Low Road (25 page)

In the weeks that followed, Donnie stayed in the grind. His writing career had become a vastly different reality than the one he envisioned five years earlier when his every movement was still under the supervision of the state. The moderate success of his work notwithstanding, Donnie had not achieved a measure of wealth or fame that would be sufficient to alter his lifestyle the way he hoped it would. Apart from his meeting with Marie Teasley, he had received virtually zero media exposure. There was the one interview broadcast on a community radio station, but nothing that had given him household-name status. In
Never Die Alone,
Donnie introduced Paul Pawlowski, his only Caucasian protagonist. The character had a contrived and peculiar name to go along with bright, blue eyes and the face of a “Jewish Polack bastard.” Certainly, he bore no outward resemblance to Donnie. Yet, while most of his other creations on paper were inspired by the criminal persona he had once worn, Paul was a thinly veiled reflection of who Donnie had become.

… he remembered that he was going on an interview for a job, and that he might not have to wait for his next royalty check from his publishers for his two paperback books … Sometimes he had a few extra dollars in March or September when his royalty checks arrived. But the other months were hell, unless the writer happened to be a good money manager. But to find a writer who could manage money was rare, because anyone who was adept at it would also have enough common sense to pick a better livelihood.

A struggling freelance journalist, Paul lives in New York City. His relatively mundane existence in a seedy neighborhood and shitty, little apartment—where a coffeepot serves as his sole companion—is about to change. A fascinating encounter takes place as the plot of
Never Die Alone
rather slowly develops: Donnie represents his own attempt at transformation in the chance meeting between decent, well-meaning Paul and a cold-hearted, scamming hustler called King David. Though it wasn't his occupation in the book, King David was a well-known Detroit pimp with whom Donnie had likely been familiar. He might not have intended it, but the symbolism in the story is conspicuous. It was essentially a book in which aspects of his inner self strangely clashed with one another. Donnie seemed to be making a deliberate attempt to write a novel that might broaden his appeal among fiction readers by cleverly couching the hallmark drug and criminal elements within the context of Paul's moral dilemmas and decision making. Meanwhile, he—consciously or unconsciously—drew religious parallels in the form of interaction between the book's two primary characters. The story makes it difficult to miss the irony of a Jewish man meeting up with a slick cat called King David. Not unlike the great biblical ruler of Israel, throughout the story, King David's last name is never used. Ultimately, Paul finds himself chosen by the conniving hustler to carry out his last requests as he nears death. King David leaves behind a journal in which he appears to have recorded the disgusting transgressions and perverse acts he has committed against others while in Los Angeles. Paul grows to detest the man he gets to know through these writings, but in the end King David offers redemption, much like the biblical David offered his people. Paul finds a way to use the hustler's legacy in a way that will benefit folks resembling those whose lives the dealer helped ruin. The story was further testimony of the personal victory Donnie desired for himself. Its conclusion was also an indictment against the drug dealers, who made it all the more difficult for addicts like him to be free. These pushers supplied junkies with dope that was designed to keep them hooked and coming back for more.

Donnie probably never considered it, but his addictive personality may well have been genetic. It wouldn't have been a horrible stretch to categorize his father's work ethic as habitual. Joe handled his cleaning and pressing duties until his health began to fail. The old man was hospitalized and treated with what means and provisions the medical staff could make available to him. Yet, with their patient having neared his ninth decade on Earth, the strength and condition of his body was not such that a recovery and return to the cleaning store was in the realm of likelihood. Big Joe died at eighty-eight. Family members were at his bedside. Donnie wept uncontrollably, the tears washing over his face. In spite of all the years of emotional distance between them, he loved his father. And now that Joe was gone, there would be no chance of rebuilding a relationship, no chance for Donnie to feel that he had truly made his father proud of the man he became. He hurt over the loss, probably in ways that were very different from the grief that Joe's other children felt. In at least some respects, their father had been the most dominant presence in any of their lives. Donnie was the only boy born to him and Myrtle, and if he had regrets, there was no chance of his letting them both see how he hoped to finally represent them as a son. Donnie felt the force of grief again at Joe's funeral. Charles and his band were somewhere performing at the time, so he didn't return to Detroit to pay his last respects. Before the end of that sad October month, he would miss a second burial held for another loved one. This time, it would not be the funeral of an old man.

*   *   *

Premonition was the sort of thing that came now and then in the Goines family. They couldn't always know when it would appear or how to prepare once it did. In Donnie's case, there was no apparent redeeming value in getting such signs. He received at least one on the day of his father's last rites. Perhaps it had become lost in a cloud of thought and anxiety. The stress Donnie felt was apparent when he handwrote: “Buried Daddy today. Mama back in hospital. Trying to get right. Take care Mama, Wea Wea, and Joan, my children and Shirley. Need more money. Asked publisher to send me away anywhere so I can do better. Wong has gotten stronger. Joan made me a lemon pie. I can stay upstairs and write more. I have to work fast. Almost pawned typewriter today. I feel like something is going to happen. Did not pawn it. Mama is doing OK. Marie went home. Told her husband and Bobby I'm next.” The thoughts were, typically, rather disjointed, yet the sense of some urgency was there.

Such statements as “I have to work fast” and “I feel like something is going to happen” were not the kinds of things he had typed or scribbled onto the nearest sheet of paper in the past. Moreover, the concern about creating security for his loved ones stemmed from more than Joe's death. To be sure, his father had been a symbol of stability in the family, but now Donnie was thinking seriously about the future. It was, in a way, remarkable that a deteriorating junkie could even consider taking responsibility for others, but what kind of a legacy for his loved ones might he leave behind? And how could he make certain it was anything that would be worth leaving? Myrtle had developed heart problems that together with her diabetes further jeopardized her health. Joe had worked until the years that had piled up on his body created a drain too tough for any man of nearly ninety, let alone one who became ill, to withstand. Myrtle wouldn't be able to handle the dry cleaners on her own. The family business her husband had carried for so long, the one he had hoped his offspring would continue to operate, would be permanently closed. “To do better,” as Donnie wrote, had been on his mind for at least a year. If he could do better, he could handle a lot more obligation: his own and at least part of the family's. What loomed most ominous was the statement his older sister was said to have made after returning to Dayton, Ohio, where she and Warren had moved. Donnie wasn't prepared to die, and if he was indeed “next” to be buried, he would have to get himself together in a hurry.

If he told himself the truth, on October 18 change was starting to happen. “Sent unfinished story to Marie,” he wrote. “Ask[ed] her to read and keep it. Joan is fine. I'm winning my fight with wong. Played chess—I won.” Of course, Donnie had felt his strength rising before but had fallen short when he tried to kick on his own. There could be no way of knowing with certainty whether this time would be any different from the others. At least one person, however, knew that Donnie had gone out to score around the time that he claimed to be gaining ground against his addiction. One night, Ralph, who was a brother-in-law to Shirley, accompanied Donnie on a run to buy a fix. They rode to a house in one section of the Trumbull Avenue and Forest area. Trumbull was an older thoroughfare that stretched from near downtown westward. Ralph didn't know much about the particular address or this particular dealer. He knew of Donnie's habit and, in fact, thought nothing of the brief stop. But he would recall it with disturbing clarity only weeks later. There was nothing particularly unusual about the Monday night, three days after he made his random, penciled documentation. All was relatively calm at 232 Cortland inside the Goines and Sailor apartment, at least by outward appearance. Shirley prepared dinner. She called Joan to ask for advice about cooking some greens, but Joan was preoccupied and told Shirley she would call her back later. The women had gotten along pretty well. Shirley decided on a basic beef-and-potato meal. Donnie and the children were all there with her when, sometime after dinner, probably two or more gunmen entered the building. Most likely, from the time the shooters arrived, no one inside had much of a chance to breathe long. The attack had what many later believed to be the appearance of a hit.

That occasional Goines premonition was sparked again on the morning of October 22. This time, it was abruptly manifest in Joanie's otherwise tranquil thoughts. David had answered the phone while she was in the bathroom. He went to the door to speak to her. He had horrible news, he informed her. Joan looked at her husband.

“Donnie's dead,” she said quietly.

David somehow acknowledged.

“And Shirley, too,” Joan added, only half asking. She had forgotten to call Shirley back about the greens, not knowing it would be the last time they spoke. Donnie and Shirley had both been shot repeatedly. Highland Park cops said an anonymous caller reported their deaths. Out of mercy, haste in leaving the scene, or perhaps because they had been hidden, the murderers left the two children who were in the house unharmed. They were found locked in the basement. Detectives who were sent to 232 Cortland identified no immediate suspects or motives. Still, the authorities needed a family member to come to the crime scene. In all her years of nursing-care experience, Joanie hadn't become comfortable with death. Marie would have to return to Detroit, as she had just weeks earlier when they buried her daddy. Walter and Ralph got word. They went to the house, along with Shirley's family. The mix of friends, relatives, police, and medical officials created a stirring appearance. Sounds of grief could be heard inside the apartment. Cops made an effort to control the comings and goings of those gathered at the four-family address. If there had been any occupants in the other units at the time the shots were fired, they apparently had done nothing to intervene. No one came forward. The days and weeks that followed the murders would be hurtful ones for those who loved the two victims, but not days and weeks filled with any leads or information that would result in arrests.

The following morning's
Detroit News
made little of the killings, grouping Donnie's and Shirley's deaths with a third, unrelated homicide for the headline “3 murdered in Highland Park.” Briefly written, the article made no mention of Donnie's books or his popularity as a writer, citing only that his age was “unknown.” Most likely, the reporter and others in the newsroom had never heard of him. The article mentioned that the killing was believed to be drug-related and that officers removed unspecified drug paraphernalia from the house. Such details were not revealing to anyone who knew Donnie. No news report could have really told the story that was most significant anyway: what he might have been were it not for his drug addiction; what he had strived to become, in spite of it. As the word of Donnie's demise got around, there was a good deal of sadness in the community among the folks who had enjoyed his work, collected each novel. Yet, to the unfamiliar, in the media and elsewhere, his death was short of tragic. To be sure, many of them regarded him as just another dead junkie. His people, on the other hand, would always know him as more. Marie was listed as the informant on the death certificate, which described the manner of her brother's passing, along with a brief sketch of the man who was killed. It requested his address, parents' names, things like that. One section of the death certificate asked for a listing of the deceased person's occupation. In the rectangular space, a clerk typed “Writer.” It was the single word that had driven Donnie to find his way back from the missteps he had taken during the previous twenty years.

Legacy: An Epilogue

Ecrire seize romans durant les quatre dernieres annees de sa vie ne l'a pas empeche' de faire fructifier ses affaires courantes …

[Writing sixteen novels during the last four years of his life did not prevent him from pursuing his usual preoccupations … ]

Sil n'existait qu'une couleur, peutetre serait-ce; le noir de l'ennui, du desespoir, de la nuit et de la couleur de la peau.

[If there existed only one color, perhaps it would be black; the black of boredom, of desperation, of the night and of the color of the skin.]

—French excerpts of Donald Goines's book reviews

 

I don't like cemeteries. Never have. Aphorisms like the one suggesting that the graveyard is the safest place a person can go are not comforting. Superstitions—that burial-ground dirt should never be carried from the site, for example—don't move me, either. In the first place, fear has really never been what causes my aversion. I've got good enough sense to know that cemetery residents are nothing but dead people. That's probably why I have always felt like my presence there was inappropriate. Like a violation of some sacred privacy. It's a voyeuristic feeling, especially when, out of curiosity, I find myself reading the names on headstones of people I never knew. From there, I often let my eyes wander to the dates of birth and death in a nearly unconscious attempt to calculate how long or short their lives were. After that I might imagine all sorts of things about the individual, which wouldn't likely have been my business when they were above ground, let alone now. But the thoughts linger as I distract myself, trying not to step on anybody's loved one, as I walk to the plot where my family or friends are gathered for whatever burial has brought me there.