the roots of rock n roll, tracing it back to the Delta blues.

  Erica slid her chair closer to Clay’s, feeling her thigh brush his. “This music is hot.”

  He nodded, glancing at her, noticing that her blouse was still unbuttoned, dangerously low. She saw him looking and fanned herself with her napkin.

  “It makes me want to take my clothes off.”

  His eyes lit up and he grinned. “Let’s go do that.”

  They left their beers half full on the table and rushed out the door, both of them in desperate hurry to get to the car. Clay unlocked her side and Erica didn’t give him a chance to go around to his.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” She grabbed his collar, reaching through and pulling up the lock on the back door of the passenger’s side.

  He shook his head and protested as she slammed the passenger door closed and opened the back door, but he let her push him in and crawl in behind him.

  “We really should park somewhere else,” he said before she kissed him full on the mouth, throwing her arms around his neck and letting him take her full weight.

  “What’s the matter? I thought you liked living dangerously.”

  “Is that a challenge?” Clay took his gum out of his mouth and pressed it to the glass with his thumb. “If we get arrested, I’m telling them this was all your idea.”

  “You’re such a gentleman.” Erica laughed. “Now shut up and kiss me.”

  It didn’t matter, in the end, where they were parked, because the windows were steamed up completely by the time they had stripped down to their underwear, kissing with thrusting tongues, limbs entwined, bodies slippery with sweat already in anticipation. The whole car smelled like sex and Erica loved it, wrapping herself around Clay, feeling him hard between her thighs, the bulge in his boxers rubbing against the crotch of her panties, creating the most delicious friction.

  “You like that?” Clay watched her face, seemingly delighted by what he found there.

  “You know what I’d like better?”

  “Hm,” Clay mused. “Another beer? The Tigers to win the World Series? The end of the Cold War?”

  She shook her head, grinning. “Something far more miraculous.”

  “Well now you have to tell me.”

  “Let me show you.” Erica slithered down onto the floor, settling herself amidst their discarded clothes, centering herself between his thighs.

  She slid his boxers down, letting him spring free, and Clay watched her with growing interest as she took him in her hand, stroking him lightly, nice and easy, liking the way he moved his hips in response, eyes half-closed, mouth slightly open.

  When she put her mouth on it, Clay nearly jumped out of his skin, thrusting up involuntarily, making her gag.

  “Holy hell!” he gasped. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! You just surprised me!”

  Erica cleared her throat, blinking her watery eyes. “It’s okay, I’m fine.”

  She kissed around the head, soft kisses, little licks, teasing, blowing, rubbing it against her cheeks, her lips, and then, slowly, taking him back into her mouth again. This time he was ready for it, and the low, incredulous groan that her slick mouth and tongue elicited from him was immensely satisfying. Erica settled in, leaning on his thighs and sucking him deeper, taking more and more, until she had him almost all the way to the back of her throat.

  “Oh my God!” Clay moaned, his hand moving in her hair, sliding down and finding her breast, nipple prominently hard through her bra, and that just made him moan louder. “Erica! Oh that’s so good. Am I dead? I think I died. I think I’m in heaven. Ohhh my God! What are you doing down there? Jesus Christ!”

  Erica lifted her head, smiling. “Nice girls don’t do this either.”

  “Did I ever say I liked nice girls?” Clay asked, panting. “I don’t recall I ever said that.”

  She took him back into her mouth, working mouth and tongue and hand together, faster now, looking up at his face, the way he licked his lips, feeling his thighs tightening under her arms.

  “Oh, Erica, you better stop doing that before… before… oh wait, stop… before I… stop before… oohhhhhh don’t stop! Don’t stop!”

  And that was it, just like that. Clay thrust up, clearly no long
er concerned about her gag reflex, and bathed her tongue with white hot lava. Erica swallowed the first blast without a second thought, working for the next, feeling it erupt up from the base of him where her hand was tightly wrapped and still stroking, milking him completely.

  “Oh wow.” He blinked as she kneeled up and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his collarbone, feeling his body beginning to relax. “That was… wow. Definitely wow.”

  She giggled at his reaction, nuzzling his ear. “Now it’s my turn.”

  “Absolutely,” Clay agreed. “It is most definitely your turn now… your turn for what?”

  Erica situated herself on the seat beside him, putting her feet over his lap, her knees tented over his pelvis, lifting her bottom so she could slide down her panties. Clay watched this development with growing interest, picking up the panties she tossed onto the seat and bringing them to his nose.

  “Do you like it?” she asked, smiling at the way he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

  “Yeah,” he croaked, opening his eyes and looking down at her knees in his lap, following the seam of her closed legs to the dark blond triangle between them.

  “Ever come home from school, and your mom’s baking something so yummy, like your very favorite thing. Like brownies or chocolate cake?” Erica asked.

  He snorted. “My mother doesn’t bake.”

  “Okay your nanny then.”

  “Sure. Brownies. Love brownies. Good stuff.”

  “Have you ever been able to smell it, like, before you even got to your house. You’re walking down your street, and you can smell something… mmmm. So good. And your mouth starts to water. Now you’re thinking about brownies. Warm, yummy, gooey, chocolaty brownies…”

  “Now I’m hungry,” Clay said, licking his lips. “Did you ever think about a career in advertising?”

  Erica laughed. “Now you’re smelling brownies and thinking about brownies and you can’t wait to get a brownie in your mouth.”

  “Uh-huh. Damn, I’m salivating.” Clay wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “And you run up onto your front porch and open the door, and the smell of brownies envelopes you, it’s like your whole house is made of brownies, it smells so good, and you run to the kitchen and there on the kitchen table, there you find it…”