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Grootka's
Here, by Jon A. Jackson
Grootka
stepped off the crosstown trolley and stood for a moment in
the warmth of the late summer sun. On every corner there was
a shop of some sort, a druggist, a grocery, a variety of other
kinds of stores, especially at major avenue crossings. This
was Paradise Valley, the colored section of Detroit. It stretched
on either side a few blocks and seemed constantly growing, but
it s heart was the street he stood on, Hastings.
For a young police detective this was rich hunting grounds.
He shrugged off his captain s dyspeptic criticism. The man had
summoned him to his office to warn him that he d done nothing
to warrant his recent promotion, collared no crooks, had been
insubordinate, declined to work with his seniors Who are not
fools, Grootka & they ve been around the block. You d better
get with the program. If you re not a part of the solution,
you re part of the problem. He d even criticized Grootka s clothes,
eyeing his gray gabardine suit with distaste. The captain asked:
Is that the only tie you have?
What s wrong with this tie? Grootka brushed the red tie smooth,
deftly scraping a dried gravy stain away with his thumbnail,
leaving behind a less tangible but still visible stain. The
captain told him he ought to change ties once in awhile, maybe
get them cleaned.
I don t got a brown suit, Grootka said. But I m thinking of
getting one. Or maybe a green.
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