On Monday Doc drove him in the Cadillac to a house in Hazel Park, where a woman who didn’t want her husband to know what she was up to arranged bail for her sister, who had been taken into police custody when her fingerprints showed up in the apartment of a young man being held for the armed robbery of the 7-Eleven where she worked in Romulus. On Tuesday, after a slow morning spent reading George F. Will’s Men At Work, borrowed from the Detroit Public Library, Doc was given the afternoon off and spent thirty minutes of it in the massage parlor next door. He drove Ance to Jeff Dolan’s house in Corktown Wednesday and watched Jack Morris give up a six-run lead to the Indians—a team he’d loathed ever since Dickie Noles set a park record for beaned Tigers in 1986—on the forty-eight-inch set in the living room while Dolan went over Ance’s 1040 return in the study. The big Irishman’s wife was a tiny woman a few years older than Doc with tightly curled hair, the iron smile of the born hostess, and cups and saucers apparently growing out of both hands.
