Detroit Combat by Randy Wayne White Page A

tight around their ears, yet the sense of desolation prevails. The wind howls from dark alleys and steam gushes from street grates as if the great creature of industry lies deep beneath the pavement, warm in its lair, waiting for the light of summer. Hawker liked the people of Detroit. They were tough and funny and streetwise. But he did not like their city in winter. There was something ominous about it, something cold, uncaring, aloof.
    Amused by his own bleak thoughts, Hawker found his way through the downtown streets, then caught Lake Shore Drive to Jefferson Beach where the narrow asphalt drive twisted through snowbanks and bare trees to his rented bachelor’s cottage on Lake St. Clair.
    His Corvette creaked with the cold as he got out. A northwest wind made the lake roar. In an endless procession, waves lunged at the beach, spread themselves on the sand, then lunged again from the darkness.
    Hawker went inside, flicking on lights. Electric heaters were built into the floorboards—but they didn’t work very well. Hawker could see his breath. It was cold as hell.
    He got a Tuborg from the refrigerator, reconsidered, then poured himself two fingers of Johnnie Walker Black in a heavy glass, no ice. Then he built a fire in the fireplace. There was plenty of kindling and split oak, and soon he had the whole living room illuminated by flickering, saffron light.
    There was an ancient stereo system. The Fort Wayne station was giving hog and grain reports, so Hawker found a jazz station piping out heavy bass and slow, New Orleans sax. He turned it up loud and carried his drink to the bathroom where he stripped off his clothes. There was a moment of indecision then. He had yet to do his daily calisthenics and run. He looked at the drink in his hand and silently made a long and heartfelt argument for putting it all off until tomorrow. He had already had a long day. Yes, and his face and head and legs and neck and the very roots of his hair still hurt from the car wreck and his fight with the goon.
    So why in the hell shouldn’t he take a break? Huh? Why?
    Hawker looked at the drink, thinking: You are either disciplined or you have no discipline. There is no middle ground.
    That did it. He put the drink down on the counter with exaggerated calm. Shit .
    Quickly he changed into sweat pants, heavy shirt, gloves, and running shoes. He did fifty pushups, fifty situps, then fifty more pushups. Not giving himself time to think about it, he plunged outside and ran through the darkness to the beach, punishing himself with a seven-minute-mile pace.
    Surf spray soaked him, he tripped three times in the darkness (fell twice), and was chased by a Rottweiler that could have been a descendant of the Hound of the Baskervilles. After a very long life-or-death sprint, his pace slowed to a wobble.
    The run was not fun.
    Twenty minutes out, his lungs burned and the tears were freezing on his cheek. He had had enough.
    Hawker turned and headed back—by a different route.
    Clomping and stomping and blowing on his hands, he entered the bungalow and slammed the door against the wind.
    From behind him, a woman’s voice called out, “I was just starting to worry about you.”
    â€œWhat!” Startled, Hawker whirled around.
    Detective Claramae Riddock sat in a chair by the fire. She wore a white turtleneck sweater, jeans, and hiking boots. Her hair was bound back in a long ponytail. In the light of the fire, her hair glowed like molten gold, the drink in her hand was brilliant amber. Standing, she became a flickering silhouette of hips and breasts and firm jaw. Hawker could see that her face was still swollen from the assault. “They let me out of the hospital,” she said, her tone businesslike. But then her manner became increasingly unsure. “I went home but I … I just felt restless. I wanted to talk to you about some things. I called, but there was no answer and … I don’t live far from here, so