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It’s not three minutes before Sister Silence sends Father’s home and work addresses, both inside Detroit.
We detour into Waterford long enough to pick up three heavy bags of professional-grade death from a pimple-faced boy, who clearly hopes the income from delivering illicit weapons will help him attract girls despite his truly astonishing halitosis. We stuff the bags into the hatchback, under the cargo cover, and head straight to Father’s Detroit address.
The south side of Eight Mile Road, with Detroit’s hopeless, windowless brick bars and eighty-year-old hotels peppered with bright, hopeful medical m*******a dispensaries, looks more blighted than the north side, but only because the north has more open fields where the City of Warren already plowed the most decrepit buildings unde
